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)
When he’d been small, he’d slip out into the longest hallways after midnight and race himself up and down the slate flooring, taking delight in just being awake when everyone else was asleep, pantomiming entire worlds that bloomed before him in his imagination.
Tonight, though, he felt like a ghost, haunting the shafts of moonlight that fell through the high windows as Cillian made his way to Brendan’s room.
No security camera, this time. No intercom. He could fidget as long as he wanted to, nerve himself up, talk himself into walking in there and asking for what he wanted. Craved. No…no, it wasn’t just craving, when it was more than his body, he just…he just…
He just wanted to feel Brendan touching him like he mattered again.
Even if it meant treating him like a filthy, wanton thing made to be used. Made to be—
“…I can see your shadow under the door.” Brendan’s voice drifted through, turned distant and hollow by the thick wood of the door. “If that’s Cillian again, you can come in.”
Cillian lifted his eyes heavenward. “…how does he do that?”
But he pushed the door open, then—stepping into the warm glow of crackling firelight, the room swimming in shades of gold and russet. Those same shades fell over Brendan, who sat propped against the headboard, resplendently lazy with the light pouring down his naked torso as if licking his tapered musculature, his hips slung forward, one leg languidly upraised to support his phone, his thin linen sleep pants turned translucent by the fireplace’s glow, showing the shadowed silhouette of strong calves and thighs.
“Hey,” Cillian said, easing the door closed, letting himself drink Brendan in, letting himself burn inside with just wanting to touch everywhere the light kissed. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“I couldn’t sleep anyway.” Brendan flicked his phone up, then tossed it on the nightstand. “Was just catching up on email.”
“Ah.” Biting at the insides of his lips, Cillian lingered near the door, fidgeting his hands behind his back and playing with the script restlessly, drumming his fingers against the cover. “So…ah…”
Brendan tilted his head to one side; the slick stripe of white in his hair drifted loose, teasing across his brow, falling into darkened brown eyes. “Why are you all the way over there?”
“Because I…”
Because I want you too much.
“…you know what, nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” Cillian smiled and padded across the room, and practically threw himself down onto the bed to tuck himself into Brendan’s arms, the thick bound script resting on his thighs. “There. Much better.”
“Entirely.” Suddenly there was a man wrapped around him like a snake, trapping him in constricting coils, as Brendan growled and buried his face in Cillian’s throat, burrowing in. “You’re so warm.”
“Hey!” Cillian laughed, lightly shoving Brendan’s shoulders. “Are you really that cold?”
“You have nitrogen for blood if you don’t find this entire island cold.”
“Mm…I don’t know. I think my blood runs pretty hot.” He nuzzled tentatively at Brendan’s cheek. “…its…ah…” His gut quaked. “It’s been a while.”
Brendan stilled, going quiet. Then, “…it has,” he said, pushing himself up enough to look down at Cillian. “I wasn’t sure if you’d even want to while we were here. And I haven’t had a second of free time to ask you when ninety-nine percent of the crew have gone full-on AHS: Cult with the production bonding and family circle shit.”
“Meanwhile I’ve been waffling in circles about just showing up here and asking you.”
Chuckling, Brendan dropped his brow to rest against Cillian’s sternum, his hair sliding sleek and cool against Cillian’s chest. “You could have come. I sure as hell can’t find my way through this maze to you.”
Cillian half-winced, half-smiled. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, and slipped his arms around Brendan’s neck. “But…I’m here now. Kiss me?”
“Not yet.” Rough fingertips brushed across his lips. “Tell me how you are first. We haven’t had time to talk about that, either. Having Newcomb here. Being here at all. Having to be the prince and not yourself, with all these people who know you watching.” Brendan nosed his chest, then nuzzled upward to brush against Cillian’s jaw. “Or, a simpler question: are you all right?”
No.
But he didn’t want to tell Brendan that, didn’t want Brendan to know he’d gone and fucked himself and this might possibly be the last night he stole before Brendan was gone.
But he held that no under his tongue and pressed his cheek into Brendan’s hair. “I’m managing,” he said. “I don’t remember ever minding how smothering my parents and this whole…thing are…before, but then before I never really left that long or struck out on my own much. But it’s starting to feel a little restrictive. Everything in me says this isn’t the place I want to be, and with Newcomb here it’s just this nonstop screaming warning in the back of my mind.”