2. Cillian
CILLIAN
I wake up hard as fuck, my hand already wrapped around my cock before my eyes even open.
Ciara. She’s the first thing in my head, the only thing, like she’s taken up permanent residence there and refuses to leave.
The broken little sound she made against my mouth the moment I kissed her, the way her soft, curvy body melted into me on that staircase like she’d been waiting her whole life for my hands on her.
I shouldn’t want her. I repeat it like a fucking mantra, the way I repeat rules I already know I’m going to break. She’s Declan’s new stepdaughter. My stepsister. Forbidden in every way that should matter.
But my body doesn’t give a shit about rules.
I grip myself tighter, stroking hard and rough to the memory of her gasp, the way her soft, full breast filled my palm, warm and perfect like it was made to be there, the faint tremble that ran through her when I pressed my thigh between hers.
She’s vulnerability, fire and everything I should stay away from, and all I can think about is pulling her close, claiming that sweet mouth again, keeping her so completely that no other man ever exists for her again.
I come with her name strangled in my throat, thick ropes spilling over my fist, and the second the pleasure fades the guilt slams in.
This is the last time, I tell myself, chest still heaving.
I’ve told myself the same lie every morning since she arrived. And it’s been bullshit before I even finish the thought, every single time.
I force myself into a cold shower, then dress like a man who has places to be and decisions to make.
I’ve always been decisive. I know what I want and I take it without hesitation.
That’s who I am. No one’s ever clouded my head or thrown off my focus before her.
I figured she was Erin, the girl I’ve been seeing on and off since spring, nothing serious and all fun.
Just another girl throwing herself at me and said she might swing by after her shift.
I’ve had plenty of those. But Ciara was different.
The second my mouth was on hers, something immediate and intense hit me hard, and she got under my skin in a way no woman ever has.
Her scent’s still in my lungs. Her broken little sounds are still ringing in my ears.
My body’s already reacting again just thinking about her.
She’s my stepsister. End of story. I’m not entertaining these thoughts again.
I believe that right up until breakfast.
She’s already at the table when I come down, hair still damp from her shower, wearing something soft and plain that shouldn’t affect me this much.
Yet I can’t stop staring at her mouth. Declan’s talking numbers, shipments, some board meeting he wants me prepared for, and I nod in all the right places while absorbing almost none of it.
My leg finds hers under the table like it’s got a mind of its own.
Just a brush at first, testing. When she doesn’t pull away, I let it stay there, my calf pressed deliberately against hers the entire meal.
Silent. Possessive. She goes very still.
She doesn’t look at me once. But I watch the flush climb up her throat anyway, and a dark, satisfied heat settles low in my chest. Some primitive part of me likes knowing I can do that to her without even using my hands.
“Cillian.” Declan’s voice cuts through, edged with the sharp impatience of a man who’s not used to being ignored. “Are you even listening?”
“Every word,” I reply smoothly. It’s almost true. I heard the shape of his sentences. The rest of me’s locked on the woman sitting across from me.
Ciara excuses herself before dessert with some vague excuse about needing air.
I can’t stop her, so I stay silent, but my eyes stay fixed on the door long after it closes behind her.
That’s new. I don’t watch doors. I don’t sit at a family table wondering where someone’s gone, whether she’s all right, whether the storm gathering out over the water is going to catch her somewhere without a jacket.
Declan keeps talking. Something about a delayed shipment out of Cobh, a board member asking questions I’m supposed to answer.
I give him the answers on autopilot. Some parts of my brain still function.
The rest is fixed on an empty doorway and a woman I shouldn’t be thinking about this much.
Every second she’s out of sight, the pull gets stronger, louder, harder to ignore.
I clench my jaw and force my focus back to the conversation, telling myself I’m still in control.
This isn’t going to be the thing that breaks me.
“You’ve been distracted all morning,” Declan says eventually, studying me over his coffee with the sharp, calculating look he usually saves for men who think they can cross him.
“No.” The lie comes easily. Lying’s always come easily to me. It’s the one skill this family actually rewards.
He lets it drop, because believing me is easier than digging deeper, and Declan’s never been a man who wastes time on inconvenient truths.
I’ve retreated to the boathouse by early afternoon.
It’s the one place on this entire estate that’s ever truly felt like mine.
I’ve got a book open in front of me that I haven’t turned a single page of in twenty minutes when the rain starts, sudden and vicious, the kind that turns the Atlantic the color of old iron and drives anyone with sense indoors.
I think of Ciara out there somewhere on the grounds and I hate how fast I’m on my feet, how automatically my body decides this is my problem to solve.
She solves it herself, as it turns out, by shoving open the boathouse door soaked to the skin and swearing under her breath in a way that doesn’t match the polished, careful woman Declan introduced the moment she arrived.
“Oh.” She freezes in the doorway, dripping, hair plastered to her face, chest heaving from the run across the lawn. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“Clearly.” I don’t get up. I watch her instead, the way the wet fabric clings to every curve, the way she’s already shivering, and something dark and possessive inside me that should stay quiet refuses to. “You’ve got a talent for wandering into places you’re not supposed to be, little kitten.”
Her spine snaps straight. Whatever careful, obedient version of herself she’s been performing since she arrived drops away entirely, and for the first time since the driveway I see something raw and real underneath it. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I got caught in the storm.” Her eyes are bright with something sharper than fear. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to take shelter on my own family’s property.”
“Your family’s property.” A dark, amused heat curls through me at that. “That’s cute.”
“Don’t patronize me.” She’s shivering hard now, arms wrapped tight around herself, but there’s real fire in her voice. None of the flushed, careful girl from breakfast remains. “I’m not one of your disposable playthings you can dismiss.”
I should let it end there. I should hand her a towel, send her back to the house, and go back to pretending the ache this morning had nothing to do with her.
Instead I’m crossing the room before my brain catches up, the storm raging against the windows, and I catch her by the wrist the same way I did in the driveway.
Except this time I know exactly who I’m touching. And I don’t want to let go.
“You’re freezing,” I say, voice rough with worry. Not an excuse. Just true. Her skin’s ice under my palm.
“I’m fine.” The same lie she gave me on the stairs last night. She’s not fine. Her teeth are chattering.
I don’t argue. I pull her against me instead, arms locking around her, chest to chest, and for one long, breathless second neither of us moves.
Just the rain hammering the roof and her frantic heartbeat slamming against mine.
Then her eyes lift to mine, still fierce, still daring me to say something else that’ll make her hate me. I don’t say anything at all.
I kiss her instead.
It’s nothing like the driveway. That was blind arrogance, a man taking what he thought was already his. This is deliberate. I know exactly who I’m kissing this time. I know exactly what it costs. And I kiss her anyway.
Her mouth opens under mine on a small, furious sound that melts into something softer, sweeter, the second my tongue meets hers.
Her hands fist in my shirt like she can’t decide whether to shove me away or pull me closer.
Then she chooses, dragging me in with a desperation that cracks something wide open in my chest. I back her gently against the wall, my hands sliding under the hem of her soaked shirt, and she doesn’t stop me.
If anything she arches into my touch, gasping softly when my palms find warm, bare skin.
I lose the last thread of control I walked in here with.
My mouth moves to her throat. Her fingers thread into my hair, holding me there.
The storm screams outside but neither of us hears it anymore.
All I know is her heartbeat racing against mine, the way her body fits so perfectly in my arms, the soft, needy sounds she makes that go straight to my soul.
I want her. I want all of her. Whatever it costs, it’s worth it.
That’s when I feel it. Warm and wet spreading against my palm where I’m cupping her breast through the last thin layer of fabric.
For one confused second I think it’s rain, some trick of the storm.
Then the scent hits me, sweet and rich and unmistakably hers, and everything inside me goes very still.
“Cillian.” Her voice cracks. She’s already trying to pull back, already trying to fold her arms over herself, shame flooding her face so fast it’s like watching a door slam shut. “Don’t. Please, just let me go. I can explain. I’m not… I’m not usually like this. I’m not some kind of?—”