Chapter Twenty
Cillian
I watch Jules leave, vacillating between following him to make it clear that none of our words were a criticism of him or staying to give him space. Mathieu shifts his weight towards the entrance before rocking back. He repeats the motion several times before rising to his feet.
Mary’s voice carries from farther down the beach, followed by Jules answering her.
“Some space, I think,” Mathieu says, sinking back down.
“We handled that badly,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I think he felt teamed up against,” I say. The look in Jules’s eyes was defensive and raw, like we’d found an exposed nerve and poked it for fun. Even when the phone broke, Jules hadn’t looked like that. I’m certain that his relationship with Darren was ten times shitter than I already thought.
“I didn’t mean to bring up a sensitive topic.” Mathieu stands again and shrugs off his shirt. His brow is furrowed. “It was just such a bizarre statement. You can’t talk to attractive people when you’re dating? That—it’s—”
“Controlling.”
“It’s messed up,” Mathieu says, something in his voice hurt.
Shirtless, he sits where Jules had just been.
“If I was dating Jules, I wouldn’t dream of telling him not to talk to anyone!
I’d be delighted to have a boyfriend who would be able to tell the server that our drinks were mixed up or one who would make us friends when we go places… ”
I press my hands to Mathieu’s shoulders. He has more bulk to him than Jules does, firm with muscles accustomed to lifting weights. Their tightness tells me why he was staring so intently at my hands as I massaged Jules.
“Would you tell him not to talk to attractive people?” Mathieu asks.
“Outside of the bedroom, he can do whatever he likes.”
Mathieu twists to face me. “What do you mean by that? He can’t sleep with other people?”
“Keep your head straight. I can’t massage you if you’re twisting.
” I grasp him by the back of the neck and correct him.
While my hand is on his nape, I squeeze.
Then release. “That’s more what I mean,” I say.
Unlike Jules, who goes still any time my hand is near his neck, Mathieu practically vibrates.
He twists again, eyes bright and defiant.
The opposite of the way Jules’s eyes go: attentive, locked-on. Shivery sweet.
I grin, feeling that I’ve caught Mathieu by surprise and got away with something I shouldn’t have. “If you want a massage, be good and sit still.”
The fire in Mathieu’s eyes grows. “Don’t phrase it as if I’m being good for you.”
I lean back, lowering my hands to my lap. I wait. Mathieu looks from my face to my hands. I know that he’s sore—he did the swim yesterday too, after all. But he was also cheeky in the way he sat in front of me without so much as a request. I was going to offer anyway, but he doesn’t know that.
“You are very, very, very annoying.”
“You’re very sweet with Jules. You can be nice to me too.” I watch with amusement as a range of emotions animate Mathieu’s face. Eventually, he turns forward again.
“Fine!” Mathieu says, along with something in French that is undoubtedly a curse. “Massage me.”
“Please.”
Another French curse. “Please.”
I chuckle and comply. Mathieu’s grumbles stop, and he’s leaning heavily into my hands by the time my fingers are too tired to keep going. When I take them away, he collapses against my chest with a groan.
“Okay,” he says, delirious eyes finding mine. “Maybe I’ll let you fuck me. No promises. I’ll consider it.”
I grin. I trace my fingers up the column of his neck, over the flutter of his pulse. He allows the touch.
“You like eye contact,” Mathieu says, keeping his eyes on mine.
“Yes.”
“And choking?”
“No. Holding.”
I rest my open hand against Mathieu’s throat. I don’t squeeze, just rest it there. A tremor runs through him, but he stays still and keeps his eyes on mine.
I kiss him.
All I have to do is slip my grip up to hold him still. He’s already leaning against my chest, already has his head tilted in my direction. He hooks a hand around my neck. His tongue slips against the seam of my lips.
I’m mean. I curve my arm around his midsection and twist him off balance so he’s teetering on the edge of the log, my arm the only thing keeping him from falling. Mathieu cries out in surprise against my lips, losing the leverage he’d been using to try to control the kiss.
He grabs my wrist but merely holds on. He has no leverage for anything else. I kiss him hard, until I’m hot all over, pressing an erection against his ass, and he’s whining.
I break the kiss, giving him room.
The urge to dominate swells inside. “How’s that?” I ask. Far more than Jules, who I can tell likes being physically handled, Mathieu seems more likely to get pissed at me for this kind of proprietary touch.
Mathieu’s lips are slick and parted. “You,” those lips shape, “like blow jobs.” The words come breathless. I still have him hanging off the edge of the log. Still have him pinned against my chest, twisted, and relying on me to stay up. “You’re imagining me going down on you right now.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I am.”
With monumental effort, I raise my gaze from his mouth to his eyes, heavy-lidded with lust.
I kiss him again. And again. Mathieu growls his frustration against my mouth.
“Touch me,” Mathieu gasps. “I’m going crazy.”
“No,” I say.
“Why not? Oh yeah. Er, sorry, forget that demand—you haven’t before.”
“That’s not why.”
His lips are kiss-swollen.
“Why?”
We’re being honest, I tell myself. We’re seeing if we work in bed.
Lying now wouldn’t answer that question, just kick the problem further down the road to be discovered in a terrible moment that would undoubtedly lead to hurt feelings.
“Because I want you to stay frustrated and keep squirming against me. It feels good.”
Mathieu’s eyes widen. “Consider your partner! Don’t be selfish!”
“Wait your turn.”
“My turn?” Mathieu splutters. “Oh merde, you are—”
I kiss him again. Mathieu bites my lip hard. Pain flashes through me, and he scrambles out of my arms. I touch my lip, worry sweeping through me that I misread him. That his complaints were rejections carefully fashioned not to hurt my ego, and not bratting.
Mathieu grasps my hair, palms digging into my cheeks. He drops into my lap, sitting on my thighs. His face is level with mine as he kisses me.
My fear settles.
I let him get his tongue into my mouth. I even let him rut his cock against my abdomen, swallowing down his moans as he chases relief.
Mathieu spends the last of his goodwill nipping my already bitten lip.
I grab him, and before Mathieu knows what’s happening, he’s flat on his back with his hands pinned.
I hover above him, watching the realisation flash across his face that he lost the advantage in seconds. I have a wrist in each hand, flattened into the earth. Mathieu pushes against my grip, and when I don’t budge, he meets my eyes with furious defiance.
I raise a brow.
The defiance is slow to be grappled down. He’s doing all this squirming, his cock a rigid outline in his shorts, but there’s nothing for him to rub against.
“Say please,” I say.
“Please what?” Mathieu asks.
“ ‘Please’ and I’ll lend you a hand—”
“Please.”
“Keep your hand where it is,” I say, and wait for Mathieu to nod.
I glance towards the camp entrance, double-checking there’s no awkward onlooker, and run through everyone’s rough location.
I’m assigned to keeping the fire alive until Seán is back, and he’ll be gone till at least lunch, helping Yasop and Willow with their lean-to.
Darren usually fucks off for the whole day.
Charles and Mary—with Jules for company—are building another shelter.
My attention shifts back to Mathieu. I release his wrist, half expecting him to make a dive for himself, but Mathieu keeps it on the ground. He’s vibrating, lips swollen and slick, hair wild, eyes heated and lust-filled. I can smell his sweat and see loose curls clinging to his skin.
“Jules likes your hair. Have you noticed?” I ask. “The very first day on the yacht, he checked you out when you weren’t looking.”
Mathieu’s expression changes. He moves his hand. But not for his cock—for his mop of curls. “Really?”
“Really. He likes your eyes too. You already know he loves your dimples.” I reach down but hesitate before sliding my hand into his shorts. I settle my hand over the fabric instead, pressing against the outline of his cock, giving him some pressure.
Mathieu’s head tips back as he arches off the ground. His legs draw up, heels sinking into the earth. A moan slips out. His free hand shoots from his hair to my forearms, fingers sinking into skin. His hips jut up as he humps my hand. It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.
I take my hand away.
“Cillian.” The word comes out a half-sob. “I have condoms in my bag. And lube.”
“Put your hand back down for me.”
It’s shaking as he sets it back on the ground. His breath comes in heaving pants. I’m so tense I could spill any second.
I adjust my position, letting go of his other pinned hand to brace my forearm next to his head. I lean in, meeting his eyes. “Keep them there, okay?”
Mathieu nods.
“Eyes on me.”
He focuses, so I reach down between us, setting my hand against him again. He reacts immediately, entire body curling up. I see the way he wants to grab me, and how hard it is for him to keep his hands still. He quakes with the effort.
“Good boy,” I murmur. I curve my fingers around his cock through his shorts. “Is that too rough?” I ask.
Mathieu shakes his head.
I ache to kiss him, but I hold back, wanting to watch his eyes even more. They’re glassy and lust-murky, and his entire body shakes as I stroke him, moans coming in this strangled way, like he can’t catch his breath.
His eyes flutter shut.
“On me, Mathieu,” I correct.
“I’m trying,” he groans, almost crying.
“I know, and you’re doing great. Look at me.”
Mathieu gets his eyes open, his entire body tensing up.
His fingers sink into the dirt, and I watch his eyes flare as he orgasms. I stroke him through his climax, his cock pulsing in my hand.
The force of his convulsing body takes me by surprise.
Mathieu babbles in French until his entire body goes slack, and he gasps in harsh breaths.
I stop stroking and just hold his cock.
Mathieu opens his eyes, his lashes wet with tears. “Your turn?” His voice wobbles.
What I would like to do is push down his shorts and come on his cock. Or, while he feels soft and obedient, put him on his stomach and spill between his cheeks. I could just rest my hand on the back of his neck. I wouldn’t need to be rough.
I take in his expression, the wrung-out state of his body. I push aside my desires and press a kiss to his wet cheek. “When you don’t look ready to pass out, maybe.”