Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jules
Cillian cups the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. My hands flatten against the expanse of his broad, firm chest, no longer pushing. For now, I’m not embarrassed about that. I’m too focused on Cillian as he nips my bottom lip, on how his hand feels trailing down my spine.
He’s kissing me properly. I was afraid to get a feather-light, this-man-is-fragile peck. It’s not quite I’m-going-to-fuck-you-through-the-mattress, but there’s a promise of something. It’s hungry. It’s wanting.
An embarrassing groan hums through my throat when he pulls back. I go on my toes, chasing after his mouth. Forget resting my hand on his chest, I hook it around his neck, plastering myself against him.
Cillian hums his approval. Both hands slip under the hem of my shirt. His calloused fingers tease bare skin, skim ribs, explore the notches of my hip bones and caress obliques.
Every inch of skin is ticklish, hypersensitive. My breath catches.
Cillian trails his mouth down my jaw, exploring until his lips are brushing against the shell of my ear. I’m igniting. Over-hot. So aroused I can’t think.
“You’re very clever, aren’t you?” Cillian murmurs. “Provoking me out here in the open so I can’t put you on your knees.”
“I can—” I try to drop, but Cillian’s firm hold keeps me upright.
“No.”
“I’m good at blow jobs.”
“Save your blow jobs for Mathieu. What I want is to fuck your mouth.” He nips the shell of my ear, his breath hot against my cheek.
I’ve seen the outline of Cillian’s cock, had the tip of it brushing against my chin. Felt that small, wet bead of precum that had dampened his shorts. I can feel it now, a hard mound digging into my stomach.
“Don’t do this to me again,” I beg. “Please.”
Cillian’s chest rumbles as he chuckles. It’s too strained to be truly amused.
“You’re not getting off with nothing this time.
” His arm locks around my back, keeping me in place.
He reaches between us and guides out his cock.
He lifts my shirt and presses against my skin.
His balls are warm against my stomach. The rest is scalding against my chest.
He disappears so quickly beneath my shirt that I don’t catch more than a glimpse of pale skin. His cock curves to the left. His tip dampens my skin as he rubs against me, and he plumps up to full mast with a few strokes.
His hand sinks into my hair, and his chin presses against the top of my head.
His grip is restrictive, locking me in place as he humps my stomach.
My lashes flutter shut, and I suck in breaths as heat washes through me in waves.
I feel his pulse, his neck so close to my mouth. I smell his sweat, his arousal.
The movement of his hips grows sharper, and his chin presses into my head, sharp exhales ruffling my hair. “I can’t decide if I want to pull down your shorts and come on your cock, press against your hole and shoot there, or make you swallow.”
I don’t have to decide. It’s up to him.
“Ah, but you picked a place where I can’t do any of those. So, so clever,” he continues.
I groan. I’m not clever. I’m an idiot. Why did I initiate in the open?
Cillian’s grip tightens. His mouth digs into my hair as he grunts, hips jutting forward sharply. His cock jerks against my torso, and hot cum shoots out in pulses, following the curve of his cock. My nipple is drenched, my pec, my sternum.
Cillian relaxes against me, catching his breath in gasps. I stand perfectly still, cum running down my chest. It’s warm. Beneath my shirt is humid and damp. I’m filthy. I’m going to come too. I just need a little contact. Just a teeny bit.
Cillian loosens his grip and pulls away. His cock slides out of my shirt, hanging in mid-air for a moment—I glimpse the damp, glistening tip—before he tucks himself away. His grey eyes are satisfied but focused. He studies my expression, then the mess of my chest, then my tented shorts.
His breathing is uneven as he reaches for me. He arranges me so I’m tucked behind the band of my shorts, then lets go.
I blink free of my daze.
Cillian’s arm slides around my lower back, encouraging me towards the main camp. I go, half-confused, but grow very uncomfortable with the walking situation. Control returns to me. I cast Cillian a sideways look, finding a contemplative expression in place.
When he catches my look, the expression wavers. “I haven’t ever touched a guy’s cock before.” Cillian rubs his jaw, something embarrassed in the movement. How can he show embarrassment for the admission but not for humping my stomach on the beach?
My eyebrows shoot up. Despite Seán’s assertion that Cillian is straight, I assumed he’d hooked up with men. He’s tall, attractive, and has a good personality. Undoubtedly, he gets propositioned all the time.
Does this mean he’s currently thinking about touching my cock? “Didn’t you and Mathieu hook up? He said you had him in tears.”
“I touched him over his clothes. And when I cleaned him, I didn’t…” He trails off with a shrug.
“I don’t want you to feel pressure to return the favour or anything like that.
” I consider how to articulate my thoughts.
“I said the other night, didn’t I? I like giving.
” Giving isn’t the right word because what I like is being used.
Like someone rubbing against my body and coming all over my chest. Having my shirt stick to my skin where his semen is left behind.
It’s dripping into my waistband. I’ll have to clean the knife belt later.
“The thing that you’re putting pressure on is my self-control, Jules. I’m just hitting pause because I want to grab Mathieu’s lube. Wait here.” Cillian drops his hand from my lower back just outside the main camp. “I’m not sure Seán will forgive me if he sees the mess I made of your shirt.”
Dusk has settled, the trees all shadows.
I keep my eyes in the direction where Darren is camped, but there’s no sign of him.
Nobody has seen him except Seán since he was expelled from the group.
If I mull too long over what he might be thinking, how he’s likely blaming me for his social exclusion, I get nervous.
I can’t think about that moment. I’ll have to unpack it at some point, probably unload it on a therapist once we’re off the island, but for now, keeping busy is more manageable than stewing.
“Son of a—” Cillian curses as he steps out of the camp. He’s got three bags in one hand. With the other hand, he snatches something off his arm and flings it on the ground. It’s green and vanishes into the treeline in an alarmingly fast slither.
“Did it bite you?” I rush forward.
Cillian turns over his hand, nose scrunched. “He bit my triskele. Why are they obsessed with me?”
I catch him by his hand and elbow, tilting his forearm to the fading light. There are two punctures, a finger’s width apart, piercing his tattoo. Beads of blood well up and spill over, black in the low light.
“Is that kind venomous?” I ask, worry setting my heart racing. I look into Cillian’s face, and the worry eases. He doesn’t look concerned, just irritated.
“The racers are fine. It’s just sore.” He gestures to his ankles, which are decorated with snake bites. The freshest bite is still swollen, and the others are scabbing.
“I’m grabbing the disinfectant and a plaster,” I say. “Wait here.”
The lighting is low enough that I’m hopeful Seán can’t see the mess his cousin made on my chest. And even if my shirt looks damp, surely he’d assume I didn’t wait long enough after washing in the ocean.
“You okay?” Seán asks. He’s sitting next to the fire, reading the only book we managed to salvage.
Willow’s holiday romance, Sinful Delights.
We’re all taking turns with it. If I thought we had the energy, I’d have suggested a night of storytelling around the campfire on the beach, but that’s not something I think would work right now. I’m not sure I’d enjoy it.
“Jules?”
I tear my eyes from the book, digging out the supplies I need from the med kit. “Cillian got another snakebite.”
Seán’s attention sharpens. “One of those grey ones?”
Was it grey? It looked green to me. “He said it was a racer.”
Seán breathes out slowly, relief flashing across his face. I hesitate with the supplies. The camp is quiet now, only Seán left in it.
“Are you okay with us not spending the night here?” I ask.
Guilt stirs at the abandonment. Everyone else left too, but aside from Darren, everyone’s got someone else.
It would probably make the most sense for Mathieu and me to have our own spot and for Cillian to stick with his cousin, but that’s not how it worked out.
I want Cillian sleeping next to me, plain and simple.
“Just because we wrecked on an island doesn’t mean I lost the ability to sleep on my own.
And, funnily enough, I also didn’t lose my desire for privacy.
” Seán’s smile is reassuring. “I’m going to sleep far better tonight than I have since we arrived.
Obviously, the beds here are open for use, but I’m not complaining that it’s empty. ”
“If that changes, tell me.”
“And if you want me to get my cousin out of your hair, tell me.” Seán’s smile fades. “Although he’s not a brute. He’ll listen.”
“I know.” Cillian always tries to meet even unreasonable requests.
He still gets up and walks us to the toilets in the middle of the night and accepts the griping from whoever was left behind alone in the lean-to without complaint.
He genuinely wants to do what we ask, even if you can tell he thinks we’re being silly.
I think of the times he put his foot down in a firm no…
“Have a good sleep, and keep an eye out for that snake.” I return to Cillian, and he holds his arm out for me to disinfect it and place a plaster on.
I take my bag off him, and we make our way down the beach in the dark.
“I’m sorry about the window,” I say. “I wasn’t behaving rationally.”
I feel Cillian’s gaze on the side of my face.
“And that night…” I gesture to my neck. “I wasn’t very nice to you.” Yet I clung to his strength so desperately all the same. And he let me.
“I’m not holding anything from that night against you,” Cillian says.
“Even though I held it against you?”
He exhales. “Yes.”
“You’re the safest person on the island I could be angry with,” I admit. “But it wasn’t all meant for you.”
Cillian looks thoughtful. “Why did you give Mathieu a pass? You could safely be angry with him.”
“I don’t think I can, actually. Be angry with him, I mean. He’s so, so…” I can’t find the word. I look at Cillian and am glad to see a smile.
“I know,” Cillian says. “I think so, too.”
The memory of Mathieu’s eyes filling with tears when the yacht sank flashes behind my eyes. “He said I should apologise to you.”
Cillian huffs. “Didn’t expect him to take my side.”
“What? He always sides with you. From day one on the island, you two have been teaming up against me! But—don’t sidetrack me. Never mind that right now. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I frown, staring at the sand. It’s almost invisible, the clouds directly overhead hiding the moon. “I’d rather you say you forgive me.”
“I forgive you.”
A flash of lightning splits the sky, illuminating everything in a blinding pulse. It’s followed by thunder so loud my hands fly to my ears. Rain pours from the heavens.
“Run!” Cillian grabs my hand and takes off.
It’s a lost cause. We crash into the hut, soaked to the skin. Everything in our bags is likely drenched too.
“You guys took so long,” Mathieu complains.
“Cillian got bitten by a snake.”
It’s dark in the hut. I’m glad we didn’t go to the trouble of lighting a fire outside because it would be out again already. I have a feeling even Seán’s fire won’t survive this downpour. It’s like a shower turned up to full blast.
“I’m already wet. Might as well take advantage.” I blindly dig through my bag for my bottles of soap. “Washing in the ocean is such a pain, and I’d like to not have salty, crusty hair for a change.”
“I’ll join you,” Mathieu agrees. “Cillian?”
“Sounds good.”
We all undress in the hut, hanging the clothes up on the walls so they can dry. It’s so humid I doubt they’ll dry until the sun rises tomorrow, but better than leaving them tossed in a corner to start smelling like mildew.
We step outside the treeline. Clouds blot out the moon and stars, so we’re just three black shapes. I can tell who is who because Cillian is a bigger shadow, but there are no distinguishable features.
I’m still aware of all our nakedness as I soap down my chest. As my fingers lather soap over my nipple, it feels hypersensitive.
I tip my head back, washing the shampoo from my hair. Lightning splits the sky. Its after-image dominates my vision for minutes afterwards.
“Can you do my back?” Mathieu asks.
The rain nearly swallows his voice. I turn in his direction, but he wasn’t asking me. Their shadows are conjoined. I blindly approach, my hands out. I find Mathieu’s arm, and follow it until I find Cillian’s large hands kneading his shoulders.
Mathieu is leaning his entire weight into Cillian, making sounds of enjoyment.
I smile. I rest my hand on the back of Cillian’s, laying my fingers over his.
Despite the pounding rain, his skin is hot.
Through touch, I feel the way he’s giving the massage, and I learn.
After a few minutes, I find the bottle of body wash, pour some out, and repeat the movements, but on Cillian’s back.
I begin at his shoulders, rubbing circles until the body wash lathers, then move my hands down the broad planes of his back.
I go lightly over bone—his spine and shoulder blades—and work my thumbs into the thick muscles on either side of his spine.
It’s deeply satisfying to feel tense muscles relax under my touch.
I keep going until my fingers cramp, and when I stop, Cillian turns to me.
Cups my face in warm, engulfing hands. Kisses me softly.
“Come on,” Mathieu says, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding rain. “We’re all shivering.”