Chapter 16
Nora
I press my hands against the passenger window. “Cillian, this is—”
“You like it?” He kills the engine and turns to me. “I wanted it to be perfect. You deserve perfect.”
The house sits at the end of a long gravel drive, surrounded by trees that block out the rest of the world. Glass walls overlook Lake Michigan, and the water stretches out like a sheet of hammered silver under the afternoon sun.
He comes around to open my door, takes my hand, and leads me inside.
The interior is all clean lines and open space. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the lake view. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and white marble. A massive bedroom overlooks the water, the bed covered in soft white linens.
“It’s us alone,” he says, setting our bags down. “No staff, no interruptions.”
“I love it.” I turn to him. “Thank you.”
He pulls me close and kisses my forehead. “You don’t have to thank me for wanting to be alone with my wife.”
We make dinner together. Cillian insists on helping, though his knife skills are terrible and he nearly burns the garlic.
I laugh—actually laugh. “You’re supposed to sauté it, not cremate it.”
“I’m better at other things.” He grins, and the expression transforms his face.
“Oh, really?”
He backs me against the counter, cages me in with his arms. “Really.”
Heat floods through me. I grip the edge of the marble behind me. “Prove it.”
His eyes darken. “Later. First, I want to feed you.”
We eat on the deck as the sun sets, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The air smells like pine and water. This is paradise.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Cillian says.
I blink. “Like what?”
“Anything. Your favorite color, your first memory, what you wanted to be when you grew up.”
Warmth spreads through me. “My first memory is my mother singing. She had a pretty voice.”
His expression softens. “What did she sing?”
“Lullabies, mostly. Irish ones. I don’t remember the words. I don’t remember much about her. I can’t even picture her face anymore. Even that’s gone from my memory bank.”
I share more with Cillian than I’ve ever shared with anyone before, and he listens. Really listens. Asks questions, remembers details, makes me feel like every word matters.
He tells me about growing up with three brothers, the chaos, the competition. The way they fought and protected each other.
“Declan broke my nose when I was fourteen,” he says. “I’d ratted him out to Da about sneaking out.”
“Did you regret it?”
“Not even a little. He deserved it.” He grins. “I broke his ribs two years later, so we’re even.”
After dinner, he pulls me to the deck railing. The lake is dark now, stars scattered overhead.
“Come here.”
He kisses me under the stars, his hands on my waist, my hips. The night air is cool, but his touch is warm.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He carries me to the bedroom and sets me on my feet by the bed.
“We have all weekend. No rush.”
He undresses me with care, his hands tracing my curves, learning me all over again.
“Look at you.”
I shiver under his gaze. Goosebumps spread across my skin.
I reach for his shirt, fumble with the buttons. He helps me strip off his clothes, and the sight of him—all muscle and masculine power—makes my mouth go dry.
“Now who’s staring?” he murmurs, and I catch the ghost of a smile on his lips.
He lays me on the bed. ”Fuck, these tits are perfect,” he growls against my skin, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “All mine to play with. You like that, don’t you? My mouth on you, marking what’s mine.”
“Yes,” I whimper, my fingers threading through his hair. “Cillian, please.”
He lifts his head, eyes dark and commanding. “Please what, wife? Use your words. Tell me what you need.”
“I need…” I swallow, heat flooding my face and between my legs. “Your mouth. Everywhere.”
A wicked grin spreads across his face. “Good girl. Spread those legs for me.”
His hands trail down my sides, over my ribs, my stomach, gripping my hips as he settles between my thighs.
He hooks his fingers into my panties and drags them down slowly, inch by inch, exposing me to the cool air.
I feel the wetness there, slick and ready, and his gaze locks on me like he’s starving.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “So fucking wet for me already. This pretty little cunt is dripping just from my kisses. You want my tongue here, don’t you? You want me to eat this sweet pussy until you scream?”
My core clenches at his filthy words, emptiness aching inside me. “Yes. God, yes.”
He doesn’t make me wait. His broad shoulders force my thighs wider, and he blows a cool breath over my folds, making me jolt. Then his mouth descends. His tongue flattens against me, licking a long, slow path from my entrance to my clit. I cry out, hips bucking, but his strong hands pin me down.
“Stay still,” he orders, the vibration of his voice against my sensitive skin making me shudder. “Let me taste you. Every drop.”
He dives in like a man possessed, lips sealing around my clit and sucking with just the right pressure. Pleasure explodes through me. His tongue flicks relentlessly, circling the swollen nub before dipping lower to thrust inside me. He fucks me with his tongue until stars burst behind my eyelids.
“Oh, Cillian,” I moan, my hands fisting the sheets. “That feels so good. Don’t stop.”
He groans into me, the sound sending fresh waves of heat coiling tight in my belly.
One hand slides up my thigh, fingers spreading my folds wider for his assault.
His mouth works me over—sucking, licking, nipping—while his free hand pinches my nipple, rolling it between his fingers.
The dual sensations overwhelm me, pushing me higher.
“You’re so sweet,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my clit. “Like fucking honey. This pussy was made for my mouth. Clench around my tongue again. Good girl, taking it so well.”
I obey, my walls fluttering as he plunges his tongue back inside. He adds a finger, sliding in deep and curling upward. He pumps it slowly at first, letting me adjust, then adds a second, stretching me. The way he scissors them, rubbing that ridged front wall, has me writhing.
“Cillian, I’m—fuck, I’m close.”
“Not yet,” he commands, slowing his thrusts. “You come when I say. Hold it for me. Show me how obedient you can be.”
His dominance sends a thrill through me, mixing with the building pressure.
I nod frantically, biting my lip to stifle my pleas.
He rewards me by latching onto my clit again, sucking hard while his fingers fuck me faster, deeper.
His thumb finds my entrance alongside his fingers, pressing just right, and I can barely stand it.
“Please,” I beg, tears pricking my eyes from the intensity. “I need to come. Need your mouth making me come all over your tongue.”
He hums approval, the vibration pushing me to the edge. “Come for me now, Nora. Soak my face. Let me drink every drop from this greedy little pussy.”
His words shatter me. Orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing. I scream his name, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure rip through me. My walls pulse around his fingers, gushing wetness that he laps up greedily, prolonging the bliss until I’m a trembling mess.
He doesn’t stop right away. His tongue gentles, lapping softly through the aftershocks, drawing out every quiver. Only when I’m boneless does he ease back, kissing the inside of my thigh tenderly. His lips are swollen, his chin glistening with my juices, and the sight is one I never want to forget.
“You’re incredible,” he says, voice hoarse with restraint. “So responsive. My perfect wife. I’m gonna fuck you all night long.”
He crawls up, hovering over me. His skin is fever-hot. His heart pounds against mine.
I turn my face into his neck, overwhelmed, inhaling his scent—sweat and musk and me.
“Are you alright?”
I nod into the hollow of his throat. And then I say it. I tell him what I’ve known for a while now, “I love you.”
I’m not really surprised when he responds, “I love you too, baby.”
Cillian
I wake to sunlight and the sound of waves. Nora is curled against me, her head on my chest, one leg draped over mine.
This. This is what I want every morning for the rest of my life.
She stirs. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
We make love again, lazy and sweet. Then breakfast on the deck.
The day stretches ahead, unstructured. No meetings, no obligations.
We walk on the private beach. Nora takes off her shoes and walks in the water. I watch her—the way the sunlight catches in her hair, the smile on her face.
“You look happy.”
She turns to me. “I am happy.”
The words settle over me like a benediction. When it’s us alone, without the weight of my world, she can be happy.
I splash her. She shrieks, splashes back. We play like children, chasing each other through the shallows. We end up kissing in the water, her body pressed against mine, both of us laughing.
Back at the house, she reads while I nap on the couch, my head in her lap. She runs her fingers through my hair, and I drift in that space between sleep and waking, content.
I love her so damn much it hurts.
That evening, I grill us steaks. They turn out better than expected.
“You’re improving,” she teases.
“I’m motivated. Can’t have my wife thinking I’m useless in the kitchen.”
We eat and talk more. I want to know everything about her—books she loves, places she’s never been but wants to see, small dreams she’s kept tucked away.
She shares them all, and I listen like every word is scripture.
“Why do you love me?” she asks later, on the couch.
The question stops me. “Because you’re you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I consider it. Really consider it.
“You’re kind. Even after everything that’s been done to you, you’re still kind. You see the good in people. You make me want to be better.”
“I’m nothing special.”
“You’re everything special.”
How do I explain to her that I’ve never met a woman like her before? One who isn’t angling for something—money, power, prestige. She’s a breath of fresh air, and with every inhale, I only crave her more.
I kiss her to stop her protest. The kiss deepens, and I lay her back on the couch.
Nora
Sunday morning arrives too soon. Our last full day.
I wake with dread pooling in my stomach. It’s ending. Tomorrow we go back.
But I push it away. We have today.
Lazy morning—breakfast in bed, making love, talking. Cillian traces patterns on my skin.
“I don’t want to go back.”
I look at him. “Me neither.”
“We could stay. Not go back.”
He’s half-joking, but half-serious.
“You have responsibilities.”
“Screw my responsibilities.”
I laugh, and he grins at the sound.
We spend the day doing nothing. Reading, napping, walking the beach again. It’s perfect.
This is what it could be like.
I allow myself to hope. Maybe we can make it work. Maybe I can be enough.
Late afternoon, he turns his phone on, and it immediately rings. He ignores it.
It rings again.
“Fuck,” he growls.
He steps away to take the call, but not far enough. I hear his side of the conversation from the couch.
“I told you I wouldn’t be available... I don’t care how important it is...”
Pause.
“The Romano deal? ...Damn.”
Longer pause. My stomach drops.
“Did it fall through? Because I had plans... Personal plans.”
I hear the frustration in his voice.
“Have we lost the deal? ...The whole thing? ...How much are we talking?”
Silence.
“Fine. I’ll be there tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”
More silence as he listens.
“No, I understand. I’ll be there.”
He hangs up.
I sit very still on the couch, pretending to read. But the words swim on the page.
Did he sacrifice another deal for me? How many more before he resents me?
Cillian returns and runs a hand through his hair. “That was Declan. There’s a meeting tomorrow morning I have to take.”
I keep my voice carefully neutral. “Okay.”
He sits beside me and pulls me close. “We still have tonight. We’ll leave early tomorrow morning.”
I nod against him. But the real world has intruded, and I can’t unhear what just happened.
While he showers, I sit on the deck and watch the sun set over the lake.
Another deal. Another hit to the family business. More sacrifice.
All because of me.
We make dinner together again. Both of us are trying to recapture the lightness from before. But there’s a shadow now.
I’m quieter. He notices.
“You okay?”
I shrug. “Sad the weekend is ending.” It’s not a lie, just not the whole truth.
In bed, he makes love to me with an intensity that feels almost desperate. Like he knows I’m slipping away.
I cling to him. Memorize every touch, every sensation.
“I love you,” he says against my throat.
I love him too—that’s the problem. I love him too much to keep dragging him down.
After, he falls asleep. I lie in his arms, wide awake.
The weekend was perfect. But it’s not real. Real is Chicago, his family, the business, the constant cost of choosing me.
I look at his face, peaceful in sleep. This man would do anything for me. He’s given up so much for me already.
Maybe the kindest thing I could do is give him up. Let him go. Give him back his life before I destroy it.
He’d be angry at first. But eventually, he’d see I was right. He’d marry someone like Aoife, someone who brings value instead of taking it. Someone who belongs in his world.
The thought makes me want to throw up. But loving someone means wanting what’s best for them. Even if it kills you.