Chapter 8
Nora
I’m wrapped around Cillian, clinging to him the way ivy vines cling to brick.
My head rests on his bare chest. One of my legs is thrown over his thigh. His arms are locked around me, and his heartbeat thuds under my ear—strong, even, alive.
I think about his mouth, his hands, the way my body came apart under his fingers.
My face goes hot. I press it deeper into his chest, hoping he’s asleep so I can figure out what to do with this new version of myself—the one who gasped his name and begged him not to stop.
“Good morning.” His voice rumbles under my ear, low and rough with sleep.
He’s not asleep. Noted.
I tilt my head up. He’s watching me with those assessing eyes, sharp even at this hour.
“Regrets?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Careful. As if my answer matters more than anything else he’ll hear today.
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“Not from my perspective. But you tell me.”
I take stock. My lips are swollen. My skin is hypersensitive everywhere he touched—my breasts, the place between my thighs where his fingers coaxed out a new and wonderful sensation.
“Last night was... I don’t have words for what that was.”
“You were magnificent.”
“I didn’t know my body could do that.”
His eyes darken in a look that I now identify as possessive and hungry. His arm tightens around my waist. “It can. It will. I’ll do it again whenever you want—often, I hope.”
I shift against him and realize how tangled we are—every inch of me pressed against every inch of him. Including the hard length of him against my hip. I know what that means, even with my limited experience. I try to move away.
“Don’t.” His palm flattens on my lower back, holding me in place. “I like you right where you are.”
“But you’re... I mean, shouldn’t we...”
“When you’re ready for more, you’ll tell me. Until then, I’m fine like this.”
He says it as if this—as if us—makes sense.
This still doesn’t feel real. I feel almost as if I’m living someone else’s life. Borrowing someone else’s happiness.
Over breakfast, he informs me that a doctor is coming this afternoon to give me a thorough examination.
“I’m not sick.”
“I want to make sure you’re alright. That there’s no lasting damage from…”
His words trail off, and I go cold. He means from my father. The abuse, the beatings.
“I’m fine.”
“Humor me. Please.”
The doctor is a woman—kind, professional, and gentle. She takes a medical history I’m embarrassed to give. I’ve rarely seen doctors.
She examines me in the bedroom while Cillian—on her orders—waits in the hall. He wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t argue. Much. And I can hear his footsteps out there as he paces.
Using a portable ultrasound device, she finds several old fractures—two ribs, a collarbone, and my left wrist—all healed without proper medical care. Under her thorough examination, she also notes my faded scars, as well as the evidence of the years I’ve gone without sufficient nutrition.
“Have you ever been sexually assaulted?” A routine question, but her tone is careful.
“No. No one has ever…done that.”
I give permission for her to speak freely about her findings in front of Cillian, but when she does, I want to disappear. She lists the damage aloud—malnutrition, poorly healed fractures, and vitamin deficiencies. Cillian stands motionless beside me. I can feel the rage coming off him in waves.
After she leaves, he’s quiet for a long time. I know he’s mad. But instead of throwing things or yelling and screaming his frustration, he’s just quiet.
“Broken ribs.” His voice is flat when he finally speaks. “Burn scars. All this happened while you were a child.”
“It’s over. It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me.” He takes my hand and presses it to his mouth. “He’ll never touch you again. No one will ever hurt you again.”
“I know.”
“Do you? You’re mine now. And I’ll kill anyone who lays a finger on you.”
The aggression, the brutality of the statement, should scare me. It doesn’t. Just the opposite. It makes me feel treasured. And it’s the first time in as long as I can remember—maybe the first time ever—that I’ve felt treasured.
I run my fingers along the shelf in the living room, trying to decide which one to start with.
The moment we walked through the door from our shopping excursion yesterday, Cillian cleared the shelf and arranged my books on it.
“Your books. Your bookcase. Your home.”
Three sentences, but the meaning behind them is huge.
They were—an invitation, a declaration, a door held open.
In that small gesture, he let me know I’m no longer a guest here.
I pull out one of the romance novels and turn it over in my hands, reading the back cover. A woman on the run. A dangerous man who catches her and refuses to let go.
Sounds right up my alley. I open it and read the first page, just to be sure. Yep. This is totally me.
I take a step toward the settee when Cillian reaches out, pulls me onto his lap, and kisses me in a way that makes the book I’d planned to read fall from my fingers.
“Are you up for more ‘husband and wife’ exploring?” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Yes,” I answer a little too quickly and a lot too eagerly.
He laughs. “I promised I wouldn’t push. We can wait. You’re allowed to say no.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
His hand slides under my waistband, fingers dipping beneath the edge of my panties, and my breath hitches.
I arch into his touch, my body already primed from the way he’s been kissing me, whispering against my skin how much he wants me.
His fingers find my clit first, circling it with just the right pressure, slow and deliberate, like he’s teasing me, and it’s torture.
I grip his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there, as heat builds between my legs, spreading like wildfire.
“Cillian,” I gasp, my hips rocking against his hand instinctively.
He slides one finger inside me, then two, stroking in and out slowly and hitting a spot that sends sparks shooting up my spine.
His thumb stays on my clit, rubbing in tight circles while his fingers thrust in and out, steady and unhurried.
I ride his hand, chasing the friction, my thighs trembling.
His other arm bands tight around my waist, holding me steady against his broad chest, his breath hot against my ear.
“You’re so wet for me, wife,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, laced with that possessive edge that makes my stomach flip. “Feel how your pussy clenches around my fingers? This sweet little pussy of yours loves me. Come on, sweetheart—let me feel you come.”
His words push me closer, the raw hunger in them mixing with the tenderness in his grip.
I bury my face in his neck, inhaling the clean scent of his skin mixed with the faint spice of his cologne.
My world narrows to the slick slide of his fingers, the building pressure coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps and pleasure crashes over me, wave after wave.
My inner walls pulse around him as I cry out his name.
My body shakes, every muscle tensing and releasing in ecstasy, and he doesn’t stop—not until I’m limp and panting against him.
I collapse against his chest, gasping his name one last time, my forehead pressed to the rapid beat of his heart.
He eases his fingers out slowly, bringing them up to his lips right in front of me.
He licks them clean, eyes locked on mine, and the sight of it—him tasting me like that—sends a fresh shiver through me.
“Sweet as honey,” he says, voice gravelly. “You are fucking gorgeous when you come for me.”
My heartbeat slows gradually, thumping heavily in my ears, but the warmth in my chest lingers, deeper than the physical aftershocks. This man—this powerful, dangerous man—wants me like this. Me.
I love that he makes me feel desired. Not a burden, but something wanted.
I lift my head, meeting his gaze, and the intensity there steals my breath all over again.
His eyes are dark, his pupils dilated, but there’s something softer too—a hint of vulnerability that mirrors the way my heart is opening for him.
I doubt many people on the planet ever get the chance to see this expression on him.
When my breathing evens out, I shift in his lap, hyperaware of the hard ridge pressing against my thigh through his pants. He’s been hard since we started kissing. But he has held back for me, given pleasure to me, but not taken for himself.
I want to make him feel good too, to feel him experience pleasure because of me. My hand trembles as I reach for him, fingers brushing the bulge in his pants. “Can I touch you now?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking there, and for a split second, I wonder if I’ve overstepped. But then he nods, voice strained. “Yes. If that’s what you want.”
Emboldened, I fumble with his belt buckle, my fingers clumsy from nerves and the lingering haze of my orgasm.
He helps, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock.
It springs out, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark and already glistening with a dot of moisture.
I’ve never seen one this close—never seen one at all, really, beyond hurried glimpses in health class videos that did nothing to prepare me for this.
It’s intimidating, the size of it, veined and rigid, curving slightly toward his stomach.
But it’s also sexy and intriguing, and a rush of moisture escapes from between my thighs again.
I wrap my hand around the base tentatively, my fingers barely meeting around his girth. The skin is velvet-soft over steel, warm under my palm. He groans, and his head falls back against the couch. The sound vibrates through me, making me clench my legs together.
“Like that,” he rasps, his hand covering mine loosely, guiding and encouraging. “Just stroke me, Nora. Up and down. Squeeze a little—fuck, yes.”
I slide my hand from root to tip, exploring the ridges and the way the head flares. I swipe my thumb over the bead of moisture at the tip, spreading it down his length to ease the glide. His hips buck once, involuntarily, and he swears under his breath.
“You’re killing me. So good—your hand feels so fucking good on my cock.”
The words he uses are dirty and crude, but they light me up inside and make me bolder. I pump him faster, loving the way he’s watching me with hooded eyes full of raw need.
His breathing comes out in sharp bursts. His chest heaves, and his free hand grips the couch cushion hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
I watch his face, mesmerized by the way pleasure etches lines of strain across his features, the way his lips part on a hiss. This is power—me, causing this in him. The girl who was invisible and unloved, now holding one of Chicago’s most feared men in the palm of her hand. Literally.
“Nora,” he growls, voice breaking on my name. His hand tightens over mine, not controlling but anchoring, as his cock throbs in my grip. “I’m close—don’t stop. Fuck, you’re perfect. My perfect wife.”
The possessiveness in his tone, the way he says my perfect wife like it’s a vow, spurs me to lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw and tasting the salt of his skin.
“I want to see you come.”
It’s my words that finally undo him. His head arches back, his neck corded, and a deep groan rips from his throat. Then hot spurts of cum pulse over my hand, spilling onto his stomach. I keep stroking through it, milking every last shudder from him until he’s done and his body slackens.
He pulls me close then, crushing me against his chest, his lips finding mine in a messy, grateful kiss that tastes like relief and something deeper—affection, maybe. Maybe even the start of something more.
I feel powerful. Me. Powerful. It’s not a feeling I’m used to.
I rest my head on his shoulder, our bodies sticky and sated, and for the first time, I let myself imagine this could be real—us, building a real marriage. Something strong and bonding.
Or maybe I’m living in a fantasy world.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, and I close my eyes, savoring the quiet intimacy, the way his heartbeat syncs with mine. This is a feeling I can get used to.
The buzzing of his phone shatters our peaceful afterglow. Groaning, he reaches for it and reads the screen.
“Fuck. Family dinner tonight. I forgot.”
My pulse spikes. “Your family?”
“This is going to be…something.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, but the statement fills me with anxiety.
“Do you think your mother will like me?” I can hear the anxiety in my voice. I desperately want to make a good impression.
He kisses the top of my head. “If she doesn’t, it doesn’t change a goddamn thing.”