Chapter 23 #2
A sudden, reckless surge of confidence washes over me. I feel bold. Sure of myself in a way I never want to lose.
Sliding off the edge of the bed, I stand and reach for the dark red lace. He turns toward me by the window, and I hold his gaze with my heart hammering. I unclip the clasp and let the straps slide from my shoulders, the bra falling to the floor with a soft rustle.
My fingers hook into the waistband, sliding the matching lace down my thighs until I can step free of the fabric, and neither of us moves. Cillian just drinks me in, and I let him, holding perfectly still in the dim, golden light and feeling, absurdly, more powerful than I have in years.
His heavy gaze travels down my body with a slow, agonizing intensity, and I watch his hands curl into fists at his sides as if he’s physically warring with the urge to claim me.
Good. I want him to feel every bit as unraveled as I am.
"You can have me however you want,” I say, my voice steady despite the frantic pulse in my throat. "I want to submit completely, just for tonight, and I want you to give orders. Just say the word and I'll do exactly as I'm told."
Something dark and focused shifts in his expression at the confession. That tender, protective warmth gives way to a look of raw dominance. He straightens to his full, imposing height, and the very air in the room feels suddenly thick and electric.
"Get on your knees," he commands, the Irish lilt low and dangerous.
My breath catches. "What?"
"You heard me, sweetheart." His voice is calm, controlled, but there's steel underneath it. "You want me to take charge? You want to give yourself to me? Then get on your knees."
I sink down without hesitation, my knees hitting the cold hardwood floor, my hands resting on my bare thighs.
"Good girl." The words send a pulse of heat straight to my core. He's still fully clothed, standing by the door, watching me. "Now crawl to me."
I swallow hard. "Cillian..."
"You can do it, sweetheart." His voice softens just slightly, that tenderness bleeding through the command. "Show me how much you want me. Show me how much you trust me. Crawl to me."
Slowly, I crawl toward him, my eyes never leaving his face. With each movement I feel more turned on than I've ever been in my life, and by the time I reach him, I'm trembling. Not from fear, but from anticipation.
Kneeling at his feet, I look up at him, waiting.
For a long moment he just looks down at me, two fingers tracing along my lower lip, and my mouth parts instinctively. All I can feel is his gaze, heavy and possessive, making every inch of my skin prickle with awareness.
When he slides his finger into my mouth, I close my lips around it, sucking gently. A soft moan escapes me, no words left anywhere in my head, and he pushes deeper, testing. I take it, relaxing my throat, showing him what I can do, and something flickers in his expression.
Approval. Hunger.
He pulls it free, wet and glistening, and traces it down my chin, my throat, leaving a damp trail on my skin that makes me shiver.
Then he steps back and reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion and dropping it to the floor. God, he's beautiful.
Broad shoulders, a chest defined with muscle, scattered with hair that trails down his stomach and disappears beneath his waistband.
Abs that flex and tighten as he moves. Arms that I know can lift me effortlessly, can pin me down, and can hold me so gently I feel like the most precious thing in the world.
I want to touch him so badly my fingers are actually trembling.
The rest of his clothes come off unhurried, like we have all the time in the world, like he isn't fully aware of what the waiting is doing to me. He is. I can see it in the curve of his mouth.
"Patience, sweetheart," he says, low. "Tonight we go at my pace. And I intend to take my time with you. Would you like that?"
"Yes," I whisper. "God, yes. I want that. I want everything you want to give me."
Reaching down, he cups my face in both hands, tilting it up toward him. The gesture is surprisingly gentle after the commanding words, and it makes tears prick unexpectedly at my eyes.
He's so tender with me, even now. Even when he's ordering me around. Underneath it all, he's still taking care of me.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at that pretty pussy on my bare floor. Are you wet already, sweetheart?"
"Yes," I manage, my voice shaky. "All for you. Only for you."
"That's right." He reaches down and strokes my cheek. "You're mine. That perfect little pussy. These perfect tits." His hand comes down to cup my breast, squeezing gently. "Every inch of this body belongs to me. Say it."
"Every inch belongs to you," I gasp as he rolls my nipple between his fingers. "I'm yours, Cillian. All of me."
"And I'm going to take such good care of what's mine." He pinches my nipple, making me cry out. "But first, I want you to see what you do to me. I want you to see how crazy you make me."
His hands move to his zipper, and I watch with rapt attention, my mouth watering, as he works it down. His cock springs free, thick and hard with a bead of moisture glistening at the swollen head.
I've had him inside me so many times now, but the sight of him still makes my breath catch, still makes me wonder how I ever take all of him.
He wraps his hand around himself and strokes slowly, lazily, letting me watch. His thumb swipes over the head, spreading the moisture there, and I make a sound in the back of my throat.
"You want this, sweetheart?" He strokes himself again, his eyes locked on mine. "You want my cock?"
"Yes." The word comes out broken, desperate, barely recognizable as my own voice. "Please. I want it so badly. I need it. Please let me taste you."
"Then open your mouth," he orders, stepping closer until I can feel the heat radiating off his body, until his cock is inches from my face.
I open my mouth obediently and he groans at the sight. He guides himself forward, rubbing the head of his cock along my lower lip, smearing the moisture there, painting my lips with his pre-come. The taste of him bursts across my tongue—salt and musk and something essentially him—and I moan.
"So eager," he murmurs, watching his cock slide back and forth across my lips. "Such a hungry little mouth. You want to suck my cock, sweetheart? You want me to fuck this pretty throat?"
"Please," I beg against his flesh, my tongue darting out to lick at him. "Please let me. I need it. I need to taste you."
He pushes forward in one smooth motion, sliding past my lips, over my tongue, filling my mouth with the thick heat of him. I moan around his length, the sound vibrating through both of us, and his hips jerk.
"Fuck." The word comes out strangled, wrecked. "Your mouth, Margot. So fucking hot and wet. Like you were made to suck my cock." His hand comes down to cup the back of my head and holds me how he wants me. "Take more. Show me how deep you can go. Show me what a good girl you are."
I relax my jaw and take him deeper, breathing through my nose, feeling him slide toward the back of my throat. The stretch is intense, my jaw aching already, but I don't care. I want to give him this. I want to give him everything.
When he hits my gag reflex I breathe through the urge to choke and push past it, relaxing my throat muscles, taking him deeper and deeper until my nose is pressed against his pelvis and his entire length is buried in my throat.
I can feel him throbbing inside me. My eyes are watering, tears spilling down my cheeks, but I don't pull back. I hold him there, looking up at him through wet lashes, showing him what I can take.
"Damn." His head falls back, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief, a groan tearing from his chest. "All the way down. Fucking swallowing my whole cock like it's nothing. That's my girl."
For a long moment he holds me there, buried deep, and I focus on breathing, on not gagging, on the feel of him hot and heavy on my tongue.
Finally he pulls back slowly, letting me gasp a breath, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his cock.
I cough once, twice, then open my mouth again, wanting more, needing more.
"Greedy little thing," he says fondly, guiding himself back between my lips. "Can't get enough, can you?"
He sets a rhythm, fucking my mouth with slow, deep strokes, his hand in my hair controlling my movements. I hollow my cheeks around him and work my tongue along the underside of his shaft, flicking against the sensitive spot just beneath the head with every stroke.
The sound of him fills the room, low groans mixing with the wet noise of my mouth working him, and I've never felt more powerful in my life.
"Look at me," he commands, and I lift my eyes to his face while my mouth continues to worship him. "Keep those pretty eyes on me. I want to watch your face while you suck me. I want to see how much you fucking love this."
I moan around him in response, trying to tell him without words that I do love this, I love everything about this, I love being on my knees for him and tasting him and feeling him lose control in my mouth.
"So fucking beautiful," he groans, confirming my thoughts. "Crying all over my cock. Look at the mess you're making."
The rhythm picks up, his hips snapping forward harder, and I take it, take him, tears streaming down my face, saliva dripping from my chin. I must look absolutely wrecked and used and desperate—but the way he's looking at me makes me feel beautiful.
It makes me feel worshipped even as I'm the one on my knees.
"You love this, don't you? Love being used like this?"
I try to answer but it comes out as a garbled moan around his length.
He fucks my mouth harder for another minute, and I can feel him getting close—the way his thighs are tensing, the way his rhythm is getting erratic, the way his groans are getting louder.
And then suddenly he slows, pulling back until just the head rests on my tongue, a wicked gleam entering his eyes.