It’s only her palms on my cheeks that carry me back to Earth, to this hotel room I can’t afford and this mesmerizing goddess I was supposed to seduce without falling for.
I pull out, my guilt cooling off my pleasure.
I’m not falling for her. My dick might have, but not the rest of me.
The rest of me could still walk away and never look back. Never think about her striking stare or all those vulnerable parts of her soul she revealed to me.
I could survive just great without ever again hearing the rasp of her voice, or smelling her sunshine skin, or feeling the searing heat of her touch.
I’d be fucking depressed and lonely, but otherwise just fine.
“Cillian?” I find her head tilted to the side. “Are you okay?”
“Just fine,” I grunt, glaring at the wastebasket that looks wrought of solid gold.
“Is it because you didn’t last long? Because I don’t care about that.”
I snort, my gaze beelining right back to hers. “Appreciate it, but no.”
I scoop her off the countertop and carry her to the bath, one question circling in my head: once I get Quinn to safety, can I come back for Electra?
Chapter 41
Electra
Some days, I feel like I finally have Cillian Lowry pinned down. Other days, he’s an enigma wrapped in contradictions.
Like now.
He’s braced over me on the bed, observing me like some predator—mouth thinned, jaw sharp, and eyes pure-steel. I can’t figure out his intentions, but murder is definitely in the running. Not mine, mind you—my father’s, given how hell-bent Cillian is on keeping me from leaving.
But then he rasps, “Am I alone in having caught so many fucking feelings?” and I realize his concentrated intensity is worry that I might not feel the same way.
“Believe it or not, Lowry, I went and caught quite a few myself.”
He drops low for a kiss, his engorged crown flopping between my legs. When it hits my clit, my thighs clench and a tingle races through my core.
“We’re both fucked, then.” He kisses the edge of my jaw, then the slope of my neck.
“Soofucked,” I say around a moan.
He picks his head up and rolls his lips like he’s trying to decide what to say next.
“What?” I ask.
He averts his gaze, focusing on my collarbone. “Nothing.”
I grip his face, forcing his eyes to mine. “You’re giving me whiplash, Cillian. What’s going on with you?”
With a sigh, he rolls over onto his back, propping his head on a bent arm and sinking his gaze on the pendant lamp that highlights every muscle, every scar, every sinew, every lock of damp, unruly hair.
I turn onto my side and reach out, feeling his heart kick as I inch my hand toward the emerald ring pendant. He says nothing as I play with the gold band, lassoing my thumb with it before sliding it over my index finger. It doesn’t go farther than my knuckle. I move it to my middle finger. Again, it meets bone.
As I slip it over the nail of my ring finger, his rough voice finally scrapes the air. “I’m afraid of losing you.”
“Babe, I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re going to Texas,” he mutters.
