Epilogue Part One
Mathieu
“I love it,” I say.
“You said that by the gate,” Cillian says. “And by the front door. And in the entrance hall.”
We step into a living room with towering glass windows letting in all the daylight you could possibly want.
The colour scheme is beige, cream and deep browns.
My parents will cry in outrage at the lack of colour, so I’ll need to splash some paint before they visit.
The house is nestled into a hillside dominated by an old forest, and our nearest neighbour is an old equestrian estate that spans most of the hill.
Jules calls from another room. “This is your room, Mathieu, and that one is Cillian’s.
He has the en suite, sorry.” He leans out of one of the doorways.
Behind him is a room with cream walls and a dark mahogany bed frame.
The polished wood gleams. Jules continues, “He comes in covered in muck, so he needs his own. I did want that place with the mudroom, but it’s kind of out of the way for us.
We’d have an extra hour’s drive to Dublin.
And since you’re doing library hours before class, you’d have to leave ridiculously early. ”
If I didn’t love the library shifts, I would have abandoned the job on principle because getting up so early is not for me.
But as it turns out, quiet shelving interspersed with helping students find their way suits me very well.
I’m halfway through my master’s in Library Studies and still haven’t figured out how to combine it with horses yet.
“I shower before I leave work,” Cillian says dryly.
I’m still getting used to seeing him in anything but a tattered shirt and shorts.
He’s wearing jeans and a terribly well-fitted V-neck.
The sleeves are folded up, showing off his tattoos.
There are two scarred puncture marks marring the triskele on his left forearm.
His hair is trimmed, but he never styles it, so it always looks somewhat wild.
Not as wild as he looked on the island, mind you, but he has a roguish quality to him.
Cillian notices my gaze. “What?”
“You’re like a Viking.” My parents, having spent some time with Cillian, think him a great choice for a partner. Capable and reliable, they said. But, mistakenly, they also got the impression that he’s calm, which he most certainly is not—except when it’s infuriating and can be wielded as a weapon.
Jules chuckles. “I agree.”
Jules is Cillian’s opposite, and he hit it off best with my siblings—if I hadn’t intervened, Jules would have ended up in business with my sister. After one conversation, she was trying to convince him to move to France and work with her.
Jules’s hair is always cut to the latest trend and styled each morning.
His eyes are a true Irish blue, and though he’s done his damnedest to fade them, he’s still got sun freckles from the island dusted over his cheeks and nose.
I think they’re charming and have told him so on numerous occasions.
He always makes a face, but I know he’s secretly pleased.
He keeps himself so neat and tidy that I can’t help but be obsessed.
He keeps other things neat and tidy too.
Like the way he annihilated Darren a few months ago.
Cillian and I were both upset when Jules didn’t report Darren’s assault, but when he coordinated the interviews with everyone that social media was clamouring for, question number one on the sheet read: Can you tell us about Darren assaulting Jules?
There hasn’t been so much as a peep out of Darren since, but I can only imagine that the social consequences are devastating. Not just Ireland but the world watched those interviews. Our story went international.
I go to Jules, wrapping myself around him from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder as I kiss his neck. He tilts his head to make room for me. “And you’re the fair-haired prince he’s come to steal away. Not to worry, I’ll protect you.”
I meet Cillian’s gaze, all challenge, and a thrill goes through me when his grey eyes darken. His posture changes. His shoulders broaden, his body goes still.
Jules adjusts more subtly. It’s in the eyes with Jules: when things turn suggestive, he seeks eye contact.
Until he’s curled up in pleasure and can’t keep his eyes open.
When that happens, he pays attention to body cues.
In particular, to touch around his neck.
I kiss the soft skin there again, not breaking eye contact with Cillian.
Jules’s hands latch on to mine. “The tour?” It’s more of a shaky suggestion than a question. I grin wolfishly at Cillian, delighting in the switch in Jules. One minute he’s bossing us out of the car and making us thoroughly rub our shoes on the mat, the next, he’s as soft and yielding as a lamb…
“Yes,” I near-as sing. “Show me our room, and Cillian can go explore his room and—no, no, you stay over there!”
Cillian advances in large strides. The distance vanishes in a second. I tighten my grip on Jules, caught off guard by how quickly Cillian reacted. Usually, it takes more than two lines to get a proper rise out of him!
“No, no,” I say, laughing. “I want the tour. Jules, tour!”
I’m too late. Jules locks eyes with Cillian, whose all-consuming gaze isn’t one Jules seems capable of ignoring.
He’s learned, very well, that Cillian wants that eye contact, and he always does his damnedest to be good and give it to him.
Cillian catches Jules’s chin and tilts his head back further, pressing a nice, soft kiss to his mouth.
I narrow my eyes. Cillian only did that to annoy me.
He’s as rough and firm with Jules as he is with me, except when he wants me to feel the difference.
His way of dangling see what I’ll do if you’re a good boy?
I’m not skilled at “good”. The urge to be everything else is too strong, and Cillian far too fun to grapple with…
The kisses continue, sweet as syrup. I watch, the need to join creeping over me.
I kiss Jules’s neck, the top of my head brushing against Cillian’s hand and feel Jules’s lovely groan on my tongue.
I slide my hand down, cupping the front of his trousers, teasing until there’s something to match what I’m pressing against his ass.
Cillian breaks off the kiss. “Seeing as I’m a Viking, and you’re the prize…
” He firmly grasps my wrists and makes me let go of Jules.
And then Jules is gone. It’s a testament to how trusting Jules is that he doesn’t even squeal as Cillian sweeps him up and over his shoulder.
There’s a gasp of surprise and one of his legs kicks up for balance, but that’s all.
I lean back in surprise but admire how easily Cillian plucks Jules from the ground. I can lift Jules too, but I wouldn’t be able to make it look like I’ve tossed a tea towel over my shoulder.
“I’ll stash you away in our room, and Mathieu can go hump a pillow in his room.
” Cillian heels the bedroom door partway shut behind him.
I follow, catching Cillian as he deposits Jules on the bed somewhat roughly, and then, one knee on the mattress, efficiently slips his shoes off, followed by his trousers, and then his shirt.
In seconds, he has Jules naked, and the work I put into getting him excited has his cock hard and lying against his hip.
Cillian surveys him.
I join him at the end of the bed, doing the same.
Jules gets his arms under him, pushing up into a sitting position.
There’s pale skin on his knees and hands where burns healed a shade that doesn’t match his tan, but the strength of his healed arm is evident in the manner in which he lifts himself.
Easily, with no sign of pain. Wide, baffled eyes flick between Cillian and me.
He’s probably bewildered about why, after I’ve provoked Cillian, he’s the one who’s ended up naked and thrown on a bed.
Such is life, I want to tell him.
And also, to myself, Bon appétit.
I spring on him, kissing him senseless, and get his wrists pinned beneath me. Hovering above him, I smile. “Let me hear you say what we were practising the other day.”
Jules obediently says, “Je veux sentir ta queue en moi.”
His accent has improved tremendously. I love, love how seriously he practices French.
Cillian, though he doesn’t practice half as much, is picking up French twice as fast. Large hands catch my waist. The bed dips down on either side of my legs as Cillian climbs onto the mattress behind me. “Let me hear you say it,” Cillian asks.
I twist around enough to nip his jaw, then kiss the abused skin better. Grinning, I say, “Je veux sentir ta grosse queue de Viking en moi.”
Cillian’s mouth slides over mine, a hand in my hair gripping tightly. I try to get my tongue into play in his mouth, but he’s got the height advantage. Mid-kiss, warm hands unbutton my jeans and guide them down. Jules scoots until he’s just beneath me and takes my cock straight into his mouth.
I groan.
Both my hands fasten on Jules’s head as he sucks down my cock, teasing with his tongue, drawing me into his heat.
I fit, as Jules mentioned before, perfectly into the back of his throat.
And with just a little tightening of my grip in his hair, a teeny bit of pressure on the back of his head, he keeps me notched in that glorious space.
Cillian eases off the kiss, letting me breathe. I pant as my hips pump forward, taking Jules’s mouth in a semi-controlled fuck. Heat coils through my core. I force open my eyes, confused because he hasn’t stopped me.
Cillian is watching. He sees me looking, and a soothing hand runs down my spine. “Jules is good,” he says reassuringly. “Keep going.”
What? My hips keep moving, but I’m confused. Usually, once I get Cillian all worked up, I’m edged until I’m crying, and then I can come, usually blacking out right after.
Jules’s arm is trembling from holding himself half up. He’s leaning his weight on the left one.