Chapter 40
Cillian
My pulse won’t fucking quiet.
When Electra rerouted us, my guilt staged a judgment scene worthy of a horror movie—severed limbs, ripped nails, yanked teeth. But then, we pulled up in front of a fancy hotel, and my shock transformed into helplessness.
And guilt.
So much fucking guilt.
Though I’m trying to stop overthinking, my mind just won’t shut up. Staying here, with her, feels perverse. Like I’m abusing her benevolence.
Yet I carefully remove my glasses and set them down. And then I strip out of my tee.
The sound of crashing water echoes against my ears, drowning out the sound of my thrashing heart. I don’t think it’s ever beat so hard. At least, not with anything other than hate or adrenaline.
Guilt and eagerness go head to head as I slide her out of her see-through jacket and tank top. Her skin is warm and pebbled, her nipples puckered. The girl’s a wet dream.
I toss the clothes aside, then slant my mouth over hers as I inch my fingertips under her stretchy leather leggings until I’ve got a handhold on the globes of her divine ass. Fucking hell.
I’ve heard the Atlanteans refer to their pit of magical rocks as Gaea. If a divinity truly haunts the bedrock of Atlantis, then I’m going to be dragged into purgatory, whatever I blast—sediments or hearts.
Instead of pulling back, I lean deeper into the kiss, plunging my tongue inside her wet depths. I work her leather leggings and black thong over her ass, then trace its perfect outline, before lengthening my middle finger and tracing her crease.
She sucks in a small breath.
She’s wet. So fucking wet that my already stiff cock jerks with eagerness, trying to plow right through my sweats.
I spread her slickness up and down her folds before poking one finger into her as I did earlier. My girl likes that.
My girl…
Electra isn’t my girl; she’s only my way in.
As my conscience goes to war with my gut, I grip her hip and flip her front to back. Once her spine molds to my torso, and I can hold her whole sex with my hand, a growl of satisfaction surges from me.
Our eyes lock in the mirror above the sink as I rock the heel of my hand against her slick silk while my fingers till her bare pussy.
If I were to be struck down, I’d ask for it to be now, so this—Electra with her skin flushed, her lips parted, and her pupils blown—becomes the last thing I ever see.
“Do you know how fucking sexy you are?” I rasp against the column of skin I’m peppering with gentle kisses.
Her throat clenches as my fingers circle her pouting bud before plowing down her soft, slippery mound.
Her leather pants bunch around her legs, wedging them too close together for my liking, so I yank them down to mid-thigh.
“Can you do something for me, baby?” I don’t wait for her to nod or utter any words, because it isn’t a question; it’s a command. “Can you grab on to your perfect tits and squeeze them for me?”
Her head lolls against my shoulder as she raises her hands and follows my instructions.
“Such a good girl,” I murmur before sucking hard enough on her throat to leave a bruise she’ll carry to fucking Texas.
I hate that she’s going. Hate that she’s putting her trust in that devil she calls a father. While I don’t think he has footage of me entering the deli, I could be wrong, and he simply hasn’t shown it to Electra yet. Or maybe he has, but she didn’t recognize me with my wig.
The little moans that drop from her lips drag me out of my head. One glance into the mirror has my balls rearing up and my length prodding the small of her back, weeping and whining for a deeper connection.
Her breathing grows ragged as I rub her clit. When I add a phalanx inside her soft heat, she bucks, her muscles and bones sharpening beneath her bronzed skin. A heartbeat later, she’s unraveling, the oxygen draining from her lungs as if she were an inflatable doll and air was the only thing keeping her shape taut.
