Chapter 19 Red, Resung #3
“Good boy,” I whisper, dragging my lips across his cheek. “Now shut up and let me thank you properly.”
I kiss him like gratitude is oxygen and he’s been starving me for days. He catches the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair, but I’m the one who breaks him open—pressing forward, sinking deeper, demanding instead of asking.
He groans into my mouth, a sound that vibrates down my spine like a struck string. His hands—always steady, always sure—slide from my waist to my hips, gripping like he can’t decide whether to worship or devour.
“Up,” I whisper against his lips.
He obeys instantly. God, the power of that. I slide off his lap just long enough to shove the papers, the folders, the Red Hand business aside. His eyes flare—hunger, awe, the faintest edge of fear like I’ve just stepped into the center of him and turned the lights on.
“Siobhán…” He says my name like a prayer and a warning.
“Shh.” I tug him forward by his shirt, backing him toward the desk. “You wanted me to stop teasing? Then listen.”
He’s panting already, chest rising beneath my palms, pupils blown wide. I push him back until the backs of his thighs hit the desk. Then I climb up—slow, deliberate, sitting on the edge so I’m eye-level with his ruin.
His breath stutters. “Tell me,” he rasps, “what you want.”
I smile sweetly, wickedly. “Everything.”
His knees go weak. I see it. I feel it.
One fingertip traces down his jaw, then his throat, then the buttons of his shirt. “You,” I murmur, “are going to stand there while I decide exactly how I want to take you.”
He swears softly—one word in Irish that slips out like he didn’t mean to let it escape. Not every sentence. Just the ones that crack him open. I hook my fingers into his belt and tug him closer until he’s flush against my knees. His hands hover like he’s afraid to touch me without permission.
“Hands,” I whisper.
They land on my thighs instantly.
I drag them higher, slow enough to torture him. “Good. Now kiss me.” He leans in, but I stop him with a single finger to his lips. “Not there.” My voice drops, satin and sin. “Start lower.”
His eyes close. A shiver runs through him—my dangerous, ruthless devil undone because I asked.
He sinks to his knees. And Christ, the sight of Cillian O’Dwyer kneeling between my legs…
His hands slide up my calves, reverent. His mouth follows—ankle, knee, inner thigh—each kiss slow and starving, like he’s giving thanks for every inch he almost lost.
“Look at me,” I breathe.
He does. God, those eyes—dark, ruined with devotion.
“My duchess,” he whispers hoarsely. “Say you’re mine.”
“Yours,” I whisper back, threading my fingers through his hair and tugging just enough to make him groan. “But you’re mine too, Cill. Every inch.”
His forehead presses to my thigh, breath shaking like I’ve gutted him. Then he grips my hips and pulls me to the very edge of the desk. And he worships. Not rushed. Not frantic. Slow. Meaningful. Like he’s trying to relearn the taste of forgiveness.
My head falls back, a choked sound spilling out before I can catch it. His hands hold me steady—one on my hip, one sliding up my stomach, flattening beneath my breast like he needs the proof that I’m real.
“Siobhán,” he groans against my skin, voice wrecked. “Mo sholas… you’ll be the death of me.”
“Good,” I gasp, gripping his hair tighter. “Then die properly.”
He laughs into me—broken, obedient, utterly ruined—and does exactly what I command.
His tongue slides through me, warm and insistent, and I can't help the moan that escapes my lips.
I'm trying to maintain control, to keep playing this game where I'm in charge, but God—when he does that thing with his tongue, circling and pressing just right—my thighs start trembling.
"Like that," I command, voice already breaking. "Right there, don't stop."
Cillian hums against me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine. His hands grip my thighs tighter, spreading me wider for his mouth. I try to focus, to keep giving orders, but my mind is dissolving into pure sensation.
"You taste like heaven," he murmurs against me, not lifting his head. "Like everything I've ever wanted."
I tug his hair, trying to reassert control. "I didn't say you could talk."
He chuckles, the sound dark and dangerous. "No?" And then his tongue flattens, making one long, slow pass that has my head falling back, a gasp torn from my throat.
"Oh God—"
"That's it," he whispers, and I can feel his smile against my inner thighs. "That's it, let go for me."
I moan, trying to maintain control, but the heat of his mouth is overwhelming. His tongue draws lazy circles around my clit, each pass bringing me closer to the edge. I'm supposed to be commanding him, but my thoughts scatter with every stroke of his tongue.
"Cillian—" My voice breaks as he sucks gently, the pressure perfect and maddening. "I can't—"
"Can't what, a stór?" he murmurs against me, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh. He looks up at me, green eyes dark with desire, lips glistening. "Can't think straight anymore? Can't remember who's supposed to be in charge?"
I try to glare at him, but he chooses that moment to slide two fingers inside me, curling them forward as his mouth returns to my clit. My back arches involuntarily, a strangled cry escaping my throat.
"That's it," he growls, voice vibrating against me. "Let me hear you, Siobhán. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
"Fuck," I breathe, my hips rocking against his mouth of their own accord. "Your tongue should be illegal."
He chuckles, the vibration making me whimper. "Only for you," he says, before diving back in with renewed purpose.
My body tightens suddenly around his fingers as pleasure explodes through me. I cry out his name, my hands gripping his hair as waves of ecstasy crash through me. I'm barely coherent, trembling and gasping as he works me through it, his tongue relentless until the last aftershock subsides.
Before I can catch my breath, Cillian rises in one fluid motion. He spins me around, his hands firm but not rough, and bends me over the desk. My palms flatten against the polished wood as he pushes my dress up, bunching the fabric around my waist.
"Is this what you want?" he growls against my ear, his body pressed against mine from behind. "To be taken right here, on top of all my work? On top of everything that isn't you?"
"Yes," I gasp, arching back against him. "Please, Cill—"
I hear the swift sound of his belt unbuckling, then his zipper. His hand slides up my spine, pressing gently between my shoulder blades, keeping me pinned to the desk.
"You think you're in charge?" he murmurs, his voice dark velvet against my ear.
"You love it," I tease back, rolling my hips against him deliberately. The friction makes him hiss through his teeth, his hands tightening on my waist. "Don't pretend you don't."
His chuckle is dark and molten against my neck. "Careful, mo chroí. You're playing with fire."
"Maybe I want to get burned." I reach behind me to tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss over my shoulder. Our lips meet at an awkward angle, but it doesn't matter—the heat between us could incinerate the entire office.
When he pulls away, his eyes are nearly black with desire. I feel him position himself behind me, the blunt pressure making my breath catch. "Tell me again," he commands softly, his voice rough. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," I breathe, arching my back. "Always you, Cillian."
He enters me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely.
I gasp, fingers scrambling for purchase on the desk as he sets a rhythm that's both reverent and possessive.
One of his hands splays across my lower back while the other reaches around to cup my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple through the fabric of my dress.
Each thrust pushes me against the desk, papers crinkling beneath me.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice rough with desire. "The great Siobhán Kelleher, bent over my desk like you were made for it."
I want to say something clever, something that puts me back in control, but all that comes out is a moan as he hits that perfect spot inside me. My fingers curl against the polished wood, seeking something to hold onto as pleasure builds again, impossibly soon after the first.
"That's it," he encourages, his rhythm steady and relentless. "Give me another one, dove."
His hand slides from my breast down between my legs, fingers finding my still-sensitive flesh. The dual sensation—him inside me, his fingers circling precisely where I need them—has me trembling on the edge almost immediately.
"Cill—I can't—" My voice breaks as heat coils tighter in my core.
"You can," he insists, pressing a kiss to my shoulder blade. "For me, Siobhán. Let go." His voice drops to a growl. "Come for me again."
His words are my undoing. I shatter around him, crying out as pleasure crashes through me for the second time.
My body clenches around him, waves of ecstasy pulsing from my core outward until even my fingertips are tingling.
He groans, his rhythm faltering just slightly as he feels me contract around him.
"God, Siobhán," he pants, his breath hot against my neck. "The way you feel when you come—"
Before I can even recover, he's pulling me upright, spinning me around to face him. My legs are trembling, barely holding me up as he lifts me onto the desk again. Papers scatter to the floor, but neither of us cares. He steps between my thighs, pushing my dress up further.
"I want to see your face this time," he says, voice rough with need. "Want to watch you come apart for me again."
I should be spent, should be oversensitive, but when he slides back into me, filling me completely, I moan as if it's the first time. He hooks one of my legs over his arm, changing the angle, and my breath catches as he sinks impossibly deeper.