In that small gesture, he let me know I’m no longer a guest here.
I pull out one of the romance novels and turn it over in my hands, reading the back cover. A woman on the run. A dangerous man who catches her and refuses to let go.
Sounds right up my alley. I open it and read the first page, just to be sure. Yep. This is totally me.
I take a step toward the settee when Cillian reaches out, pulls me onto his lap, and kisses me in a way that makes the book I’d planned to read fall from my fingers.
“Are you up for more ‘husband and wife’ exploring?” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Yes,” I answer a little too quickly and a lot too eagerly.
He laughs. “I promised I wouldn’t push. We can wait. You’re allowed to say no.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
His hand slides under my waistband, fingers dipping beneath the edge of my panties, and my breath hitches. I arch into his touch, my body already primed from the way he’s been kissing me, whispering against my skin how much he wants me. His fingers find my clit first, circling it with just the right pressure, slow and deliberate, like he’s teasing me, and it’s torture. I grip his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there, as heat builds between my legs, spreading like wildfire.
“Cillian,” I gasp, my hips rocking against his hand instinctively. He slides one finger inside me, then two, stroking in and out slowly and hitting a spot that sends sparks shooting up my spine. His thumb stays on my clit, rubbing in tight circles while his fingers thrust in and out, steady and unhurried. I ride his hand, chasing the friction, my thighs trembling. His other arm bands tight around my waist, holding me steady against his broad chest, his breath hot against my ear.
“You’re so wet for me, wife,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, laced with that possessive edge that makes my stomach flip. “Feel how your pussy clenches around my fingers? This sweet little pussy of yours loves me. Come on, sweetheart—let me feel you come.”
His words push me closer, the raw hunger in them mixing with the tenderness in his grip. I bury my face in his neck, inhaling the clean scent of his skin mixed with the faint spice of his cologne. My world narrows to the slick slide of his fingers, the building pressure coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps and pleasure crashes over me, wave after wave. My inner walls pulse around him as I cry out hisname. My body shakes, every muscle tensing and releasing in ecstasy, and he doesn’t stop—not until I’m limp and panting against him.
I collapse against his chest, gasping his name one last time, my forehead pressed to the rapid beat of his heart. He eases his fingers out slowly, bringing them up to his lips right in front of me. He licks them clean, eyes locked on mine, and the sight of it—him tasting me like that—sends a fresh shiver through me.
“Sweet as honey,” he says, voice gravelly. “You are fucking gorgeous when you come for me.”
My heartbeat slows gradually, thumping heavily in my ears, but the warmth in my chest lingers, deeper than the physical aftershocks. This man—this powerful, dangerous man—wants me like this. Me.
I love that he makes me feel desired. Not a burden, but something wanted. I lift my head, meeting his gaze, and the intensity there steals my breath all over again. His eyes are dark, his pupils dilated, but there’s something softer too—a hint of vulnerability that mirrors the way my heart is opening for him. I doubt many people on the planet ever get the chance to see this expression on him.
When my breathing evens out, I shift in his lap, hyperaware of the hard ridge pressing against my thigh through his pants. He’s been hard since we started kissing. But he has held back for me, given pleasure to me, but not taken for himself.
I want to make him feel good too, to feel him experience pleasure because of me. My hand trembles as I reach for him, fingers brushing the bulge in his pants. “Can I touch you now?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking there, and for a splitsecond, I wonder if I’ve overstepped. But then he nods, voice strained. “Yes. If that’s what you want.”
Emboldened, I fumble with his belt buckle, my fingers clumsy from nerves and the lingering haze of my orgasm. He helps, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs out, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark and already glistening with a dot of moisture.
I’ve never seen one this close—never seen one at all, really, beyond hurried glimpses in health class videos that did nothing to prepare me for this. It’s intimidating, the size of it, veined and rigid, curving slightly toward his stomach. But it’s also sexy and intriguing, and a rush of moisture escapes from between my thighs again.
I wrap my hand around the base tentatively, my fingers barely meeting around his girth. The skin is velvet-soft over steel, warm under my palm. He groans, and his head falls back against the couch. The sound vibrates through me, making me clench my legs together.
“Like that,” he rasps, his hand covering mine loosely, guiding and encouraging. “Just stroke me, Nora. Up and down. Squeeze a little—fuck, yes.”
I slide my hand from root to tip, exploring the ridges and the way the head flares. I swipe my thumb over the bead of moisture at the tip, spreading it down his length to ease the glide. His hips buck once, involuntarily, and he swears under his breath.
“You’re killing me. So good—your hand feels so fucking good on my cock.”
The words he uses are dirty and crude, but they light me up inside and make me bolder. I pump him faster, loving the way he’s watching me with hooded eyes full of raw need.
His breathing comes out in sharp bursts. His chest heaves, and his free hand grips the couch cushion hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
I watch his face, mesmerized by the way pleasure etches lines of strain across his features, the way his lips part on a hiss. This is power—me, causing this in him. The girl who was invisible and unloved, now holding one of Chicago’s most feared men in the palm of her hand. Literally.
“Nora,” he growls, voice breaking on my name. His hand tightens over mine, not controlling but anchoring, as his cock throbs in my grip. “I’m close—don’t stop. Fuck, you’re perfect. My perfect wife.”
The possessiveness in his tone, the way he says my perfect wife like it’s a vow, spurs me to lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw and tasting the salt of his skin.
