Chapter 13 #2
He’s hitting a spot deep inside me, a nerve I didn't know existed, and every time his hips slam into mine, I feel a jolt of electricity shoot down my spine. The friction is turning into a white-hot burn, a frantic, coiling tension that makes my vision blur at the edges. I’m a mess of tangled hair and flushed skin, my legs wrapped so tight around his waist that I can feel the hard, pulsing muscle of his thighs.
"Please," I moan, my fingers digging into his shoulders, drawing blood through the fabric of his shirt. "Cillian, I'm—I'm going to—"
"Do it," he commands, his voice dropping to a gravelly, guttural whisper.
He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, shallower, more frantic.
He reaches around to cup my backside, hoisting me even higher so he can drive in deeper, his thumb finding the hardened center of me and adding a deliciously agonizing pressure.
The knot in my belly snaps.
It’s a sudden, violent eruption that starts in my toes and surges upward, centering entirely where he’s anchored inside me.
My back arches, a long, high-pitched wail ripping from my throat as the waves of pleasure hit.
I’m a boneless heap of heat and static, my walls clenching around him in a frantic, pulsing vise that should have ended him.
But he doesn't stop. He drinks in the tremors of my climax, his teeth grazing my collarbone as he continues.
"Don't you dare close your eyes," he rasps, his hips hitting mine with a force that makes the dashboard rattle. "Stay right here with me."
I force my eyelids open, my vision swimming through a haze of tears and pure, unadulterated sensation.
The world is nothing but the smell of rain-dampened earth outside and the suffocating, delicious heat of him inside.
Cillian’s hand slides upward, his large palm wrapping around the front of my throat.
He isn't squeezing to hurt. He’s anchoring me, his thumb pressing against the frantic jump of my pulse, forcing my head back so I have no choice but to witness the dark, lush ruin in his expression.
"Watch me," he growls, and then he lunges upward.
The pace changes from a frantic pace to something deeper, more primal.
He’s driving into me with a slow, heavy finality that feels like it’s reaching for my very soul.
Every time he bottoms out, my body feels like it’s being reconfigured.
The tension he’s built—the coiling, electric pressure at the base of my spine—suddenly overflows.
I can’t hold it back. A broken cry rips from my lungs as my body gives way to a violent, liquid release.
I’m surging against him, the internal pressure snapping as I squirt against his thighs, the heat of it drenching the space where we are fused.
The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that my fingers go numb where they’re clawing at his shoulders.
"That’s it," he chokes out, his grip on my neck tightening just a fraction as he sees me shatter. "That’s my girl."
The sight of my undone state is the final blow to his legendary restraint.
I feel the change in him instantly—the way his muscles turn to granite, the way his breath hitches into a ragged, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire chest. He doesn't pull back.
He drives in one last time, deeper than I thought possible, and holds me there, pinned against the seat and the steering wheel.
A low, animal roar breaks from his throat as he finally lets go.
I feel him pulse inside me, a hot, searing flood that seems to go on forever.
It’s a thick, warm tide that fills me up, marking me from the inside out in a way that feels more permanent than any contract or vow.
He’s pouring every ounce of his hunger, his frustration, and his strange, dark loyalty into me.
The car rocks one last time and then falls still, the only sound the frantic, sobbing gasps we’re both drawing.
Cillian’s head drops onto my shoulder, his forehead damp with sweat.
He doesn't move to pull away. He stays buried deep, his hands still trembling where they hold me, as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, the world will remember exactly who we are and why we shouldn't be here.
I wrap my arms around his head, my fingers tangling in the dark silk of his hair, holding him to me as the fog on the windows turns the world outside into a blurred, gray ghost.
Cillian finally stirs, but he doesn't pull back.
Instead, he nuzzles into the crook of my neck, his lips grazing the skin he just spent the last twenty minutes marking.
He breathes me in—a deep, shaky inhale—before lifting his head.
His eyes are still dark, but the familiar sharpness has softened into something startlingly tender.
"Stay," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
He reaches for the discarded cashmere throw in the back seat, draping it over my shivering shoulders while I’m still straddling his lap.
He doesn't move to get dressed yet. Instead, he begins to trail slow, cooling kisses across my face—my forehead, my eyelids, the tip of my nose—before settling on my mouth.
These aren't the kisses of a rival or a hunter.
They are soft, lingering, and taste of a quiet apology for the bruising intensity of before.
His large hands, which had been so demanding, now move with an agonizing gentleness. He brushes the damp hair back from my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw over and over. "You're okay?" he asks, his gaze searching mine.
"I'm more than okay," I breathe, leaning my forehead against his.
He lets out a long, slow exhale and finally, with a soft grunt of effort, he helps me shift.
He lifts me with a focused care, guiding me back into the passenger seat as if I’m something precious he’s just rediscovered.
Once I’m settled, he reaches over to adjust the heater, the warm air beginning to circulate around my bare legs.
He takes a moment to pull himself together, adjusting his clothes with steady hands, though I notice the slight tremor in his fingers when he reaches for his seatbelt.
He doesn't look away from me for long. Before he puts the car in gear, he reaches across the console and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine and resting our joined hands on his thigh.
"We have to go back," he says, his voice regaining a bit of its dry iron, though he squeezes my hand to soften the blow. "But we’re not going back to how it was."
I nod, unable to find the words to match the gravity in his tone.
He shifts the car into drive, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as we pull away from the cliffside.
As the silver line of the sea disappears behind us, I lean my head back against the seat and watch his profile in the dashboard's glow—the man who just showed me a version of 'normal' I never thought I’d see, and a version of myself I never want to lose.
The drive back is quieter.
The road unwinds beneath us in long, dark ribbons, and neither of us reaches for the radio.
Cillian keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gearshift, his posture composed again, his breathing steady.
If anyone saw us now, they’d see a man in control of himself and his world.
But I know better.
When we reach the estate, the gates open without hesitation. The lights along the drive flicker on automatically, casting clean white pools across gravel and stone. He parks in front of the main house, cuts the engine, and for a moment neither of us moves.
“You good?” he asks, his voice pitched low.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods once and steps out. I follow, smoothing my dress instinctively even though it’s already straight. The night has cooled, and the estate feels different now—quieter, watchful.
Roarke stands near the steps. He isn’t pretending not to look at me. His arms are crossed, his stance wide, and his eyes track us from the moment we step out of the car. There’s no accusation in his expression, but there’s no ease either. Cillian doesn’t break stride.
“Evening,” Roarke says.
“Evening, Roarke,” Cillian replies.
Roarke’s gaze shifts to me. “Miss Riley.”
“Roarke.”
A beat passes. Cillian adjusts his jacket. “Roarke’s like that with everyone,” he says lightly, as if he’s commenting on the weather. “If he ever stops looking suspicious, that’s when you worry.”
Roarke doesn’t smile.
I force one anyway. Cillian steps closer, his hand brushing briefly at the small of my back before he withdraws it. “Get some sleep,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow’s busy.”
“I will.”
His eyes hold mine for a second longer than necessary, then he turns and walks inside with Roarke falling in step beside him.
I head toward my quarters. The hallway is dim, the lamps set low. I close my door behind me and lean against it for half a second, letting the quiet press in. Then I fetch my burner from its little hideaway. And it’s lit up.
Missed calls. Five. Six. Eight.
All from the same number.
My pulse shifts.
I cross the room and pick it up just as it begins to vibrate again. I answer.
“What?” I say before he can speak.
Father doesn’t waste any time in greeting me. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands, his voice already raised.
“I’m working.”
“Working?” he snaps. “He moved on Kinsella’s pier this morning. Did you know that?”
My mind races.
“No.”
“He seized the contracts and absorbed the route into his own structure,” Patrick continues, his tone sharp and furious. “That corridor was neutral. It was supposed to stay neutral.”
Kinsella’s pier. That’s the smaller independent dock Cillian mentioned shutting down before. “He’s consolidating,” I say carefully.
“He’s making a power grab,” he retorts. “And it cuts into my distributors.”
There it is.
“You didn’t tell me he was moving this week,” he continues.
“I didn’t know.”
“You’re in his bed.”
“That doesn’t mean he hands me board minutes,” I reply evenly.
He tsks. “You were supposed to slow him. Not let him strengthen.”
“You told me to gain his trust,” I remind him. “I did.”
He snorts on the other end. “And while you were earning tea and soda bread, he absorbed a pier that fed three of my outer lines.”
I close my eyes briefly. “He’s locking down synthetics,” I say, albeit this bit of information is useless and we both know it.
“I know what he’s locking down,” Patrick snaps. “And that pier gave us flexibility.”
Us.
“Then you should’ve moved faster,” I say quietly.
There’s a pause. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, colder. “He’s positioning for full corridor control. Once he finishes consolidating neutral ground, there’s no buffer between his docks and my routes.”
“You’re overextended,” I say before I can stop myself.
His silence is dangerous. “You forget who you’re speaking to,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “I don’t.”
Another breath.
“You need to accelerate,” he says finally. “Destabilize him. Quickly.”
“How?”
“Create doubt inside his structure. Shift a contract. Leak something. Make his men question him.”
“That’s not simple.”
“Nothing worth doing is.”
I step away from the desk and pace once across the room. The warmth from the drive, from the dinner, from the cliffside, drains out of me.
His voice hardens again. “You move now, Saoirse. You don’t get sentimental.”
Tears well up in my eyes, but I don’t let my voice shake. “I’m not sentimental.”
“Then prove it.”
I grip the phone tighter. “You jeopardized my lines tonight,” he says. “I won’t let him corner me. You destabilize him fast, or I’ll do it without subtlety.”
“And if you do that,” I reply, “there won’t be anything left to salvage.”
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he says, “You have access. Use it.”
The line goes dead. I stand in the middle of the room, the burner still in my hand, the quiet now thick and suffocating. Cillian is tightening his hold on the docks, and my father is panicking.
Which means the war just shifted, and I’m standing exactly between the man who raised me and the man I’m falling for.