“Are you alright?”
She nods into the hollow of my throat. I can sense her pulse everywhere our skin touches.
She shifts, and her hip presses into my cock—hard, aching, straining the fabric of my sleep pants. She stiffens in recognition.
“What about you?”
“There’s time for that another night.” I kiss her forehead. “I’m fine.”
“But you didn’t?—”
“There’s time. We’re married. Sleep now.”
She doesn’t argue. She presses closer, fitting herself into me—her head tucked under my jaw, one leg draped over mine, her arm across my stomach. I pull the blanket over us and stroke her hair as her breathing evens, her body slowly surrendering to sleep.
I stare at the ceiling, still achingly hard, still tasting her on my lips.
I told myself this was supposed to be a strategic marriage. A business arrangement dressed in legal languageand practical benefits. I don’t know who I thought I was fooling. I’ve been inexplicably drawn to this woman from the moment I set eyes on her.
I press my face into her hair and close my eyes.
I’ve spent thirty-eight years building walls so high no one could scale them. This slip of a woman just walked through them—unarmed, unhurried, and with enough strength to annihilate every locked door I’ve ever built.
Chapter 8
Nora
I’m wrapped around Cillian, clinging to him the way ivy vines cling to brick.
My head rests on his bare chest. One of my legs is thrown over his thigh. His arms are locked around me, and his heartbeat thuds under my ear—strong, even, alive.
I think about his mouth, his hands, the way my body came apart under his fingers.
My face goes hot. I press it deeper into his chest, hoping he’s asleep so I can figure out what to do with this new version of myself—the one who gasped his name and begged him not to stop.
“Good morning.” His voice rumbles under my ear, low and rough with sleep.
He’s not asleep. Noted.
I tilt my head up. He’s watching me with those assessing eyes, sharp even at this hour.
“Regrets?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Careful. As if my answer matters more than anything else he’ll hear today.
“I don’t know. ShouldI?”
“Not from my perspective. But you tell me.”
I take stock. My lips are swollen. My skin is hypersensitive everywhere he touched—my breasts, the place between my thighs where his fingers coaxed out a new and wonderful sensation.
“Last night was... I don’t have words for what that was.”
“You were magnificent.”
“I didn’t know my body could do that.”
His eyes darken in a look that I now identify as possessive and hungry. His arm tightens around my waist. “It can. It will. I’ll do it again whenever you want—often, I hope.”
