3. Ciara
CIARA
Two days have passed since the boathouse and I still can’t sleep properly.
Every time I close my eyes I feel his mouth on me again, the way he held me steady in the storm, the way he looked at me like I was something precious instead of something to hide.
My body aches in a constant, low way that has nothing to do with the usual pressure.
It’s worse. Or better. I can’t tell anymore, and that not knowing has kept me tossing under the covers every night since, replaying it until the memory’s worn soft and thin at the edges, like a photograph handled too many times.
I’m thirsty and hungry enough that I finally force myself out of bed.
The house is quiet in the late morning, that particular hush that settles over old stone walls when everyone’s got somewhere else to be.
I head toward the kitchen, bare feet soft on the worn floors, already planning to grab something quick and disappear again before anyone can ask why I look the way I do.
I don’t want to see anyone. Especially not him.
Especially not when I still feel marked by what happened between us, like the boathouse left something on my skin that only I can feel.
I take a wrong turn near the private wing, the one part of the estate I’ve mostly avoided since arriving.
The corridor’s quieter here, darker, lined with closed doors and the kind of silence that makes my own footsteps sound too loud.
One of the doors stands slightly open. I stop.
Curiosity pulls at me harder than caution does these days.
I step closer and push the door a little wider, thinking the room’s empty.
It’s not.
Cillian sits behind a heavy wooden desk, documents spread across the surface in neat, deliberate rows.
He looks focused, serious, the kind of concentrated that makes his jaw tight and his eyes sharp enough to cut.
The soft gray sweater he’s wearing does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders, and for a second I just stand there, caught somewhere between wanting to run and wanting to stay.
He looks devastatingly good like this. Dangerous in a quiet way, the same way a held breath is dangerous, the same way silence before thunder is dangerous.
His head lifts. Our eyes meet.
The air between us changes instantly. I don’t know how to explain it, except that it feels like he already knows what I came here for.
For a long second neither of us speaks. He takes me in, the tiredness under my eyes, the careful way I’m holding myself, the way my arms want to cross over my chest even though there’s no reason yet, no visible sign of the ache building underneath.
I feel exposed under that gaze, more than I did when I was half undressed in the rain two nights ago, because this isn’t just my body he’s looking at.
It feels like he already knows what I’m about to ask for, before I even say it.
“I was looking for the kitchen,” I say. My voice comes out quieter than I intended, thinner too. “I got lost.”
He doesn’t look away. “Did you.”
Not a question. I swallow, and the need that’s been building for two days sits heavy in my throat, heavier than hunger, heavier than thirst. I could leave.
I should leave. Every rule I’ve ever followed says I should turn around right now and pretend this hallway led somewhere else.
Instead I stay where I am, hand still on the doorframe.
“Do you still have the tea?”
His expression shifts, something dark and interesting flickering through it, gone as quickly as it appears. He sets the papers aside slowly, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world to watch me stand here and want him.
“You know what it does,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you still want it.”
I nod once. My heart’s beating so hard I can feel it in my wrists, in my throat. “I want it. I want you to take care of it. The way you did before.”
The words come out bigger than I meant them to.
Bigger than just asking for tea. I’ve spent two days telling myself I’d never ask for this again, that I’d manage it alone the way I always have.
Standing here in front of him I realize that was a lie I told myself to feel less afraid.
I want him. I want the way he looks at me when he does it, like my body isn’t a problem to be solved but something worth his attention.
I want the way he makes the shame feel smaller, folded down into something I can finally set aside.
Cillian stands. He walks around the desk and stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the clean soap on his skin, something faintly like cedar underneath it.
“Stay here,” he says. “Lock the door. I’ll be right back.”
He leaves. I hear his footsteps fade down the hall, unhurried, certain.
I lock the door the way he told me to and stand in the middle of the office, arms wrapped around myself, waiting, my own pulse loud in my ears.
The minutes stretch longer than they should.
I catch myself pacing once, twice, before I make myself sit in the chair across from his desk instead, hands folded in my lap like that’ll make me look less like a woman unraveling.
When he returns he’s carrying a small tray.
Tea in a proper cup, steam curling faintly off the surface.
A plate with bread and soft cheese and fruit, more food than I would’ve thought to bring myself, like he noticed I hadn’t eaten before I said a word about it.
He sets the tray on the low table near the couch and looks at me.
“Sit.”
I sit. He pours the tea and hands it to me himself, fingers brushing mine for just a second longer than necessary.
I drink. The familiar warm taste slides down my throat, faintly sweet, herbal in a way I still can’t place no matter how many times I’ve had it.
I know what’s coming. Within minutes the familiar ache begins to build, tighter and fuller than before, my breasts growing heavy and sensitive, already starting to leak faintly against the fabric I put on this morning.
I stay seated. I don’t run. I don’t even want to.
Cillian watches me the entire time, patient, silent, like he’s memorizing the exact moment the tea takes hold. When I set the empty cup down he moves closer, crouching in front of me so we’re eye level, close enough that I can see the stormy pale gray of his eyes.
“Tell me again,” he says, voice low. “What do you want?”
I meet his eyes. My voice is steadier than I feel, steadier than I’ve got any right to feel given how hard my heart’s working. “I want you to take care of me. I want you to have control of it. Of me. Like this. Whenever it gets like this.”
Something shifts in his face. Not just surprise. Something deeper, something that looks almost like relief, like he’s been waiting for me to say exactly this. He reaches up and cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, slow and deliberate.
“Then I will,” he says. “Every time. No more hiding it from me. No more dealing with it alone. You come to me. Understand?”
“Yes.”
He leans in and kisses me, slow at first, savoring the taste of my lips like he’s got all the time in the world.
The kiss deepens, turning hungry, his tongue sliding against mine until my thoughts fracture and scatter.
His hands roam under my shirt, warm palms mapping my skin, and I lift my arms so he can peel it away.
The bra comes next, unclasped with practiced fingers.
Cool air brushes my swollen breasts, already heavy and leaking, damp circles darkening the fabric where my nipples strain.
But he doesn’t bare them yet.
Instead, his hand slips beneath the waistband of my leggings, fingers gliding over my panties, pressing the soaked cotton against my clit.
He rubs in slow, deliberate circles, teasing the ache that’s been building since the moment he locked the door.
I’m already slick, throbbing, hips twitching helplessly into his touch.
“Cillian…” I breathe, clutching his shoulders.
“Shh. Not yet,” he murmurs against my mouth, voice gone hoarse. “I want you dripping for me first.”
He edges me there on the couch, fully dressed, two thick fingers stroking along my slit through the fabric before pushing it aside to slide inside.
He curls them perfectly, stroking that spot that makes my thighs tremble, while his thumb circles my clit with maddening patience.
Every time my breath catches and my walls start to flutter around him, he slows or pulls back just enough to keep me hanging on the edge, panting and whimpering.
I’m soaked, leggings damp at the crotch, breasts leaking freely now, milk beading and sliding down my skin beneath the bra.
Only when I’m shaking, whispering desperate pleas against his neck, does he finally tug my shirt higher and strip the bra away. He looks at me. Really looks, eyes dark with raw hunger.
“Fuck, look at you,” he says, voice reverent. “So full for me.”
He lowers his head to my left breast first, taking the swollen nipple into his mouth with aching slowness.
The first strong pull draws a gasp from me, then a long, needy moan as warm milk flows.
He doesn’t rush. He suckles deeply, rhythmically, eyes half-closed in pleasure, one hand gently kneading the soft, heavy flesh to encourage more.
“That’s it,” he murmurs around my nipple, the words vibrating through sensitive skin.
“Let it all out for me. Good girl… so sweet. I’ve wanted this taste on my tongue for so long.
” He draws harder, slower, savoring every drop, his free hand still buried between my legs, lazily pumping two fingers in and out while I writhe.
He takes his time, minutes stretching out as he nurses, switching between long pulls and softer licks, tongue swirling around the tight peak.
Milk leaks from the corner of his mouth, and he groans in satisfaction, the sound making my core clench around his fingers.
I’m close again, so close, but he keeps me there, edging me with every deliberate stroke.
When he finally pulls off my left breast with a wet pop, it’s glistening, nipple puffy and red from his attention. I whimper at the loss, aching for more.
“Not done with you yet,” he says, voice thick, eyes locked on mine. “Breathe for me. I’m going to take the other one even slower.”
He makes me wait, kissing down my sternum, licking stray droplets of milk from my skin while his fingers keep working me open.
Only when my hips are bucking and I’m begging does he latch onto the right breast. This time he’s even more thorough, suckling deeper, longer, murmuring praise between pulls.
“So perfect… leaking just for me. Feel how hard you make me? Keep feeding me, baby. Every drop.” His hand on my breast squeezes gently in time with his mouth, drawing out rich streams that he drinks greedily, never rushing, building the pleasure until I’m trembling on the brink.
The dual sensations, his hot mouth pulling rhythmically, milk flowing freely, and his fingers curling relentlessly, tip me straight over.
I come hard, crying out his name, body clamping down around his fingers while he keeps nursing, drawing out every pulse of pleasure and every last drop of milk he can coax from me.
He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, whimpering softly with overstimulation. Only then does he release my nipple with a final, lingering lick. He leans down and cleans the last beads of milk with his mouth, slow, unhurried, sucking gently on the sensitive tips until I’m twitching and gasping.
Still trembling, I feel his hands guiding my clothes back into place. He dresses me himself, sliding the bra on, fastening it carefully, then easing my shirt down, smoothing the fabric over my chest with reverent touches. His fingers linger a moment longer than they need to.
When I’m dressed, he lifts me effortlessly and carries me to the couch, settling me half in his lap.
He holds me close, feeding me bites of bread and cheese from his fingers, patient and commanding in the quiet way that makes my chest ache with something far deeper than lust. Neither of us says anything for a while. We don’t need to.
“I don’t know what this makes us,” I say eventually, voice soft, my head resting against his shoulder. “But I don’t know, something keeps drawing me in, keeps me wanting this.”
His hand finds mine, threading our fingers together like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Good. I plan on keeping you and you’re not getting rid of me now.”
Voices drift in from the hallway. My mother’s, clear and searching, asking a staff member if they’ve seen me.
My whole body goes still. Cillian’s eyes meet mine, calm, unbothered, like he’s already accounted for this exact interruption before it happened.
He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering there a beat longer than necessary.
“Go,” he says.
I stand on legs that still feel unsteady, smoothing my shirt down, catching my reflection in the dark window glass for just a second, flushed, marked, undone in ways no one else would ever guess just from looking at me.
When I open the door and slip out into the corridor I’m more attached to him than I was when I walked in, carrying something I didn’t have an hour ago. I don’t look back.
That night I lie awake in my own room long after the house has gone quiet, fingers brushing the faint new marks on my throat and the soft underside of my breasts, tracing them in the dark like proof that today actually happened, that I asked for this and meant it and got exactly what I wanted in return.
I don’t know what tomorrow costs yet. I only know I’m already counting the hours until I can find him again, and that whatever this is between us, I chose it.
Nobody chose it for me. And for once, that’s enough to make the fear worth it.