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)
“…yes,” Cillian breathed.
And Brendan claimed that soft mouth for his own.
The first time he’d kissed Cillian, it had been for others’ benefit—to give them something to react to, to draw their attention so all eyes would be on Newcomb, to set the rumor mill turning and give solid grounding to the whisper that had roared into a shout on social media in a matter of minutes.
This time he kissed Cillian simply because he wanted to. Because he wanted to feel that soft mouth go slack against his own; because he wanted to lick those insolent words from Cillian’s lips and remind him exactly what he wanted from Brendan, how very not harmless he needed Brendan to be. Brendan caught up that trembling mouth as if he could devour it, suckled it into ripe and metal-bruised fruit, licked and caressed every curve, bit and nibbled the plushness of each plump red slick of flesh until Cillian’s mouth was tender-soft under his own and melted obscenely under every hint of pressure. Until Cillian sagged as if his spine would no longer hold him up; until Cillian moaned “Brendan” and his curling, wet tongue delivered Brendan’s own name into his mouth in a salt-slick candy drop.
When Brendan pulled back, Cillian swayed after him, reeled forward, barely caught himself from toppling with hands grasping desperately onto the edge of the crate, fingers white-knuckled. Cillian’s eyes were glazed, darkened, glimmering, his lips hanging wordless, breathless, parted and so very crimson and full, that bleeding shade blending into the skin around his mouth intensified, as if the color had been smeared into lascivious trails by the pressure of their lips.
Smirking, Brendan traced his thumb along Cillian’s lower lip, sank the tip against the soft flesh, and pressed in lightly; Cillian gasped out a soft, broken sound, shuddering, moving his mouth against Brendan’s thumb and fingers in a slack-lipped, needy suggestion, so lost in himself, as if all it took was a single spark of arousal to completely consume him in an instant. Such responsiveness, such willingness, such neediness roused an answering spark in Brendan, but he pushed it down.
Later.
Tonight.
And maybe this little experiment wouldn’t be so difficult at all.
“That is exactly how not harmless I am,” he murmured, tracing along that soft, giving lower lip. “And now you know exactly what you’re getting, and can stop thinking so hard about it. Now.” Pulling back, he reached up to ruffle Cillian’s hair. “Let’s get back to work.”
Cillian made a strangled sound, but said nothing else.
But Brendan could feel those pale brown eyes locked on him.
And he tried not to smile as he walked away.
CHAPTER NINE
CILLIAN COULDN’T BELIEVE HE’D CHANGED clothes for this.
What he’d been wearing for rehearsals was fine. Jeans, tank top, jacket. It wasn’t like he was here for a date. Brushing his hair and putting on a nice black button-down and nice jeans had just been pointless, when he’d probably knock on the door looming in front of him and find Brendan already in sweats and a ratty old undershirt, so Cillian was making a big deal out of—
The intercom at his side crackled. “You realize,” Brendan’s voice emerged in a lazy, groaning drawl, “I can see you on security camera.”
Cillian jerked away with a garbled sound, heart slamming against his rib cage; he nearly dropped the script tucked under his arm. “…bufuck!”
He straightened, glaring around the small, dark-tiled hallway that only seemed to lead to the one door, right in front of him; the elevator had let him off on the floor Brendan had marked at the address he’d given, but Cillian hadn’t realized these were the kind of apartments where every floor was for a single tenant. He couldn’t see the camera anywhere, but he squinted suspiciously at the small potted palm at the end of the hall.
“How long have you been watching me?” he demanded.
“The whole ten minutes,” Brendan replied so flatly he might as well have been laughing aloud. “The door’s unlocked, by the way. Take your shoes off in the entryway. House rule.”
“I…right.”
Well, that was one way to make a bungle of things.
Breathe in, breathe out, go in there, act natural.
Cillian started to move forward—then stopped as his phone buzzed in his pocket. Just to give himself a second to stall, to compose himself, he checked it—and wished he hadn’t.
Mum: Has Maxwell been taking good care of you? When are you coming back home?
Cillian closed the text without answering, pocketed his phone, and pushed the door open.
This wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date. It was a…weird…arrangement, and he wasn’t even—there wasn’t even anything between himself and Brendan, so he could just stop getting twitterpated right now.
…no, he very much could not.
Not when as he walked in, stopping in the recessed tile entryway, Brendan was just carrying two plates of deliciously fragrant burnt tilapia over basmati rice toward an intimately small glass pub-height table settled in the open space opposite the eat-in kitchen, the dangling overhead mason jar lights casting their soft golden glow over the gracefully muscled shape of his body. The light itself seemed to bend to envelop him lovingly, needing to touch him from the gleam of his neatly glossed black hair to the strong lines of tendons in his throat to the corded, cut muscles flexing in his forearm as he set the plates down. Brendan still wore the same designer black button-down and well-fitted jeans as at rehearsal, but somehow seeing him in his own space, walking barefoot and casual and completely comfortable in his own environment…