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)
…what.
Oh, son of a—
“You…!” Snarling, blushing hot up to his fucking scalp, Cillian shoved at Brendan’s chest. “You were acting!”
Brendan rocked back with a chuckle. “I’m working on it.” A sly look slid over Cillian. “Knowing what makes you react helps.”
“You. Are. Such. A. Dick.”
“I am,” Brendan agreed, then gave Cillian a longer look, eyes narrowed. “And you’re missing something.”
Brendan prowled away from Cillian, giving him room to breathe, pull himself back together, while Brendan pulled one of the kitchen drawers open and pushed a few things inside around. But that moment to breathe turned into air frozen in Cillian’s throat as Brendan came up with a small switchblade—and snapped it open, the keen edge gleaming in the light.
“Um.” Cillian dug his fingers into the countertop at his back, pushing back a little; the cold marble dug into his palms. His twisted a little, stomach clenching, and that molten-deep fear-hot feeling poured down to pool in his pelvis and gather like an invisible hand around his cock. “Wh-what…what are you doing with that?”
“Trust me. I won’t hurt you. We set a limit at no cutting.” Brendan sank to one knee in front of Cillian. “Hold still.”
Cillian didn’t know how he was supposed to hold still.
He was torn between bolting from the man with the knife…
…and curling his fingers in Brendan’s hair and begging him to do something about the ache building inside him; an ache that only grew worse, deeper, with Brendan leaning so close. Closer, his thick, full lower lip creeping between his teeth in concentration as he skimmed the point of the knife across the topside of Cillian’s thigh, just the faintest pressure electrifying his skin through the denim.
Before Brendan deftly caught the tip of the knife in the jeans, digging a little puncture and pulling the material away from Cillian’s skin, then slashing swiftly to the side and opening up a rip in the denim without ever coming close to even scratching Cillian’s thigh.
His gut jolted, a hot lurch. Focus. Focus on what Brendan was doing, and not the delicious, nervous danger of that knife so close. “…I…aren’t these expensive?”
“Doesn’t matter how much they cost if I can’t wear them. They cut off circulation to areas I’d rather let breathe.”
Brendan caught another spot with the knife and ripped—and the sound felt like it tore right through Cillian’s cock; he bit down on the tip of his tongue to stifle a moan, his entire body tensing, as the edge of the knife skimmed close enough that he could feel it against the hairs on his thigh. Then again—and again, and Cillian tried closing his eyes but that just made it hit him harder, that tug of pressure, that skim of sharpness kissing the air, only not seeing it coming, fuck, he felt like his legs were about to give out, he couldn’t take anymore—
“There,” Brendan said; Cillian creaked one eye open to watch Brendan lean back, before catching a thread from the freshly-shredded jeans and tugging it loose until it dangled. “Suits you. It’s becoming your signature look.”
Shakily, Cillian looked down. Brendan had opened up rips all along his thighs, horizontal mouths letting his skin show through. Cillian darted his tongue over his lips.
“Thank you,” he managed to get out.
Brendan snapped the knife closed, standing, brows knitting. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.” One at a time, Cillian pried his fingers free from their deathgrip on the marble, forcing himself to breathe slowly, but slow breaths didn’t stop the heated, rapid-fire pulse working up and down the length of his cock, straining against his borrowed jeans. That…God, that felt dirty, being this hard in Brendan’s jeans, so fucking hard he was dripping against his underwear. Swallowing, he muttered, “I…I think I just figured out I might be into knifeplay.”
With a rather self-deprecating smirk, cocking his head, Brendan reached past Cillian to set the knife on the island. “That’s about as far as I’m willing to go with a sharp object.”
“Trust me,” Cillian breathed. “It was far enough.”
Brendan settled to lean against the island next to Cillian; a keen look flicked over him. “Need a minute?”
“Y-yeah.”
Just until he could walk without feeling like he was going to burst something delicate.
God, he wasn’t this easy, was he?
Cillian just slumped against the kitchen island, trying to ignore the body heat at his side, the faint hints of Brendan’s scent, only amplified between the borrowed clothing and the actual source of that scent right next to him. Just…count to ten. Twenty. A hundred if he needed to. Think of home; think of nights so cold he couldn’t feel his toes, of plunging into a snowbank up to his hips and freezing himself right out of the state he’d worked himself into.
“I can’t tell if you’re really responsive,” Brendan murmured into the silence between them, “or really repressed.”