Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Cillian moves his attention away from both of us and looks at the top of the lean-to. “She didn’t like the way I get in bed. Or, she got fed up with it. I was staying with her in Dublin, so I’m just after moving back in with Seán. He’s letting me crash at his place until I figure something out.”
“What was she like?” I ask.
“She’s hard-working, driven, smart—very witty, you’d never pull anything over on her—and super proactive about everything. Dishes done the same day, bills cleared immediately… She’s only twenty-six and the HR manager for a string of healthcare clinics in Dublin.” He shrugs. “She’s cool.”
I’m certain that Mathieu and I have the same thought. “You two were one of those perfect power couples.”
Cillian huffs. “I wouldn’t describe myself as perfect, though she’s a near thing. But as time went on, I got frustrated with her drinking on the weekends, and she got frustrated with…me, in bed.”
“She’d drink a lot?”
“No.” There’s a peculiar note in Cillian’s voice. “That’s a me issue. I hate it when people I’m close to are drunk, so her coming home tipsy and wanting attention just did not work.” Cillian huffs again, something self-deprecating in it. “The sex issue was me too.”
Asking what the issue was would be invasive, and I won’t do it.
“What was the sex issue?” Mathieu asks.
Cillian snorts. “I’m sure you can guess.”
I glance at Mathieu. But when Mathieu meets my eyes, he shrugs, clearly not getting it. Cillian sees the exchange.
“Come on,” he says. “I get… Jules, I practically had you through the cabin wall on the yacht. Mathieu, you were in tears.”
“Yes,” Mathieu says. “Because I came so hard. It was good, you know? Do you not know? I didn’t think there was a problem. We communicated. Jules, he was paying attention to you, wasn’t he?”
There was an abundance of attention. The all-consuming kind. I’ve been trying not to think about Cillian’s touch. I’ve been fantasising about him taking hold of me during the night and using me to get off. I’m still miffed he didn’t do it last night after the hand job.
“I don’t have any complaints,” I agree. “Except, I would have liked it if you let me return the favour to Mathieu…and you.”
Cillian stares at me until my face burns. “Don’t say that,” he says in a low voice.
“Say what?”
Cillian rolls onto his back and scrubs a hand over his face. “If I know I’ll get away with it, I’ll be ten times worse than I already am.”
“Like you’ll…use me…to get off?”
There’s a long silence. Mathieu sits up and peers at my face, his eyes glowing bright in the dark. He smiles his most charming smile. The one with two dimples. “Was that a request, Jules? It sounded like one.”
It hadn’t, in my wildest dreams, occurred to me to voice something so depraved.
Or ask for it. Before Darren, I would pick out men who were self-centred, where there was a greater chance that a hook-up for them was about them getting off, and not about me.
It sometimes worked out, more often it didn’t.
Wanting to be used, but then not enjoying the man using me…
it created a seemingly unbridgeable rift between fantasy and actuality.
Maybe that’s why I react so strongly to Cillian. I respect him. Him using me is perfect. And though Mathieu is sweet and warm, he’s also very sure in the way he touches me. There’s no worrying or second-guessing. No, I have to guide this interaction.
Mathieu’s smile sharpens. He lifts a leg over me, so he’s on top, knees sunk into the bedding either side of my hips.
Cillian tenses, but Mathieu has a hand in his face before a warning comes out.
“Give me your hand,” Mathieu says.
My hand trembles as I raise it. Mathieu takes in the shake, releasing Cillian to close his grip around my wrist, applying a little pressure. Without breaking eye contact, he kisses my open palm, then guides my hand downwards, spreading my fingers wide against his stomach. Lower. Lower. Lower.
“Mathieu.” Cillian’s voice is all warning.
“I know without you telling me, Cillian.” The downward descent stops just shy.
My breaths are coming low, affected. I ache to squirm, but hold myself totally still, waiting.
“Ha-ha.” Mathieu’s laugh is rough. Not exactly amused, too sharp for that. “I’m going to take a walk.”
“Please,” I groan. “Don’t do this to me again.” I reach for him as he pulls away. He’s too quick, and out of the lean-to. His smile is glorious and pent-up at the same time.
“Mathieu.” I sit up. “Please.”
Mathieu hesitates, eyes all black. I can picture him crawling back in and making use of far more than my hand. Cillian rustles. Mathieu glances at him, and the hesitation passes.
“Later.” He winks and vanishes.
Frustrated need shakes through my limbs.
I turn to Cillian, scowling. “I can hook up with whoever I like.”
Cillian looks unapologetic. “Get some sleep.”
“I’m hard now!”
“It’ll go away.”
“You’re hard.”
Cillian sighs. “Because I’m a degenerate. Go to sleep.”
I glare at him. Cillian gazes back and doesn’t crack.
I crawl to the tallest part of the lean-to and kneel. I face Cillian, hands bunched on my knees. His eyes are far more than unaffected now. My lips part.
“Don’t,” Cillian warns.
I glare.
“I made a promise, so don’t make me break it while your throat’s too sore to follow through.”
“It isn’t sore.”
“It is, and you know you’re not fit for sex. You said yourself you’re shaky. I’m sorry that Mathieu’s gone and turned you on, but nothing is happening while you’re worked up and upset.”
“I’m not upset or worked up.”
He says nothing.
“It isn’t up to you.”
“Anything safety-related—”
“It isn’t up to you,” I insist stubbornly.
“Come here.”
“I want Mathieu to use my—”
“Come here.”
“Or you to use—”
“Jules.”
Scowling, I do as he asks. I lie down, and with horrible gentleness that clashes with his stern tone, he guides me to his throat. He pets my hair and rubs my side.
The instruction is clear, but not what I want.
“Your throat is in bad shape, Jules. I’m sorry, but it is.”
“My hand is perfectly fine.”
“You need to rest. You can be pissed off at me all you like, but that won’t change.” His pulse is thrumming.
What harm will one hand job do? Sure, my throat is sore, and my gut is in knots, but my cock is hard regardless. I can pleasure Mathieu and then go to sleep and get all the rest I need.
“I can do a lazy, low-energy hand job,” I bargain, a final attempt. “I can just hold my fingers open, and you can hump my palm, or I can go on my stomach and—”
“Jules.” Cillian’s voice is tense, his body growing rigid. “Please.”
The plea catches me off guard. His pulse is roaring. I can taste the heat of it in my mouth. I sense that, if I keep talking, I’m going to get my way.
I suspect if I do, Cillian will be the one upset come morning. He’s holding his breath. We both feel my victory.
With aching self-control, I turn away from it, removing my lips from his throat.
“Okay,” I whisper.