8. Cillian #2
I don’t go for the straps first. I cup both of her breasts through the dress, heavy and tight from the long evening, and squeeze.
Firm. Deliberate. Milk wets the fabric almost immediately, warm against my palms. She gasps into my mouth.
I do it again, slower, milking her through the silk until the front of her dress is damp and her hips push forward against me.
The pressure of her against my cock makes my head go blank for a second.
Around her it always does. One thought of her and the rest of the world drops away.
That’s the part that wrecks me. How complete the devotion is.
How little control I have left when it’s her.
Only then do I tug both straps down at once.
The dress drops to her waist. Her breasts spill free, full and flushed, nipples already beading.
I press them together with both hands and lower my mouth to the soft join between them, tongue dragging through the milk that’s already leaking down the curve.
She shudders. Her fingers dig into my hair hard enough to sting.
“Cillian.” Her voice cracks.
“My Irish Cream, I’ve missed you.” I keep her pressed to the cask with my body, one forearm braced against the wood above her head so anyone glancing in would only see my back.
I’m hard and heavy against her thigh the whole time, rolling my hips once just to feel her.
I work her with my hands, squeezing in steady rhythm while I suck the milk that gathers between her breasts, then shift to take one nipple deep while my fingers keep milking the other.
Her milk comes in slow pulses against my tongue.
I swallow and keep going, greedy, the taste of her mixed with the leftover bitterness of the night.
Footsteps pass on the other side of the door.
Close. We both go rigid for half a second.
The sound fades. She bites down on her knuckle to stay quiet.
I don’t stop. I switch my mouth to the other side without missing a beat, still working the first breast with my hand, drawing more from her in long pulls.
Her whole body trembles against the wood.
Milk runs over my fingers and down her ribs. I chase every drop.
The frustration of the last hours, the struggle of watching her across the room while Maura’s hand sat on my arm, the words I finally said out loud, all of it burns through me and turns into this.
Heat. Want. The sharp thrill that someone could open that door and find us exactly like this.
I want them to. Part of me wants the whole room to know who she belongs to when the lights are low and the performance stops.
“Cillian, someone’s going to?—”
“I know.” I don’t slow down. I press closer, mouth sealed to her, hands still working her, milking every bit of relief and tension out of her body while the party carries on twenty feet away, oblivious.
Her fingers tighten in my hair. A soft broken sound escapes her throat.
I feel it more than I hear it. My cock throbs against her with every pull of milk I take.
Devotion and hunger tangled so tight I can’t tell them apart anymore.
When I finally pull back we’re both breathing hard. Her chest rises and falls too fast. Milk still glistens on her skin and on my mouth in the low amber light. I drag my thumb through it, then bring it to her lips. She opens for me without hesitation. That nearly undoes me all over again.
I straighten her dress carefully, lifting the straps back into place, smoothing the damp silk over her shoulders the way I’ve learned to do without her having to ask. My hands linger a second longer than they need to.
“I meant what I said.” My voice comes out low, rough. “Every word of it.”
She looks up at me, her eyes still wet, still shining, and for a second I think she’s going to say the words back.
Instead, she reaches up and brushes her thumb along my jaw, slow and gentle, like she’s trying to remember every inch of my face.
“I know,” she whispers. “I felt it.”
It’s not what I expect to hear. But somehow, it’s enough.
I smooth the front of my suit, drag a hand through my hair, and pull the mask back over myself the way I always do. The calm. The control. The version of me everyone expects.
Tonight it feels heavier. Like I’m forcing myself into a life that no longer fits.
“You good?” I ask, my hand settling at the small of her back.
“No, any minute now your father will announce your engagement.” She says it so simply that it hurts more than if she’d cried.
“But I want to be there.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She holds my gaze without wavering. “You’ve spent this whole summer carrying me. You’ve accepted every part of me, even the ones I couldn’t accept myself. Let me do this for you. Let me be your person for once.”
“Ciara...”
“I want you to see me in that room.” Her palm rests against my chest, right over my heart. “Even if I can’t stand beside you. Even if I’m only another face in the crowd. I want you to have something to look at when he says it.”
My throat tightens. “I’m still saying no to him.”
“I know.” A small smile touches her lips. Soft. Stubborn. Unshakable.
“I just want to be the one holding you up this time. It doesn’t always have to be you holding me.”
We step back into the ballroom together, a careful few feet apart. It’s second nature now. We know exactly how much distance to leave between us. Enough that no one looks twice.
My father’s eyes find us the moment we cross the threshold.
He’s standing beside the head table with Maura at his side, one hand resting near the microphone on the small stage. His gaze moves from me to Ciara, then back again. Calm. Measuring.
Maura follows his eyes. Her smile never slips, but she watches Ciara a fraction longer than she watches anyone else.
My father raises his glass. The conversations die down until the ballroom falls silent.
Behind him, the MacCarthy crest catches the light, hanging over the room like a reminder of exactly whose name everyone is here to celebrate.
“Good evening, everyone.” His voice fills the ballroom with effortless confidence.
“I have an announcement to make.”
I see Ciara go still, and my hand twitches at my side, wanting to reach for hers.
One announcement is all it takes to bring everything crashing down.