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)
“A little of both,” Cillian admitted breathlessly, then laughed. God, he was ridiculous. “Sorry. I guess a bit of freedom has my hormones on a live wire.”
“Nothing to apologize for.” Brendan folded his arms over his chest. “Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite.”
“But…you don’t seem to ever…”
“What? React to things?” With a quirk of one thick brow, Brendan favored Cillian with a brief, mocking smile. “Or do you mean get hard? Aroused. Hungry.” That smile turned into an almost bitter smirk, as he looked away. “Mm. I’ve just learned to make my reactions a little less obvious. Part of not being out, back in the day. When I first started off, you can imagine how well it would’ve gone for me if I’d openly reacted to my male costars.” He shrugged. “Just because I don’t say anything doesn’t mean things don’t affect me. Or that I don’t have desires of my own.”
“So sleeping with me won’t be that much of a trial,” Cillian observed dryly.
“No.” A long, lingering look swept over him…and stayed longest at Cillian’s hips. “I don’t think it’ll be a trial at all.”
Any hope Cillian had of calming his erection disappeared as Brendan bent his head to skim his lips to Cillian’s jaw. Electricity in a bottle, bursting over him in a single hard crash just from that little touch, and his cock throbbed hard against his jeans as Brendan whispered,
“You do make the most interesting sounds when you’re aroused, Cillian.”
Then he pulled back, leaving Cillian trembling against the island, struggling not to scream with the wild needy heat pulling tight in the pit of his stomach.
“Let’s go,” Brendan said, and crossed to the entryway to slip his feet into his shoes.
Cillian tilted his head back, staring up at the glass bulbs encased in mason jars dangling over the kitchen area at varying heights, glittering subtly.
He was not going to survive this night.
If this was fake dating Brendan, what the hell would really dating him be like?
“…yep. Really starting to see why Mr. Anderson hates you so much…” he muttered under his breath, then made himself push away from the island and catch up the boots he’d dropped, tangling his fingers in their laces. Walking was a tricky thing when every step dragged tight fabric against his cock until it was practically massaging him, and he felt like he was walking bowlegged on his toes just to ease the sensation until it went away. The ache lessened, though, as he sat on the edge of the recessed entryway to shove his feet into the boots.
“Do you realize,” he asked as he fidgeted the laces, “I’ve not once asked where you’re taking me? I thought it would be pointless.”
“You were right.” Brendan stood, then offered one hand to Cillian, a compelling thing when everything about Brendan was at once so forbidding and so inviting—this heavy promise in everything he did, everything he said. “It’s easier to show you than explain. So let me show you.”
Right now, I think I’d let you show me anything.
Yeah.
His dick was definitely leading him into trouble here.
And he thought he just might want every last bit of it.
So he smiled as he slid his hand into Brendan’s and let that rough grip, that easy strength, pull him up and to his feet, his stomach turning over deliciously.
“Sure,” he said, and tangled his fingers with Brendan’s. “Lead the way.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BRENDAN WAS FAIRLY CERTAIN THEY were being followed.
He walked down the sidewalk with his hand curled in Cillian’s, silent as cars slid through the night in rushes of sound at their side, Los Angeles never quiet even as evening settled. Instead the tenor of the noise changed, the gaily voices of people tumbling past them in the glitter and glitz of club outfits, flashing jewelry, laughter, anticipation. No one even bothered them, or glanced at them more than twice; there was a certain etiquette among Angelinos, one that said for the most part if they saw actors in the street they simply pretended not to recognize them and went about their business. There’d be a few tweets tonight—omg I couldn’t get a photo but you’ll never guess who I spotted holding hands last night—but not much else.
Except the tabloid photos, but that couldn’t be helped.
He was used to it. Paparazzi who made a habit of camping out on certain streets, idling on sidewalk benches or in bus kiosks or at outdoor cafes, or even just parking in their cars and waiting on streets known to be near the residences of various entertainment industry glitterati. A Billboard chart-topper leaving the corner store in giant aviator sunglasses and frumpy yoga pants. The star of the latest action hit gorging on a hoagie. A supermodel turned actress walking her tiny pocket dog in eight-inch transparent platform heels with fish swimming in the soles. The carrion hunters would take just about any scrap that fell off their targets’ tables, and find a way to turn it into clicks and grocery check-out aisle sales.