Page 138 of Godless Saints

“You’re deranged.”

He came right back, grin unrepentant. “You knew that before you collared me.”

We reached my room. Cillian opened the door and stepped aside. I caught his tie and dragged him in after me.

The door clicked shut.

I faced him. Pulse steady. No frantic race like that first night, no terror at what wanting him meant. This time I had chosen it. In front of everyone.

Cillian watched me, eyes dark, that dangerous amusement still playing at his mouth. But he stayed exactly where he was, giving me the lead.

I stepped closer and unbuttoned his shirt. It hit the floor with a soft thud. “You’re going to let me fuck you tonight,” I said.

“Aye. Any fucking way you want, prince.”

I slid my fingers into his hair and tugged once. He let his head fall back without resistance, throat exposed, the picture of dangerous surrender. My stomach tightened at the sight of this unhinged Irish menace choosing to yield to me.

I kissed his neck. I stripped him. Shirt. Belt. Everything. Muscles shifting under my hands. Irish ink. I hooked a finger under his jaw. “On the bed. On your back.” He went willingly. Sprawled against the sheets, that unhinged satisfaction still burning in his eyes.

I undressed slower, letting him watch every piece come off. Then I climbed over him.

I knelt between his legs, slicked my fingers, and pressed in. One knuckle. Two. Fuck. Cillian looked obscene like this—spread, chest heaving, eyes locked on mine. My beautiful, violent wreck.

Memories flashed. Cathedral aisle, the gallery kiss, the rose garden, Saint Lucia. He yielded instantly, muscles rippling around my fingers. Willing. Too willing. That unhinged dominance still burned in his eyes, untouched. It looked right on him. Dangerously right. Jaw flexing. Irish ink shifting with every breath.

Cillian groaned, pushing back onto my hand. “Harder. Spank me. Pull my hair. Baby. I’m yours tonight. You won’t hurt me.”

Heat flooded my face, my cock, my chest. I hated how the words unraveled me. And how strangely calming his absolute confidence felt. My fingers trembled before I steadied them.

Cillian grabbed the bottle of lube, slicking me generously, rough hand stroking twice. “That’s enough, baby. Fuck me now. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Cillian, I…” My throat went dry. “Are you sure?” He hooked a hand behind my neck and pulled me down into a hard kiss.

“Yeah, baby.”

I pushed in slow, eyes fixed on his face, watching every flicker as I sank deeper. The stretch. The heat. His body fought, then welcomed.

My breath fractured. “Does it feel good?”

“Fuck—yes—so good, prince—”

Cillian let out a wrecked moan. He grabbed my hips, strong fingers digging in, and yanked me flush. Buried to the hilt.

Fuck. A broken sound tore from my throat. From his. My hands splayed across his stomach, feeling every flex, every ragged breath. Overwhelming. Too much.

He forced me all the way in. “Stop—Cillian—I could hurt you—” I choked out, slapping at his chest.

Cillian laughed, completely unbothered, hips rolling up to take me even deeper. “Claim me, Moon. Take what’s yours. You won’t hurt me.”

I pulled back slow, then drove in again, deep, each thrust measured to wring every reaction from his face. Cillian growled, hips snapping up to meet me harder, forcing the pace.

“Again. Hair too. Don’t fucking hold back on me, prince, I can take it. I can take everything you’ve got.”

I fisted his dark strands and yanked his head back just enough to arch his spine. The angle changed everything. He clenched around me, perfectly. The sound came out raw and humiliating. My hips snapped forward, faster now, control fraying at the edges. He’s letting me. He wants this. Wants me like this.

Shame and triumph twisted so tightly I couldn’t tell which was which. I fucked him harder, chasing the friction, the power, the terrifying intimacy of being inside the one person who had torn every defense I owned to shreds. Sweat slicked our skin. The room filled with the obscene slap of flesh, his ragged breathing, my fractured curses in Korean and English. “You feel so fucking good,” I rasped, the words ripping out. “I’m not sure I can last—”

Cillian’s head pressed back into the mattress, eyes half-lidded and gleaming with deep satisfaction as they stayed locked on mine. He drank in every broken sound like oxygen, a wrecked, proud grin splitting his face. “Whose am I tonight, prince?”