Chapter 8 #3
I exhale a slow breath through my nose. "They've just been leaning on me a bit more than usual, which is fine. You know I love them. It's just a lot sometimes. Ugh. I sound so selfish."
"That's not being selfish, Margot," she says firmly.
"It feels selfish." I mumble the words into my grilled cheese.
The truth is, I don't mind helping my parents when I can. But it's a lot, more than they seem to realize, and the second I let myself want even a little space, the guilt over even thinking it swallows me whole.
"It isn't. You don't have to be the person responsible for everything, all the time. They're adults, Margot. Fully capable adults who just happen to enjoy leaning on you far too much, and it's a bit unfair. You can't carry the whole family on your back forever, or you'll snap in half eventually."
"I just don't want to be the daughter who lets her parents down," I say quietly. "And family is supposed to help each other."
"I fully agree, but you're allowed to have boundaries," she says, leaning forward to catch my eye. "If they were truly helpless I'd understand, but I think they lean on you on purpose, because you're so reliable. And you're allowed to say no sometimes."
I rub my face. "When exactly did you get so wise?"
"I’ve always been a very wise woman, Margot. The rhinestones just tend to throw people off."
I laugh and I look down at my plate so she can't see my face which is threatening to get a bit misty. "Thanks, Sab. Ride or dies, right?"
"Always." She grins, her mouth now full of grilled cheese. "Even if your fashion sense mostly screams 'grieving Victorian duchess,' which is a lot for my own stylish sensibilities."
"Hey, I happen to like that look." I laugh, grateful for the pivot back into lighter territory.
Our late-night dinner winds down as we drift into more relaxed conversation, and by the time we finally retreat toward our separate beds, I feel ready to simply collapse.
Once I've finished my skincare, I slip into my bedroom, my little sanctuary of pastel greens and pinks, with a bookshelf groaning under far too many paperbacks and a fluffy floral duvet.
It's unapologetically feminine, and one of the perks of being a committed singleton is that no man is around to whine that the aesthetic leans a touch too whimsical.
I slide under the covers and immediately rub my legs together, savoring fresh-sheet night, one of the small pleasures I never tire of.
I set my alarm, kill the lamp, and try to find a comfortable position.
But the adrenaline from the hockey game refuses to fade, and a stubborn case of insomnia moves in instead.
Flipping the pillow to the cool side doesn't help. Neither does reading, or the breathing exercise from my meditation app. Nothing works, because Cillian O'Rourke is stuck in my head.
All week I've caught myself replaying our every exchange. Somewhere along the way, I actually started to enjoy our sharp back-and-forth, and I'm no longer sure if he drives me crazy because I genuinely loathe the man or because he gets under my skin in a way I have no idea how to handle.
I twist the edge of the sheet between my fingers. I need to get this under control. Athletes are a hard line for me. They look charming and fun on the outside, but in my experience, it always ends in a wreckage of fragile egos and infidelity.
Maybe all this is just the combined effort of Celeste, Sabrina, and Isabelle, all getting in my head. I cling to that possibility with everything I have. Though it certainly doesn't help that Sabrina was right about one thing: he looked damn good tonight.
There is something to be said for a man who can pick you up and fuck you senseless.
Celeste's words echo in my mind, and now I cannot stop picturing Cillian pinning me to a wall, which is making sleep feel impossible.
And then the fantasy hits, hard and fast and all at once. Us in some deserted stretch of concrete hallway after the final horn, hoisting me up and pinning me against the wall.
I draw in a breath as warmth spreads low through me, every nerve in my body apparently very much on board with that image. The idea takes root before I can stop it, and I hesitate, biting my lip, my eyes darting toward the nightstand. I could just…
I reach into the drawer before my common sense can stage a recovery.
The vibrator hums to life, a soft buzz that sounds indecently loud in the quiet of my room, and I press it against my clit and let out a shaky breath into the pillow.
A small, responsible voice somewhere in the back of my head is screaming that this is a line I cannot uncross, that getting off to Cillian is such a bad idea. But it's the most turned on I have been in years and I do not want to stop.
I can almost feel his hands on me, practically hearing that deep, warm Irish accent against my ear, murmuring about how long he has been waiting to do this, telling me to keep quiet because someone might find us.
The fantasy is spiraling out of my control. His hand cupping my jaw to tilt my head back. His cock sliding home, thick and punishingly deep. Christ, Ace. He’d press a hand over my mouth if I let out a sound. Be a good girl for me.
I’m panting into the sheets, picturing him pinning me there while he fucks me. I shatter through the climax, my entire body trembling as I bite down on the pillow to muffle a cry, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me with an intensity that shames every real encounter I’ve ever had.
The post-orgasm clarity hits like a bucket of ice water. I lie there staring at the ceiling, heart hammering against my ribs, one leg tangled in the floral sheets and my pride somewhere on the floor with the throw pillows.
The gala is tomorrow. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll have to look him in the eye and pretend I didn’t just spend my night coming to the thought of him. I press a palm over my eyes, mortified.
"What the fuck was that?" I whisper into the dark.