Chapter 29
The list apparently mattered.
Not only did Cillian force me to move in with him that same day, but he really meant it when he said he wanted to grant all my wishes.
I wrote a list, filled with every silly romantic ideal I’d ever had, fully believing he’d attempt one, maybe two.
Instead, the instant I handed the first draft to him, he photographed it and set out to fulfill them.
Mimosas while watching the sunset on a picnic blanket. Done that very same evening on the rooftop of his building, followed by a full-service candlelight dinner under the stars.
Retail shopping in his company. He took me twice.
Per his request, I modeled every outfit, and every time he approved one, he came into the stalls with me and fingered me to completion.
I bought him a new cologne from my own line—a grapefruit, thyme, and amber blend for a fresh but rich spice scent—and he wore it every day without question.
It was probably the sexiest thing a man had ever done for me.
Attempt a pottery class together. Checked off on day two.
An axe and knife throwing date, we did on day five. I beat him so badly, we went twice more to the same venue before he called his brothers to dedicate space in their boxing gym for target practice.
Receive a playlist made by my lover. Somehow, he curated one to my exact tastes in under a week and a half.
A kayaking trip together in unfortunately less-than-ideal temperatures. Done, on day three.
Next was whitewater rafting, because I knew he needed a few heart-thumping activities mixed in. We followed that with camping.
A few days later, we drove up to New Hampshire to Jericho Mountain State Park, where we rented off-highway recreational vehicles, and I experienced the rumbling thrill of riding off-road for the first time.
Each jolt and bump ricocheted jitters up my ass and spine and through my arms as we navigated the scenic paths, my stomach in my throat the whole time.
Then there was my wish for sex in a public place.
That one he enjoyed ticking off twice. In an alleyway no wider than my arm span, barely shadowed from the traffic of pedestrians, he fucked me against a wall and swallowed my every moan with his mouth.
The second time was in the middle of a picnic under the vibrant autumn-red of a maple tree on the lawn of the Boston Commons.
The skirt of my dress covered the slick slide of his shaft in and out of me while his fingers played my clit like a fiddle.
The entire time, I fed him cubes of cheese and grapes like nothing salacious was taking place.
For my role-playing request as a naughty secretary, I changed into the part—high ponytail, glasses, silk blouse over a black lacy bra, and a tight pencil skirt—after a workout with him in his boxing gym.
I hid under his desk, his cock warm in my mouth, as his men came in and out of the gym’s office for short discussions.
When Cillian finally had enough of my teasing, he bent me over said desk and fucked me within an inch of my life.
As for couple’s tattoos, he keenly agreed.
We exited his friend’s tattoo parlor two weeks after moving in together with a small king-of-hearts symbol on his wrist with the cursive script “ar mo síbhean” and a queen-of-hearts symbol on mine with the script “pour mon mari chéri.” When he asked what mine meant, I told him the truth—for my dearest husband—and he chuckled it off with a kiss to my forehead.
There was also the surprise romantic trip I solicited.
He took me to the Caribbean on a business partner’s private jet, just us and three guards for an entire weekend.
We snorkeled, whale watched, zip-lined through the island’s forest, and barbecued on the beach.
Whilst we sunbathed, he massaged sunscreen over every inch of my body before his fingers dipped exactly where I needed them.
That was only the half of it. He worked his way through my list, completely dedicated and obsessed with crossing each one off, and I basked in it. It was everything I’d ever wanted and an overload of sensations because I didn’t want it to end.
The only request that left me anxious was the last one on the list: Marry the man who loves me. Would he go for that one? Did I want him to, when it meant he had to sign the divorce papers first? Maybe it could be more a renewal of vows than a new wedding.
True to his word, Cillian stayed with me the whole time.
If I left the penthouse to grab a coffee at a café downstairs, he went with me, his fingers clutched around mine.
If I had business calls with my suppliers, luxury department stores, or my secretary, he sat through them, no matter the language spoken, or flew to New York with me for meetings.
He rarely left the penthouse for business, and when he did, it was never without me.
I sat through his mob dealings and his dinner dates with politicians, business partners, or other mobsters.
Every night, I went to sleep wrapped in his arms, his cock deep in my pussy, and full of his cum.
Every morning, I woke up with either my head on his chest, cuddled against the steady beat of his heart, or his head between my legs, my body coiled and ready to explode in pleasure.
He bought the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe coffee beans I preferred and made me espressos three times a day, per my routine.
When I got a cold, he got me every medicine imaginable for a quick recovery.
He worshipped my body on every surface of his condo.
He watched romantic comedies with me and worked to hide his eye rolls and mumbles of distaste.
I did the same for his horror films, with my face buried in the hollow of his shoulder half the time to avoid the nightmares they gave me.
When I spoke, he listened. When I hurt, he reassured me.
When his gaze turned vacant or broken, I held him close and talked to him, despite the lack of response.
We shared every meal and every moment. Conversation flowed between us, as did laughter, and his apathetic gaze became a long past memory.
Every soft look and tender moment sent my heart soaring, my body tingling, and my face flushing.
In turn, I dished out little shy smiles for him when, before, I’d always hidden that side of me behind strength and determination.
Days with him rolled into weeks. Weeks turned into a month.
It didn’t end. The way he always kept me close told me I was treasured.
The teasing lilt in his voice when he addressed me declared I was adored.
In a crowded room, his attention always rested on me.
No matter where we went, no matter who was around, he looked at me as if I’d put him under a spell he never wished to have broken.
No one had ever gazed at me that way before, and little by little, it helped me untangle all the vines that had been strangling and mutilating my heart for so long.
To him, I was worthy. I mattered, and I relished it.
For the first time in my life, I was someone’s first choice. I used to clamber after scraps of attention. I scrabbled for them on my hands and knees, trying to prove myself every way I could, without it ever being enough.
With Cillian, it was different. He cared for me, not because of my worth or what I could do for him, but because he wanted to. It made him happy that I was happy, and I gripped onto that with both fists and held on tight because I worried it wouldn’t last. Not for me. It never did.
The chemical sales went as planned. No hiccups. The O’Leary reputation secured the buyers, and the Toxic Fiend’s notoriety and product quality convinced them. Funds were exchanged through secure channels, and prompt delivery was promised. At least that was what Cillian and his brothers thought.
In actuality, each buyer was an online persona my cousin, Franc, crafted from scratch for this purpose, and the entire bankroll came out of my pockets before it went full circle and returned to me minus the O’Leary commission.
The only pushback came during a three-way phone call in Cillian’s penthouse office between him, with me on his lap, and his two brothers.
Brody asked me why my people would handle delivery if the O’Learys were the intermediaries.
The answer I gave remained true: The transport of these agents was delicate.
The smallest slipup had the potential to cause a city-block disaster.
Unless I trained his men on proper transport and handling technique, which could take weeks, the risk exceeded the gain.
While Cillian and Liam accepted the excuse, Brody expressed some skepticism and pressed for information about how I handled the initial transport from Europe.
“Through a family friend” didn’t impress him, but seeing as my expertise lay with the creation, not with the trafficking of contraband materials, he dropped it after a few more dead-end questions.
Then came the celebrating. After all, with these five alleged sales, they made just over twenty million in commission. Liam and Brody cheered and whooped through the line as Cillian beamed a toothy grin at me.
“Yes, fuck, yes. Oh, finally,” Liam lauded, half caught up in his own cackles. “We’ll be done with those cartel fuckers soon.”
Cillian cleared his throat, rough and harsh.
“Ah, sorry, Alice,” Liam rushed to say.
“No, no. Go ahead and say fuck all you want.”
“Better not be all you want,” Cillian snarked, pinching my nipple through his dress shirt I wore.