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)
“On your feet, Mr. Kerrington,” he challenged with a lofty little smirk. “I do believe we need to choreograph our fight scene.”
l
BRENDAN SETTLED HIS STANCE ON his back foot as Cillian moved quickly to his feet, catching the dowel rod out of the air quickly and then flowing smoothly into a fencer’s stance, holding the dowel lightly by the base and extending it toward Brendan with a smirk befitting of a cocky young Duke.
“Well then, my Lord,” Cillian lilted mockingly. “If it’s a duel you want, it’s a duel you shall get.”
“Pray this is the only time we cross swords today, Kerrington,” Brendan said, and lunged. That was who Landon Cheng was—aggressive, confident enough in his own fighting skills and years of ingrained battle experience to make him bold enough to take the advantage against a younger, more nimble man with more recent years of active combat experience.
He saw Cillian in a momentary flinch, delay…and then Kerrington took over, that smirk returning as Cillian danced out of the way lithely, moving with an almost flirting ease, playful and seeming not to take it seriously in response to his opponent’s determined drive of feints, slashes, a constant assault meant to never let him stop blocking, guarding, evading; never let him get the upper hand.
A slow smile grew on Brendan’s lips. “You seem to be losing ground, you Grace,” he said, and drove Cillian several feet back with a broad slash before darting back in with a jab under his guard.
Cillian twisted out of the way, skirting the obstacle of the coffee table, some of his confidence ebbing; his eyes flashed, hot-tempered and bright, ah, yes, there he was, the young lord who couldn’t fathom losing to the one who barred him from his one true love. Swift, sharp, Cillian sidestepped, let momentum swing him around, counter-attacked—forcing Brendan onto his guard, dowel rods clacking together as they clashed briefly, then sprang apart.
“And now,” Cillian said triumphantly, “I seem to be gaining it back.”
“Come now,” Brendan deadpanned. “If you cannot best me, what hope do you have to be a match for my daughter?”
He neatly sidestepped a flurry of attacks, brought his blade up to block, locked—the two of them straining with the hilts of their “swords,” wrists nearly entwined, pushing against each other in a battle of strength and will, locked eye to eye with nearly identical feral smiles, all teeth.
“And what do you intend to do with me if you best me, my Lord?” Cillian taunted—before they broke apart, taking up guard stance facing each other once more.
Brendan had a few suggestions.
But Landon Cheng would, perhaps, be put off briefly, unsettled by the innuendo, the idea of someone looking at him with the thrill of battle turning into the burn of desire, uncertain how to respond when he had been frozen for so long.
But he recovered himself quickly, putting on a fiercer smile worthy of the wolf Cheng was meant to be.
“That depends,” Brendan answered, “on how poorly you lose.”
No more words. They only flung themselves at each other, soft scuff of bare feet on the floor, wooden rods crashing and clacking together, soft sounds of breaths of exertion as they met then parted again and again, faster and faster, sweat dripping, tension building, blood rushing hot, and even as Cillian grinned wider and wider his eyes grew more and more wild, gleaming, adrenaline-hot and burning with…
Lust.
That same lust that had screamed from every line of his body as he’d spread himself open for Brendan and begged for his cock.
Brendan’s own cock twinged, already throbbing and heavy and wanting, ignored as he pushed himself forward for one last charge of strength—and in a twist of his wrist, succeeded in knocking Cillian’s dowel rod from his hand. It went clattering across the floor; Brendan nudged his rod under Cillian’s chin, while Cillian froze, panting, his chin uplifted as if avoiding a very real, very sharp blade.
Falling still, chest heaving, Brendan smirked. “You’ve lost, your Grace.” He lightly skimmed the side of the dowel rod against Cillian’s throat. “What shall you do now?”
Cillian strained further away from the rod—but didn’t flinch when Brendan kept it to his throat, lowering it to follow Cillian’s path, as Cillian slowly sank to his knees in front of Brendan, leaning in past the length of the dowel rod, the slim pale wood stick sliding against his shoulder.
“Kneel in supplication, my Lord,” he whispered, and lifted lean hands to frame Brendan’s hips in graceful fingers. “And fall on your mercy.”
Fuck.
Forget this playact of Cheng and Kerrington.
Cillian on his knees, looking up at Brendan with those sly eyes, that wanton mouth…Brendan’s blood turned to fire. And raged into a wild burn, as Cillian unbuttoned and unzipped Brendan’s jeans. The moment heated fingers wrapped around his cock, easing it free from his briefs and into the caress of open air, the stroke of warm skin…Brendan closed his eyes with a tortured groan, letting himself sink into the feeling.