Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“…being moody on a parapet.” Brendan groaned, struggling to hold back his laughter and failing, dropping his head to Cillian’s shoulder. “Only you could say that without even blinking. Fucking royals.”
“I’m not royal,” Cillian grumbled. “I don’t want to be a prince,” he admitted. “I just want to be yours.”
Yours.
Such a sweet, simple word, and yet it quieted everything inside Brendan until he could feel nothing but this warmth; this wonder. Pushing himself up once again, he looked down at Cillian—his Cillian, his strange mercurial man, his prince.
“Always,” he whispered. “I want to find out if we have forever in us, Cillian.”
“If you ask me,” Cillian breathed, slipping his arm around Brendan’s neck and drawing him down, “we couldn’t have scripted a better happily ever after.”
“Cillian,” Brendan sighed again, then sank down to truly claim his mouth this time, drawing Cillian up into a deep, consuming kiss.
All these months, Brendan had never forgotten the taste of Cillian’s lips. Yet having him again made that taste burst over him so brightly, so wildly, flooding over Brendan until he lost himself in what he thought he’d never have again. Cillian’s body arching underneath his. Cillian’s fingers slipping through his hair, stroking over the back of his neck. Cillian’s lips parting soft and willing and needy for his, opening to let him in with such sweet abandon he wondered what he must have done in a past life to deserve such complete and utter surrender.
Lips to lips. Body to body. Heartbeat to heartbeat, as they flowed into each other and pressed so close, tangled in each other, pulled at each other’s clothing until they were a rumple of coats and slacks and shirts everywhere, falling half-off, touching each other so feverishly as they each found skin and searched, stroked, caressed, tasted each other until they moved in such perfect tandem that Brendan remembered what he had told Cillian, that night they’d watched the swing dancers together.
Always aware of the gravity of each other.
The push and pull, ever drawing them into synchronicity with each other.
Cillian’s gravity pulled him in now as Brendan tasted deep of his mouth, slipped his tongue against the sweet softness of his lips, bit and nibbled and traced until Cillian was gasping for him, responding to him with that complete wanton surrender to pleasure that was so very Cillian. And Brendan wanted more—more of those gasps, more of those sighs, and he teased them from Cillian with kisses and biting teeth as he traced a path down his throat, over the wild throb of his pulse, onto the slender line of his collarbone. Lower, as Brendan parted layers of fabric and threw them aside: the sculpted, leanly athletic lines of Cillian’s chest, the pink rises of his nipples, the dip of his navel.
Brendan left nothing untouched. Rolling Cillian’s nipples across his tongue, leaving gentle pink bite-marks over his ribs, kissing down the thin path of light, soft hair toward his pelvis—Brendan tasted him everywhere, soaked Cillian onto his tongue, swallowed the flavor of male skin into himself and still came back for more. Because every time, Cillian tugged at his hair, moaned, arched into him; every time Cillian gave him those reactions he craved, until Brendan could have lost himself touching Cillian all night, ignoring the growing burn of his own desire settling molten inside him, hotter and hotter, deeper and deeper.
Reminding himself.
Reminding himself of what he had almost let go.
Reminding himself that Cillian was his…
…and he would never take that for granted again.
He shuddered, as their bodies came together again in a slow grind. Bit down on the crest of Cillian’s hip just a little harder, then soothed it with his tongue. Rubbed his cheek against the long, graceful expanse of Cillian’s thigh, kissing his way over the soft tender flesh of his inner thigh until Cillian whimpered and clenched his knees against Brendan’s shoulders. And when Cillian gasped and curled forward, tugging at his hair, Brendan took the hard, pink straining shaft of Cillian’s cock into his mouth, just to hear the delicious cries that rose as he worked his lips over the full length in swift, hungry strokes, swallowing down every hint of bitter-salty taste pouring from Cillian’s flesh.
Every moment was pure torment: depriving himself to give everything to Cillian, his own cock straining and pulsing in time with the thick veins throbbing against his tongue, his breaths coming in harsh rhythm to Cillian’s broken, breathy cries. Deeper. Deeper Brendan took him, stroking his fingers along Cillian’s thighs and calves, feeling the tremor in his muscles, in his entire body.
“Brendan—” Cillian arched, writhing tautly, his legs clamping against Brendan’s body, his head thrown back, skin glistening like moonstone in the morning light spilling through the windows. “Brendan, I—ah—ah—”
Slowly Brendan pulled back, with one last lick at the firm, flared head. “What do you need, love?”