13
SAOIRSE
The car is a small, shadowed world, the only heat for miles radiating from the space where our bodies collide. Cillian’s hands are no longer the careful, steady anchors they were at his mother’s table. They’re greedy and blunt and move with the same territorial certainty he uses to command the docks, mapping the curve of my waist and the arch of my back through the thin fabric of my dress.
I’m draped over him, my knees digging into the leather of the driver’s seat, my fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. Every time I pull him closer, he meets the demand with a low, vibrating growl that I feel more than hear. The taste of him—salt, dark wine, and an underlying heat—is intoxicating, stripping away the layers of my double life until there’s nothing left but this frantic, pulsing need.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing a path of fire down my throat. He doesn't go for the soft spots. He bites, a sharp, possessive nip at the junction of my neck and shoulder that makes my back arch and a broken sound escape my lips.
"You've been thinking about this all through dinner," he whispers against my skin, his breath heavy with heat. "I saw it. Every time you looked at me across that table."
"I was thinking about the soda bread," I lie, my voice breathless and thin.
He huffs a dark laugh, his hand sliding down to the hem of my dress. He doesn't ask. He just bunches the silk in his fist, sliding it up until the cool air of the cabin hits my thighs, followed instantly by the searing weight of his palm.
"Lie to me again," he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing line along my inner thigh. "Tell me you don't want this."
He finds the edge of my underwear, his fingers hooking into the lace with a deliberate, slow-burn pressure. I gasp, my head falling back against the headrest, my heart hammering hard. The contrast is maddening—the man who wiped mashed potatoes off a toddler’s face is currently dismantling my composure with a single, practiced movement of his hand.
He leans in, his lips ghosting over mine, teasing the contact until I’m reaching for him, desperate to bridge the gap. He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark, lush, and entirely unyielding.
"The seat is too narrow for what I have in mind," he says, his voice dropping to a gravelly, commanding depth that makes my stomach flip.
He reaches for the lever, and the seat clicks, sliding back and reclining just enough to create a frantic, shadowed space between the steering wheel and the dash. He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my skin with a sudden, possessive strength.
"Get on top of me."
The space in the car is a pressurized chamber of salt air and mounting friction. I don't hesitate. I shift, my knees find the edges of the seat for balance, and I reach down between us. Cillian’s eyes never leave mine. They are dark pools that track every flicker of intent on my face. My fingers find the heavy metal of his belt, and the click of the buckle unlocking sounds like a gunshot in the quiet of the clifftop.
I work the buttons of his fly with a frantic, focused energy, the denim straining against the heat and weight of him. When he finally springs free into my hand, the sheer, blunt reality of him steals the breath right out of my lungs. He’s hot, pulsing, a heavy velvet iron that radiates a fever against my palm. I wrap my fingers around his length, squeezing just enough to hear his breath falter.
"You're so sure of yourself," I whisper, my voice a shredded remnant of the girl who sat at his mother’s table.
Cillian’s hands find my waist, his knuckles white as he grips me, anchoring me in place. "I'm sure of you, Riley," he murmurs. "I'm sure of how much you want to lose that control you're so proud of."
I don't give him the satisfaction of a verbal reply, because guilt hits me as soon as I hear him call me Riley. Instead, I lift myself, my hands finding his shoulders for leverage. The cool air hits me, a sharp contrast to the furnace between my thighs. I guide him to the entrance of my cunt, the first touch of him against my damp skin sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to my gut.
I sink down.
Slowly. Torturously. I feel the stretch of him, the heavy, uncompromising thickness that seems to claim every inch of me as it slides home. I don't just take him. I pierce myself with him, a deliberate, slow-motion impalement that forces a long, low moan from the back of my throat. I watch his jaw tighten until the bone looks like it might snap, his eyes blowing wide as he feels the searing, liquid glove of my body close around him.
When I’m fully seated, buried to the hilt, the silence in the car is deafening, broken only by the frantic, uneven thud of our hearts. I stay there for a heartbeat, unmoving, letting the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him settle into my bones.
"God," he chokes out, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips. "You’re going to be the death of me."
I lean forward, my hair veiling us both as I press my chest against his. Cillian’s throat works as he swallows a cry. He tries to thrust upward, to take back the pace, but I pin him down with my weight, my hands flat against his chest.
"Not yet," I murmur against his ear, my tongue ghosting over the shell of it. "You said you were serious about seeing where this goes. See this."
I pick up the pace, shifting from the slow grind to a heavy-hitting slide. Every time I rise, nearly losing the contact, only to sink back down with a wet, heavy thud, I feel his pulse thrumming inside me. The car rocks gently on its springs, the windows beginning to fog with the rising heat of our bodies.
I can feel the power in him—the coiled, violent strength of the man who rules the docks—vibrating through his thighs. He’s a man who isn't used to being managed, yet he lets me take it, his hands moving from my waist to my back, pulling me downuntil my mouth finds his again. The kiss is desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue that tastes like the wine we shared and the hunger we’ve been hiding for months.
He breaks the kiss, his eyes searching mine with a dark, turbulent intensity. "You think this makes us even?" he rasps, his hips twitching instinctively, trying to meet the downward pressure of mine. "You think you can just take what you want and leave the rest behind?"
"I think I’m taking exactly what’s mine," I counter.
I reach down between us, my thumb finding the spot where we’re fused together, adding pressure to the movement of my hips. The world narrows to the point of a needle—the scent of his leather jacket, the salt on the wind, and the scorching, beautiful ruin of his self-control.