Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Panting, Cillian collapsed back to the bed, holding out his arms for Brendan. “Inside me,” he whispered without hesitation, without shame. “I don’t…I don’t want to come until you’re inside me.”
“Anything,” Brendan breathed. “Anything you want.”
Anything Cillian asked…
Brendan would give.
And he made short work of the rest of his clothing, flinging it aside until they were nothing but skin and touch, nothing but the truth of flesh and the intimacy of entwined limbs. Until he felt every inch of Cillian as he took him into his arms, kissed him, twined their legs together and let skin slide to skin until pleasure was a thing shared between them over every inch of their bodies; until the taste of their mouths fusing was the spark to the fire of flesh mating, coming together. Brendan kissed Cillian until he couldn’t breathe; until Cillian was whimpering, pleading without words; until the ache became unbearable, and Brendan couldn’t wait any longer.
The bottle of lubricant in the nightstand left his fingers slick, made it simple to ease inside Cillian with two thrusting fingers, slowly filling him, stretching him, drinking in his every reaction as Cillian jolted and shuddered, as he dug his nails into Brendan’s shoulders, as he jerked his hips and bucked in little rhythmic needy thrusts that only made Brendan wanted to tease him more, more, forever and again, losing himself in this timeless moment where nothing mattered but this.
Having Cillian again.
And marking him once more as Brendan’s.
Just as Brendan was his. Something he couldn’t deny anymore, when Cillian brought to life parts of himself he hadn’t thought he’d needed.
Only to discover he couldn’t live without.
He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t wait, not when every keening sigh and shiver of tight musculature was an enticement, a plea. And he slipped his fingers deep into Cillian one last time, slicking him inside—before withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his cock.
“Cillian,” he murmured, stroking Cillian’s sweat-dampened hair back as Brendan pressed his painfully hard, dripping cock against Cillian’s entrance. “Look at me.”
“I—I can’t, I—” Cillian shook his head quickly, burying his face in Brendan’s shoulder. “You’re too much, I…every time you look at me I feel like I’m going to break…”
“Then break, love.” Brendan touched his lips to Cillian’s. “Break with me.”
Slow—so slow, he began to ease inside. Until Cillian gasped, tossing his head back; until tightness clenched against Brendan; until Cillian opened his eyes, meeting Brendan’s gaze with his own dilated, dark, hazed with heat. So completely lost, letting Brendan fall into him so utterly.
And in that moment, he sank home, sliding in deep to fill Cillian completely and feel that heat, that tightness wrap around him until they were inseparable.
One.
And Brendan lost himself, burying into Cillian, absorbing himself into that perfect, straining body—slow-rolling thrusts of gliding heat and intimate depths, a lazy kiss of shared sighs and whispered sounds, the tremors of their bodies moving together, drawn into each other by the same gravity.
The same heart.
The same love.
And Brendan gave Cillian his love with every touch, with every thrust, every ever-swifter rock and sway of their conjoined bodies until they shuddered together, arched together, fought together toward that final burst of pleasure, that final joining of their flesh, that final sweat-slicked burst of wildness that crashed and rushed and swelled over them until their edges blurred and they tumbled into darkness together.
Holding fast.
And Brendan promised himself…
This time, he would never let go.
This time, he would love Cillian Tell the way he deserved to be loved. Cherished. Held. Kept. In this moment—
And for the rest of their lives.
EPILOGUE
CILLIAN COULDN’T GET AWAY.
Trees flashed around him, rushing past in a blur as he pelted through the woods. Terror made everything too loud: the crunch of dead autumn leaves underfoot, the crackle of breaking twigs, the rustle of branches as he shoved his way through, his own panicked heartbeat, his loud and roaring breaths.
The breaths that followed him.
Swifter, smoother, the unhurried breaths of a predator completely confident in its prey, movements softer and quieter than Cillian’s. He couldn’t see who—or what—was chasing him. They kept themselves out of sight, herding him through the forest, through the last descending shafts of sunlight and deeper into the shadows that threatened to swallow him.
Cillian risked a glance over his shoulder—and nearly tripped, arms flailing before he clutched tight to the strap of his messenger bag and stumbled upright. Mind racing in tight circles of terror, blood moving to the beat of a symphony of fear, he turned quickly, searching, wide eyes darting about, flaring his nostrils as if he could catch a whiff of a scent to tell him how close—
There.
A flash of dark, hungry eyes through the trees.
Cillian gulped down hard, his stomach lurching, then turned.
And ran.
He threw his entire body into running; he had to get to the house, had to get inside, safely behind locked doors, he could see the sunny yellow slats of the cottage through the trees, and he ignored the stitch in his side and the pain in his lungs and the sweat running down the back of his neck and icing in the late autumn chill as he threw all of his strength into fleeing for safety, for shelter, for—