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)
Before taking them right back off, and hanging them from his fingertips by their strings.
He twisted and studied his reflection. Better. A little less music recital, a little more date chic; he’d have been better off just wearing his usual, but there was something nice about seeing himself in Brendan’s clothing, too.
Especially when every time he turned, moved at all, he caught a faint whiff.
Brendan’s scent.
Aftershave, bitter lemon, and something like anise.
Stop getting yourself all worked up.
He adjusted the drape of the coat over his shoulders, then gathered up his own clothing and folded it neatly on an empty shelf. If…if this was really a date to get them used to each other, it was entirely possible he’d end up back here later tonight, and he could get this things then.
He bit his lip, fingering the button on the folded stack of his slacks.
How was it he could meet strangers on Grindr and be completely, casually comfortable, but a fake date that was basically a paparazzi photo op sent his insides fizzing and sparking into a mess?
…there is still possibly sex involved in this.
And he’s…he’s going to…maybe…
Not tonight. He knew it wouldn’t be tonight, and he—he still needed more time too, enough time that when Brendan touched him, Cillian wouldn’t imagine Oliver Newcomb leering over him, that sour whiskey breath.
But waiting just made the anticipation better.
Hoping.
If Brendan really wanted to do this with him…
Deep breaths. Move it. He smoothed the creases in his folded clothing, then ducked out of the closet, angling past one of the pillars and peering into the kitchen for Brendan.
Brendan was still leaning against the counter, whiskey glass pressed against his lips, the level of the golden liquid barely dropped by a millimeter. When Cillian emerged, though, boots swinging from his fingertips, Brendan lowered the glass slowly and just…looked at him, dark brown eyes traveling over Cillian from head to toe until he felt completely and utterly naked.
So naked that he practically felt the bass rumble of Brendan’s voice vibrating against his skin as Brendan said, “…better.”
Cillian cleared his throat and mussed his hair a little, pushing it back. “Sorry I showed up looking like raw arse.”
“You didn’t. You looked perfectly good, just extremely uncomfortable. You look more comfortable now.” Brendan twisted at the waist in a sinewy, fluid movement to set the barely-touched tumbler down on the counter with a soft clink—then stepped closer, his shadow a diffuse thing falling over Cillian in the low, intimate light of the apartment. “You also wear my clothing surprisingly well.”
Closer he came—until he almost bumped into Cillian, and instinctively Cillian took a step back. But there was nowhere to go; his back struck a firm edge, and he realized the kitchen island was behind him, black marble atop dark oakwood, and he couldn’t retreat any further. Nor was he sure he wanted to when still Brendan followed, and the heat that radiated from him turned the butterflies swarming in Cillian’s chest into burning things, scraps of fluttering paper set afire.
Brendan stopped.
Chest to chest, almost nose to nose, and Cillian inhaled shallowly; Brendan was close enough to kiss him, close enough to make Cillian’s lips shiver, but the man was only…only…
Looking at him.
Intense, unblinking, searching, stripping.
“I…” Cillian’s voice came out faint, raspy; he tried to gather himself, but Brendan was a silent earthquake, shaking him with his presence. The boots dropped from his numb fingers and tumbled to the floor. “Wh-what…? Is something wrong? What are you looking at?”
“You,” Brendan murmured. “I like it.” On each word his voice lowered, this soft, intimate thing of quiet depths…and he reached to either side of Cillian, gripping the edge of the kitchen island at his back. Caging him. Trapping him even as Brendan leaned into him, body pressing hard against Cillian’s. Nowhere to go; nowhere to escape the heat of him, the towering force of his overwhelming presence, the sheer sensuality he radiated as he caught Cillian not just with his body, but with those dark brown eyes that filled his vision, eclipsing all else. “You’re wearing things that have touched my skin,” Brendan whispered, a dragging, sensuous drawl. “Wrapped around your body. Kissing against your flesh. It’s like I’ve got you bound up. Tied in something you can’t escape.”
Every word made Cillian’s heart beat faster, his throat dry. Just a spark inside him—that hint of not-quite-fear, that thrill that made him seek that high again and again, wanting…wanting that rush, that tremor, that thing that should be terror but that just made his knees weak with hunger. So weak he could hardly stand, his body screaming for Brendan to make good on the subtle threat in those words.
Until Brendan turned his head slightly and nudged Cillian’s cheek with his nose, the rasp of unvoiced laughter in his voice as he asked, “Better?”