Chapter 19 Red, Resung #4
"You feel that?" he growls, his hips snapping forward with each word. "How perfectly you take me?"
"Yes," I gasp, clinging to his shoulders, my nails digging through his shirt. "God, Cillian—"
His rhythm becomes more urgent, his breathing ragged against my neck. "Tell me," he demands, voice rough and strained. "Tell me what you need."
"You," I whisper, my body tensing as I feel another climax building. "Just you. Always you."
He groans, the sound vibrating through my chest. "I want to feel you come around me again," he says, his fingers sliding between us to circle my overstimulated flesh. "One more time, mo chroí. Come with me this time."
I'm already so close, trembling on the edge. His words push me further, my body responding to his command like it was made to obey him.
"Yes," I breathe, my head falling back as the pressure builds. "Yes, anything—"
"Look at me," he commands, his voice dropping to that low, possessive growl that makes my entire body tighten around him. "I want to see your eyes when you come for me."
I force my heavy lids open, meeting his gaze. The intensity there nearly undoes me—like I'm the only thing in his universe worth looking at.
"Good girl," he praises, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, hitting that perfect spot inside me with each stroke. "You're so fucking perfect like this, spread out on my desk, taking my cock so well."
My breath catches. "Yes—yours—"
"Say it again," he demands, one hand sliding up to cup my face, making sure I can't look away. "Tell me who owns this body."
"You do," I gasp as his thumb brushes my bottom lip. "Only you, Cillian."
His rhythm falters slightly, his eyes darkening at my words. "And who owns this sweet mouth?"
"You do," I whisper, darting my tongue out to taste his thumb.
He groans, his voice ragged, his words hot against my ear. "So perfect, so tight, like you were made for me."
My body is already clenching around him again, oversensitive and somehow still desperate for more. I can barely form words through the haze of pleasure.
"I'm close," I manage to gasp out, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, Cill—"
"That's it," he encourages, his rhythm becoming more erratic, his breathing harsh against my neck. "Come for me again, let me feel you fall apart while I'm deep inside you."
His words push me over the edge. I cry out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me, more intense than before. My entire body shudders as I clench around him, pulling him deeper.
"Christ, Siobhán," he growls, his forehead pressed against mine as his hips stutter. "You're everything—so fucking beautiful when you come—my perfect, brilliant woman—"
He follows me over the edge with a deep groan, his body tensing as he pulses inside me.
For a moment, we're both suspended in the heat of it—breathless, trembling, pressed forehead-to-forehead like we’re sharing the same stunned heartbeat.
Then Cillian finally exhales, a low, awed sound that ghosts over my mouth.
He kisses me once—slow, reverent—before easing out of me, his hands steadying my hips as if he’s afraid I’ll crumble to the floor.
He lets out a soft laugh, the smug kind, the kind he only uses when he’s well and truly ruined me. “Mo chroí,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair from my cheek. “You’re shaking.”
“You did that,” I accuse weakly, swatting at his chest. “You absolute menace.”
“Hmm.” His grin is wicked. “If threatening the Philharmonic gets me rewarded like this… perhaps I should threaten people more often.”
“Cillian.” I narrow my eyes.
“What?” he asks, feigning innocence so poorly it should be illegal. “You enjoyed yourself.”
“That is not the point.”
“Oh, I think it is,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle the corner of my jaw. “I think you enjoyed it very, very much.”
I shove him lightly, though it holds absolutely zero heat. My body is still molten. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, sliding his hands to my waist to lift me off the desk like I weigh nothing, “you love me anyway.”
He sets me on my feet, but stays close, steadying me with a large hand at the small of my back when my knees wobble again.
“Shh,” he teases softly, kissing the top of my head. “You’ll start rumors if you can’t walk out of my office.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t,” he says, voice smug velvet. “You adore me.”
I sigh—dramatically, obviously. “Unfortunately.”
His laughter rumbles against me as he pulls me into his chest. The office smells like us now—sex and paper and cedar and winter wind—and when he presses a kiss to my temple, something inside me unclenches completely.
He murmurs, softer now, “For what it’s worth, a chroí… I’d burn a hundred cities before I’d let anyone hurt you again.”
My throat tightens—not with lust this time, but something sweeter, steadier, terrifying in that it’s real. I wrap my arms around his waist and lean into him. “I know,” I whisper.
He kisses the crown of my head like he’s sealing a vow into my hair. “Good,” he says. “Because I have no intention of stopping.”
I snort. “I assumed.”
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, eyes bright and warm and absolutely drunk on me.
“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my swollen bottom lip, “tell me again about this performance in New York… preferably while sitting anywhere except my desk.”
I laugh—breathless, happy, wrecked, whole. “Fine. But I swear to God, Cillian O’Dwyer, if you threaten anyone else on my behalf—”
He cuts me off with a kiss that tastes like whiskey, winter, and victory. “Then you’d better be ready to reward me properly,” he whispers against my mouth.
I shove him again. He just laughs.
He drops his forehead to mine, breath still uneven, hands still warm on my waist like he hasn’t quite convinced himself to let go. “You know,” he murmurs, brushing a stray curl behind my ear, “if this is the sort of news you bring me… I might start threatening people more often.”
I swat at his chest. “You absolutely will not.”
He grins—slow, wicked, entirely too proud of himself. “We’ll negotiate.”
“Cillian.”
“What? I’m a reformed man,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Mostly.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s useless—my heart is already molten in my chest, liquefied by the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the miracle and he’s the worshipper. Like he’s already halfway down on one knee even though the ring is sitting snug on my finger.
His thumb skims it now, reverent. “New York will hear you again,” he says softly. “And they’ll know exactly who they wronged.”
“And who I belong to?” I tease.
His gaze lifts, sharp and tender. “No,” he says, firm. “They’ll know exactly who you are.”
My breath catches. God help me, I love him more than I have words for. He kisses me once more—gentler this time, lingering, almost shy in that way he only ever is with me—and then rests his hand over my heart.
“Come on, dove,” he says quietly. “Let’s go home.”
Home. Our stable house. Our future. Our ridiculous, beautiful life we’re building with our own hands.
I lace my fingers through his, anchoring myself to the man who once shattered me and now spends every day putting me back together.
As he leads me from the office, lights dimming behind us, he glances over his shoulder with a wicked little smirk.
“And Siobhán?” he says.
“Yes?”
“If anyone else dares slight you…” His smile turns dark velvet. “…just remember—threatening people has been very good to us today.”
I groan. “Cillian O’Dwyer, I swear—”
But he’s already laughing, pulling me into his chest as he kisses the protest right off my lips. And just like that, we walk out into the winter dusk— hand in hand, heir and duchess, devil and his beloved— ready for whatever kingdom we’re about to build next.
1. You are mine