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Ciaran fought back so I kept pushing him because it seemed to be the only way—the only valid reason—to touch him. I couldn’t keep my hands off him. I needed him to feel what he was doing to me. The anguish. The denied desire. The knowledge that I could not have him.
Ciaran would never be mine.
That shouldn’t make me angry, but it did, and, except for fighting him, I didn’t know how to reconcile it. It felt like the accumulation of thunder before a storm.
Why was I torturing myself? The fight in me was ebbing away after I pushed him into the closet. Standing in the doorway of my closet, I stood a foot away from Ciaran.
I stopped everything.
Breathing.
Thinking.
I also stopped denying myself.
I didn’t actively remember deciding to move. My hand closed around Ciaran’s throat. Beneath my fingers, the strong pulse of his erratic heart matched my own.
I pulled him to me.
Lost in his piercing blue eyes, I felt like the world contained just the two us. We breathed in shared oxygen and exhaled a lifetime of what-ifs.
The world was ours for the taking.
All I could lay claim to was my breathing, his breathing, and Ciaran’s parted lips.
And I had to taste them.
Like this, standing how we were, alone, with anger and an unspoken need flowing between us, I had to know what his lips felt like under mine when he knew it was me and not someone else.
In a strained voice, I asked, “God, what are you doing to me, Ciaran?”
Then I crashed into him. Hard. Unforgiving. I wanted him to taste my hunger for him because I couldn’t say it. Not out loud.
I growled into his lips, demanding, begging, worshipping.
He was stiff in my embrace and when I felt him press his palms against my chest and push me away, my soul very nearly shriveled and died.
I staggered back two steps.
“I—” I started, intending to apologize, but the intensity I saw flash in his eyes cut me short.
Ciaran stood there, his chest heaving. I saw him processing everything in his mind, putting everything that had transpired between us together.
Seconds turned to eons.
It was a flash of movement. Ciaran’s nostrils flared, his hands clenched at his side.
His body was vibrating so much I could hear it like string music. Then, wordlessly, he closed the distance, pushed me into the far wall, and slammed into me, his mouth hungrily capturing mine.
Ciaran growled into my mouth, taking and demanding, and my cock pulsed. He pulled back to offer a satisfied grin before kissing me again, though gentler this time, his teeth nipping at my lower lip.
I moaned approvingly. Spinning us around, I pinned him to the wall, wedged his legs apart, and pressed all of me against him. The rods holding my jackets crashed to the floor, sending my expensive wardrobe down with it, and I didn’t give it a second thought.
Ciaran’s erection pressed against mine and I rocked up into him. Sparks of friction made me go weak. It was all at once wonderful but also not enough to quench my desire.
My hands were in his hair, at his neck, at his back, and skimming up the inside of his shirt before we parted just long enough to remove the shirt altogether.
When my bare chest skin touched his chest, the connection sizzled, sending flares of intense pleasure to my brain.
