The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(77)

He snuck his free hand to my lower belly, propping me up and supporting my body as his mouth joined the party, feasting on my dripping pussy from behind, his tongue lapping between my folds.

Groans of pleasure and delight escaped both our mouths, and I mentally yelled at myself that it meant nothing. That this wasn’t intimacy. It was sex. Foreplay. Nothing but a means to an end for him.

I dropped my head to the black satin pillows, breathing in his singular scent, a white-hot thrill zinging through my spine. The electric currents of an impending orgasm chased one another. I quaked, losing control, mumbling incoherent things into his pillows.

The minute the climax hit me, he withdrew his tongue and fingers, ripped the bondage on my ankles off, and slammed into me in one go. I didn’t know if this was a trick, but it sure made my peak feel twice as violent as it rippled through me. His entire body pressed against my back, his heavy arousal sliding in and out of me from behind.

I groaned, adjusting to his weight on me.

Cillian went very still while he was inside me.

“Tell me to stop.”

“Go harder.” I pushed myself against him.

He did.

We were endless together. One searing entity without a beginning or an end.

He brushed a curtain of hair plastered to the side of my neck, pressing his lips to it as he rode me hard and deep.

“You please me, Persephone.”

I sank my teeth in his skin, not even sure what I was biting. He let me.

Allowed me to touch him, to mark him, to claim him.

Progress.

He came to his release, and I found mine again, in his words.

Once he was done, he untied my wrists, kissed the top of my head, and left the room. His unspoken words were clear and cutting as blades—we were done.

I slipped back to my room, feeling miserable and elated and confused and frustrated and defeated and victorious.

His words echoed inside me like flashes of light through the dark.

You please me, Persephone.

His soul bled all over me tonight.

Now I was expected to fall asleep smeared in his pain.





Cillian and I fell into a routine after that night.

He showed up for our daily dinners obediently, but made it a point to walk through the door three or four minutes after seven, even if it meant waiting in his Aston Martin, scowling at the front door like it was an ingrown hair he couldn’t get rid of.

He defied me like an unruly child, waiting to see how his mother would respond to his pushing the limits. This was a man without limits. A tycoon who had spent his life demanding and receiving everything he’d ever desired, in quick fashion. He was raised in the arms of nannies, private boarding schools, and au pairs who had taught him Latin, table manners, and how to tie a tie four different ways.

No one had taught him love.

Patience.

Compassion.

How to live, laugh, and enjoy the sensation of raindrops on his skin.

No one had shown him humanity.

Maybe that was one of the reasons he was so fond of bondage. It allowed him to remain in control, even in a situation where letting go was required.

Dinners at the Fitzpatrick household were, to put it mildly, a pain in the butt.

I’d tried to spice them up, no pun intended. I’d invited Petar, Emmabelle, Hunter, Sailor, and Aisling to join us a few times each week, since the cook had made enough food to feed the entire neighborhood. One time, I even took it upon myself to invite his parents.

Cillian accepted his new reality with quiet resignation. He was clearly unhappy with the socialization I injected into his life, but he suffered through it, knowing our nights together were worth it.

Not only did we have daily dinners together, but I made sure to fill them with stories about my day. Funny anecdotes about the kids I taught, and things they said and did in the classroom. Most of the time, he answered with monosyllabic groans. He volunteered next to nothing about his days at work and refused to address the Green Living lawsuit.

I knew he wanted to ask me if I ever heard back from Andrew Arrowsmith about that job.

The answer, by the way, was a big, fat, disappointing no.

But I didn’t volunteer any information. Waited for him to ascend from his underworld kingdom and play with his little mortal wife. Take interest. Make conversation.

Something compelled me to still send him pictures of lone clouds whenever I found them in the sky, even though he’d failed to respond. Maybe to remind him miracles did exist, and so did magic.

We made love every night.

Sometimes, it was depraved and rough, and sometimes, it was slow and taunting. It was always a wild exploration. A symphony of new notions and tastes and colors I’d never experienced before.

Three weeks after I moved in, I got my period.

I cried when I saw the first spot of blood on my panties. I wiped my tears, took a shower, threw the underwear in the laundry basket, and drank two glasses of water to calm myself down. It was my second period since I’d started sleeping with my husband.

I wasn’t sure what hurt more—my wanting a baby so much and not getting my wish, or letting Cillian down, which I was undoubtedly going to do.

“Aunt Flow is in town,” I announced during dinnertime. It was one of the rare occasions where it was just the two of us.

“Better than Aunt Tilda, I suppose.” Kill didn’t look up from his plate.