Page 70 of Shipwrecked

“It is, and you know you’re not fit for sex. You said yourself you’re shaky. I’m sorry that Mathieu’s gone and turned you on, but nothing is happening while you’re worked up and upset.”

“I’m not upset or worked up.”

He says nothing.

“It isn’t up to you.”

“Anything safety-related—”

“It isn’t up to you,” I insist stubbornly.

“Come here.”

“I want Mathieu to use my—”

“Come here.”

“Or you to use—”

“Jules.”

Scowling, I do as he asks. I lie down, and with horrible gentleness that clashes with his stern tone, he guides me to his throat. He pets my hair and rubs my side.

The instruction is clear, but not what I want.

“Your throat is in bad shape, Jules. I’m sorry, but it is.”

“My hand is perfectly fine.”

“You need to rest. You can be pissed off at me all you like, but that won’t change.” His pulse is thrumming.

What harm will one hand job do? Sure, my throat is sore, and my gut is in knots, but my cock is hard regardless. I can pleasure Mathieu and then go to sleep and get all the rest I need.

“I can do a lazy, low-energy hand job,” I bargain, a final attempt. “I can just hold my fingers open, and you can hump my palm, or I can go on my stomach and—”

“Jules.” Cillian’s voice is tense, his body growing rigid. “Please.”

The plea catches me off guard. His pulse is roaring. I can taste the heat of it in my mouth. I sense that, if I keep talking, I’m going to get my way.

I suspect if I do, Cillian will be the one upset come morning. He’s holding his breath. We both feel my victory.

With aching self-control, I turn away from it, removing my lips from his throat.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mathieu

I sit on the edge of the surf, cradling my knees. Waves wash over my feet, wetting my shorts. The sand is racing out from beneath my butt, my seating becoming unstable.

“I messed up,” I say to nobody. I let my tears fall undisturbed and curl tighter into a ball. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

I was meant to show that I’m reliable. That I can be a good, steady boyfriend. What did I show Jules? That I’m a slave to my whims. That I want him so much I lose all good sense. That the only reliable one is Cillian.

Cillian’s not impressed with me either. The weight of his disapproval joins everything else that was thrown at us.

I didn’t mean to lose the run of myself. I just—I was checking what Jules had said. Seeing if I understood right what he was getting at. It was bad timing, and I knew that in the moment, but—