Humans aren’t supposed to know about us, but if I’m bringing him to Atlantis next month, then that means I’m bound to let him into my world. What do I have to lose by doing it now?
Sure, we’ve been dating for only a week, and sure, he hasn’t made it to family dinner yet, having to teach a class he unfortunately couldn’t cancel on Sunday. A class that I forgave him for, since it was at a senior center and apparently even beat bingo. But he was, in the very near future, going to be spending time with my family, and for all their caution, magical things still happened.
“I have something to?—”
He scrapes his thumb back up my slit and massages my clit. It must cut off the blood flow to my brain, because I momentarily forget what I planned on telling him. Oh, right…my runes.
I lick my lips, then open my mouth to shape the confession, but all that comes out is a squeaked whimper.
I’m so close.
Almost there.
Cillian hunches over me and presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then pillows his cheek on it and surveys my sex with eyes that appear solid-black in the dim lighting. “So pretty,” he murmurs.
The orgasm hits.
And hits.
It’s divine and completely debilitating.
I don’t just love sex, I adore it and am kicking myself for waiting twenty years to experience it. That said, maybe I adore itthanks toCillian.
Once my legs stop trembling, he dips his finger into my core, gathers my sticky arousal, and starts to fuck me with it.
My lungs seize as my body begins ascending toward that razor-edge of bliss again. Without stopping his ministrations, Cillian crouches, drapes my legs over his shoulders, and aligns his mouth with my clit.
Anticipation shortens my breath, and I gulp down scraps of air. One of them gets lodged in my throat when he closes the distance and buries his face against me, nostrils pulsing, tongue lashing.
I don’t just fall off the cliff this time; I liquefy and crash down like a breaking wave, releasing a scream that’s so primal and raw it abrades my throat.
Cillian glances up my body, his eyes sparkling like onyx through his lenses. I realize then that their blackness isn’t a trick of the light, but an illusion cast by his blown pupils.
Against my still spasming sex, he murmurs, “You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Goddess below, this man’s mouth is dangerous. His stare, too. Every day, the hook he set into me with his ridiculous bargain sinks deeper, as though he intends to reel in not only my body, but my very heart.
I lazily twist his tussled locks around my fingers as he presses featherlight kisses to my throbbing core. The fact that I ever found him lacking feels absurd now. This man’s perfect in every way, and not because he gives mind-blowing oral sex, but because he’s everything I didn’t realize I needed.
Between his still roving fingers and the soft brush of his lips, another swell of pleasure rushes over me and sweeps me under.
He licks his mouth, finally straightening like the victor of a brutal fight, and although his T-shirt is rumpled and his glasses askew, no man has ever looked—to me—more formidable.
He plants his palms on either side of my face and leans in, catching my breathless mouth into a deep, slow kiss that radiates into places my orgasm didn’t reach. The need to touch him back becomes visceral, but I can’t decide where to land my fingers—on his jaw, his waist, his cock?
I choose his face, then curl my toes around the waistband of his sweatpants and briefs and push both low. He emits a husky growl as I slide my foot between his legs to caress his balls and angle his long, thick, hard cock right where I need it.
For a moment, he remains hunched over me, his forehead pressed to mine, his chest heaving in time with mine. But then he unfurls, grips my ass, and—quite literally—impalesme. As our pubic bones collide, a grimace reshapes his face. Like this is too much, too good.
He pulls back, then drives himself back in, the coarse hair he keeps neatly trimmed scraping against my raw sex in the most delicious way. When a small sigh slips through my lips, his expression sharpens, and he holds still. It’s only once he spots my smile that he resumes his thrusts.
“Baby,” he whispers hoarsely. “Make yourself feel good.”
I follow his command, sliding my hand down my body. His pupils seem to grow larger, like they’re about to spill past the limbal ring of his irises.
“You truly are a goddess, aren’t you?” he rasps, as the slow roll of his hips gathers speed.
My elbow locks up, halting my fingers’ trajectory. Those who know about our runes call us gods—or monsters. But Cillian isn’t aware of my nature. Unless he is?
