“A wife, then?” I ask, grinning up at him. “I’m down to be a third, I just want to be sure all sides are consenting.”
“No sugar mommy or daddy. Just me.”
“Look, no millennial without a wealthy family or a nefarious side hustle lives like this on their own.”
“It's my uncle's house. He and his husband moved to Florida a couple of years ago, and he didn't want to sell.” Finding the answer sufficient, I nod and let him lean in to kiss me.
“Now, do you need to see the deed or?” he asks, taking a step back, leaving me breathing heavily against the car.
“Maybe later,” I concede.
I was kidding, but when we walk into the kitchen, I realize I may actually want to know everything about this house. Old wooden beams run along the ceiling while a brick fireplace and oven take up an entire wall. All original. All dreamy.
We don't pause at the first-floor living room, but I take note of the deep sectional, tastefully scattered with blankets and pillows, and the uncluttered coffee table. In fact, as he leads me up to the fourth-floor primary suite, it's clear everything is uncluttered. Lived in, yes. But overall, incredibly clean.
Shame sends a twinge through my gut. My own apartment was a rat's nest in comparison.
Thankfully, the bedroom manages to distract me. Not because it reveals all the mess the rest of the house lacks, but because one wall of the attic room has been replaced with a massive floor-to-ceiling window.
“Oh,” I breathe. Little lights twinkle down the hill from the house, and to the left, a sliver of Boston proper glows against the night sky.
“Best part of the house,” Cillian says. He wraps his arms around my middle, pulling my back to his chest. I shiver with pleasure as his lips graze my ear and move down my neck.
He releases me to settle on the well-worn loveseat facing the window. “Come here,” he says, extending a hand to guideme onto his lap. I straddle him, happy to find the furniture doesn't let out even the barest hint of protest.
Between the room's warm light and the glow of the city behind me, I'm able to study him more closely than before.
Too pretty.
My palms itch to pull the sketch pad from my bag. Beg him to play Rose to my Jack. Instead, I try to memorize his features: green eyes framed by dark lashes, thick brows, full mouth, freckles scattered across strong cheekbones, and a short, well-groomed beard. Even the few things that could be accused of being flaws—like his nose, strong and broad but clearly broken at least once, or the flashes of white through his dark beard and hair—only make him more appealing.
I pull the elastic from his hair, running my fingers through the shoulder-length waves. He practically purrs with satisfaction as my nails graze his scalp. When his eyes slide shut, I pull him into a kiss.
Rough hands travel up my bare thighs to the exposed skin at my midriff. He tosses my top aside, leaving my breasts exposed.
Silently, I thank past me for embracing one of the few perks of being a card-carrying member of the ‘Small Tits Fat Ass Club’ and skipping the bra today.
Cillian looks just as grateful, smiling as he trails his mouth down my neck to my chest.
My head falls back, and my hips grind against him as he teases each of my nipples with his tongue.
He takes his time, his mouth and hands mapping my upper body until I'm practically whimpering with want. “Bed?”
I just nod.Finally.
Before I can move, he places my arms around his neck, takes hold of my ass, and stands.
I shriek, clinging onto him like my life depends on it.
A laugh vibrates through his chest. “I've got you, doll,” he says against my hair.
“I hope so,” I squeak.
He sets me down on the edge of his bed, the duvet cool and soft beneath my hands. He lifts my chin to look at him. “You ok?”
“Yeah,” I say with a nervous laugh. “I. . . that has never happened to me.”
“Glad to be your first.” He winks. I roll my eyes and playfully push his head away.
