Chapter 35
Electra
Cillian’s breathing changes as he steps into the cradle of my bare thighs. It grows heavier, rougher, gusting away the tension he’s been carrying around since the supermarket.
I’m not convinced by his claim that it has to do with work and not with my suggestion of visiting a tailor. He’s an oddly proud man after all. I say oddly, because, before I got to know him, I didn’t think he had any pride.
Not sure what that suggests about my instincts.
A new theory hits like a ton of bricks: I’d asked him if he’d ever worked in a restaurant. Could that have made him feel inadequate?
I try to think of a gentle way to bring it up when he grips my hips and drags me to the edge of the island. I suck in a breath, then another when he presses my thighs farther apart and studies my cunt like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever beheld.
As he stares, he reaches between his own legs, but not to roll his pants down, only to readjust himself. “What I wouldn’t give to take a photo of you sprawled out like this for me. Put it up as my phone’s wallpaper.”
I flush so hard, even my chest turns pink. “Yeah. Not happening, Lowry.”
He raises his gaze to mine, wearing the sort of smile that warns me it might very well happen.
“I’d die of mortification if anyone saw it.”
“If anyone saw it and understood what they were looking at—who they were looking at, I’d have to kill them. So embarrassment wouldn’t be an issue.”
Except he can’t kill an Atlantean…
He sets his thumb on my clit, rubs it a few marvelous times, before tracing a path to my entrance and kneading the hollow with mounting pressure, like he’s priming it to be stretched.
The kindling heat drops my elbows and arches my spine. As the extraordinary sensation spreads, my lids droop. I love sex.
“I’m so glad you do, because I love having sex with you.” Cillian’s gravelly pitch makes my pussy flutter.
I blink. “I said that out loud?”
“You did.”
I lick my lips, then lick them again.
“I would’ve preferred if you’d added with you to your declaration,” he murmurs, without ceasing the gentle eddies.
“Who else am I having sex with?”
A beat of silence bleeds across the room, inviting the earlier tension to flow back in. It doesn’t only land on him this time, though; it also lands on me.
I climb back to my elbows, trying to draw my legs together. An impossible feat, what with his big body in the way. “We’re exclusive, right?”
“Of course we are.” His tone is hard, like the thought that we could not be is offensive. “However selfish this makes me sound, I really hope it’s never as good with anyone else.”
“Planning on dumping me soon, Lowry?”
His head rears back. “What?”
“You said you hoped it would never be as good with anyone else. What am I supposed to make of that?”
“Not that I’d dump you,” he growls.
I purse my mouth. He does too, all the while taking care of me as though we weren’t mid-argument—or whatever the hell this is.
“My mother lost my father early on. You never know when God recalls you.”
Humans aren’t supposed to know about us, but if I’m bringing him to Atlantis next month, then that means I’m bound to let him into my world. What do I have to lose by doing it now?
Sure, we’ve been dating for only a week, and sure, he hasn’t made it to family dinner yet, having to teach a class he unfortunately couldn’t cancel on Sunday.
A class that I forgave him for, since it was at a senior center and apparently even beat bingo.
But he was, in the very near future, going to be spending time with my family, and for all their caution, magical things still happened.
“I have something to—”
He scrapes his thumb back up my slit and massages my clit. It must cut off the blood flow to my brain, because I momentarily forget what I planned on telling him. Oh, right…my runes.
I lick my lips, then open my mouth to shape the confession, but all that comes out is a squeaked whimper.
I’m so close.
Almost there.
Cillian hunches over me and presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then pillows his cheek on it and surveys my sex with eyes that appear solid-black in the dim lighting. “So pretty,” he murmurs.
The orgasm hits.
And hits.
It’s divine and completely debilitating.
I don’t just love sex, I adore it and am kicking myself for waiting twenty years to experience it. That said, maybe I adore it thanks to Cillian.
Once my legs stop trembling, he dips his finger into my core, gathers my sticky arousal, and starts to fuck me with it.
My lungs seize as my body begins ascending toward that razor-edge of bliss again. Without stopping his ministrations, Cillian crouches, drapes my legs over his shoulders, and aligns his mouth with my clit.
Anticipation shortens my breath, and I gulp down scraps of air. One of them gets lodged in my throat when he closes the distance and buries his face against me, nostrils pulsing, tongue lashing.
I don’t just fall off the cliff this time; I liquefy and crash down like a breaking wave, releasing a scream that’s so primal and raw it abrades my throat.
Cillian glances up my body, his eyes sparkling like onyx through his lenses. I realize then that their blackness isn’t a trick of the light, but an illusion cast by his blown pupils.
Against my still spasming sex, he murmurs, “You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Goddess below, this man’s mouth is dangerous. His stare, too. Every day, the hook he set into me with his ridiculous bargain sinks deeper, as though he intends to reel in not only my body, but my very heart.
I lazily twist his tussled locks around my fingers as he presses featherlight kisses to my throbbing core. The fact that I ever found him lacking feels absurd now. This man’s perfect in every way, and not because he gives mind-blowing oral sex, but because he’s everything I didn’t realize I needed.
Between his still roving fingers and the soft brush of his lips, another swell of pleasure rushes over me and sweeps me under.
He licks his mouth, finally straightening like the victor of a brutal fight, and although his T-shirt is rumpled and his glasses askew, no man has ever looked—to me—more formidable.
He plants his palms on either side of my face and leans in, catching my breathless mouth into a deep, slow kiss that radiates into places my orgasm didn’t reach. The need to touch him back becomes visceral, but I can’t decide where to land my fingers—on his jaw, his waist, his cock?
I choose his face, then curl my toes around the waistband of his sweatpants and briefs and push both low. He emits a husky growl as I slide my foot between his legs to caress his balls and angle his long, thick, hard cock right where I need it.
For a moment, he remains hunched over me, his forehead pressed to mine, his chest heaving in time with mine. But then he unfurls, grips my ass, and—quite literally—impales me. As our pubic bones collide, a grimace reshapes his face. Like this is too much, too good.
He pulls back, then drives himself back in, the coarse hair he keeps neatly trimmed scraping against my raw sex in the most delicious way. When a small sigh slips through my lips, his expression sharpens, and he holds still. It’s only once he spots my smile that he resumes his thrusts.
“Baby,” he whispers hoarsely. “Make yourself feel good.”
I follow his command, sliding my hand down my body. His pupils seem to grow larger, like they’re about to spill past the limbal ring of his irises.
“You truly are a goddess, aren’t you?” he rasps, as the slow roll of his hips gathers speed.
My elbow locks up, halting my fingers’ trajectory. Those who know about our runes call us gods—or monsters. But Cillian isn’t aware of my nature. Unless he is?
My ears hum as he pounds into me, kneading the flesh of my ass cheeks with his strong fingers while raking up and down my body with his hungry eyes.
“Fucking”—he hauls in a breath—“goddess.”
The way he tosses the word out makes me realize that I read too much into it, and it was only meant as a compliment.
He thrusts in deep…so deep his thick tip prods my lower stomach. My lashes lower as I watch him with the same intensity with which he’s watching me.
He reaches for my hand, likely to guide it where he wants it, but I stop him and weave my fingers through his instead. His throat dips, his Adam’s apple cutting a sharp line beneath his skin.
Stare locked on our joint hands, he jerks his hips, then stills and emits a drawn-out groan that rolls across my skin, lifting goosebumps.
As the heat of his release surges between my legs, another heat surges through the rest of me, enveloping me like dawn envelops the rooftops of Boston.
With his cock still buried deep, Cillian bends over me, pressing his free hand beside my head. “You didn’t come,” he heaves out.
“I beg to differ. I came multiple times.”
“Not when I was inside you.” He sounds borderline angry.
I smile, reaching up to tuck a wild curl behind his soft ear. “I don’t need to come for it to feel good.”
“I don’t want it to feel good. I want it to feel fucking great.”
I cup his chin. “I swear, it felt fucking great.”
He purses his mouth as though unconvinced.
I’m about to craft some analogy about how a meal without dessert can still be delicious when I catch his attention straying to the phone I silenced earlier, but which I left on the island. Its screen flashes with a name I haven’t seen in a few days.