2. Cillian #2
“Hey.” I catch her wrists gently before she can hide from me, my thumbs stroking softly over her pulse. “Look at me, darlin’.”
I hold her gaze, letting her see everything I’m feeling.
The want. The need. The sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness that crashes over me.
She’s not a problem to be solved. She’s a woman who’s been carrying something heavy and secret all alone.
And right now, all I want is to be the man who makes her feel safe enough to stop hiding.
She doesn’t look back at me. Her eyes stay fixed somewhere over my shoulder, jaw tight, and I understand all at once, with a clarity that hits like cold water, that this isn’t embarrassment about a kiss gone too far.
This is something she’s been carrying alone, silently, probably for weeks.
Hiding it under padded bras and locked doors and that perfect, polished performance that never let anyone close enough to see the truth.
I think of every guarded moment since the driveway. The way she crossed her arms over her journal. The flinch on the stairs when I asked what was wrong. It was never nerves. It was this. All of it, this whole time, and she’s been carrying it completely alone.
I don’t push her. I don’t want to force her to share something this private, this vulnerable.
She’s so beautiful like this, raw and real and trembling in my arms, and the last thing I want is to make her feel cornered.
I just hold her gently, thumbs stroking slow circles on her wrists, waiting.
Hoping I’ve made her feel safe enough to let me in, even a little.
Her breath shudders out of her. When she finally speaks, her voice is so small it barely carries over the rain.
“It’s… my body. It started weeks ago. The doctor said it’s hormonal.
I don’t even know why anymore. I just couldn’t stop it, and no one can know.
If anyone finds out, if you laugh at me, I don’t think I could… ”
“I’m not laughing.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Do I look like I’m laughing, darlin’?”
She finally looks at me, and whatever she finds in my face makes something in her posture cave.
The fight goes out of her all at once, leaving her just tired and frightened and soaked to the bone in my arms. I should let her go now.
Hand her something dry, walk her back to the house, pretend none of this happened, the way she so clearly wants me to. That would be the decent thing.
I don’t do decent things. I never have, not once in my life, when something I actually want is right in front of me.
I pull her back against me instead, slower this time, deliberate, my arms wrapping around her like I can shield her from the entire world.
When she makes a small, panicked sound I press my mouth to her temple instead of her lips, just holding her there, giving her room to shove me off if that’s what she wants.
She doesn’t. Her hands stay fisted in my shirt.
I stroke her wet hair slowly, fingers gentle as I smooth it back from her face.
“Don’t think so low of yourself,” I murmur against her skin, voice rough with everything I’m feeling.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re beautiful, Ciara.
So damn beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.
Nothing you could tell me would change how amazing you are.
I’m never going to laugh at you. I’m never going to let anyone else laugh at you either.
I’ll protect you from anyone who dares to judge you. Always.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m disgusting.”
I hate how those words make her sound, like she’s already convinced herself she’s something embarrassing that deserves to be hidden away from the world.
“I know exactly what I’m saying. You don’t have to hide this from me. I’m not disgusted. Let me see you, darlin’. All of you.”
She hesitates, breath shaky, but something in my voice must reach her because she slowly peels the soaked shirt up and over her head.
The sight of her hits me like a punch to the chest. Her full, heavy breasts are bare in the dim light of the boathouse, swollen and beautiful, nipples dark and glistening with a few drops of milk.
I’ve never had this fantasy before. Never even thought about it.
But this is Ciara. My Ciara. And the sight of her like this, vulnerable and real and trusting me with something she’s hidden from everyone, sends heat flooding through me like nothing else ever has.
I want her. All of her. Because she’s hers. Not just the milk. Her.
I can’t stop myself. I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of one heavy breast. “So beautiful,” I whisper against her skin. “Let me take care of you.”
She shudders when my lips close around one swollen nipple.
“Cillian… what—” Her voice is a soft, surprised gasp, hesitant, like she can’t quite believe what’s happening.
But she doesn’t pull away. Instead she curves closer, her body softening against mine as she lets go of the last of her resistance, silently giving in and letting me take what she’s been hiding for so long.
The first warm, sweet rush of her milk hits my tongue and I groan, the taste rich and nutty and so perfectly her.
I suckle gently at first, then deeper, drawing more from her as her fingers thread into my hair.
Her soft moans fill the boathouse, mixing with the rain, and I feel her body relax into me, trust replacing the shame.
I switch to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, drinking her down like I’ve been starving for this connection. For her.
When the flow slows I pull back gently, kissing each nipple softly, then the valley between them.
I grab a clean towel from the shelf and wrap it around her shoulders, pulling her onto my lap as I sit on the old wooden bench.
She curls into me, head on my chest, and I hold her close, stroking her back in slow, soothing circles.
“You’re safe with me,” I murmur into her damp hair. “Every part of you. Ciara. Always.”
She’s quiet for a while, breathing slow and soft against my chest, one hand still loosely curled into my shirt. I keep stroking her back in slow motions.
“Cillian,” she murmurs, voice drowsy. “Can I tell you something weird?”
“Anything.”
“That tea you gave me that night…” She shifts and tilts her head up to look at me. “The morning after, my breasts got so much fuller. I thought I just missed a pump, but it’s never happened that quickly before.”
I go still for a second, thinking about my grandmother’s old recipe. “It’s just a family blend. Meant to ease pain, help women feel better, especially with cramps and that sort of thing. I had no idea it’d do this to you.”
She lets out a soft, surprised laugh. “So you’re telling me your innocent little tea made me produce way more milk?”
I grin and pull her closer, my voice dropping into a playful tease. “Looks like it. But hey, if it gets to be too much, I’d be happy to help you out with the milking. Any time you need.”
Her eyes go wide, and she swats my chest, laughing. “Cillian!”
“What?” I chuckle, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m just being helpful. Very generous of me, really.”
“You’re terrible,” she says, still laughing as she hides her face against my chest. But she doesn’t pull away. Instead she settles deeper, warm and relaxed.
I smile against her hair, holding her close. “I’ll make the tea for you whenever you want. Gives me the perfect excuse to keep you right here like this.”
We sit like that for a long time, just the rain, our breathing, and the quiet peace of acceptance settling between us. I don’t regret it. That’s the part that should scare me most, and somehow it doesn’t. I crossed a line today I can never uncross. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.