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“Take them off.”
Cillian wraps his fingers through the belt loops of my denim cut-offs and tugs them off with a hard, fast movement. When he groans again, I feel the tickle of his breath against the thin fabric of my panties.
Oh my god.
Slowly—painstakingly so, he runs a thick finger along where my inner thigh meets the mound of my pussy and slides it under the lace of my thong. When he pulls the fabric to the side, exposing my wet lips, it’s instinctive to arch my back in anticipation. A hard hand against my hip pushes me back into the bed. “Stay still,” he growls, mouth vibrating against my clit. He keeps his hand there, heavy and domineering, locking me in place.
It sends me fucking wild.
My fingers curl into the bed sheets as I try to ignore the throbbing in my nub or the aching of my rock-hard nipples. The anticipation is torture.
When his lips claim my pussy, his mouth is warm and desperate. I can’t stifle my moan; it’s animalistic and sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away.
But it’s over as fast as it began.
When I look up, dazed, Cillian’s staring down at me. His eyes are wild, but the rest of him is perfectly still. Hands balled by his sides, back and shoulders rigid. Panting, I rip my attention away from his glare, and down to the bulge constricted by his black jeans. “Why did you stop?” I find myself garbling. My voice floats above my head, not even sounding like it comes from me.
He draws in a deep breath, the vein in his temple ticking, then in a gruff, emotionless voice, he says, “I said, no questions. Now, I have calls to make. You must be hungry.” Eyes smoldering, he adds, “Go eat. You’ll need your energy.”
And with his words bouncing around the room like an echo, he stalks out, clicking the door shut behind him.
I’m left dizzy with lust and a million questions I’m not allowed to ask.
Dahlia
Thoughts race around my head faster than Lewis Hamilton at the Grand Prix. It makes time impossible to keep track of, and I don’t know how long I’m staring at the blades of the ceiling fan whizzing around on their axis until my stomach lets out a low growl. It snaps me out of my daze, and I realize that Cillian’s ominous parting words were right: Idoneed to eat.
I pull my shorts back on, slip on Cillian’s sweater, and nervously pad out of the hut. The sky is streaked with gold, the sun low outside of the dome. I take the stepping stones carefully, then walk through the maze of plants, flower beds, bushes, and trees, hoping I’ll stumble across the living quarters by luck. In the daze I was in when we arrived, there’s no way I could find my way to it from memory. Only a few twists and turns later, I see the glass wall. Holding my breath, I check to see if Cillian is in there.
Empty.
Still, I’m on edge, creeping through the door and checking the living space before heading back into the kitchen. Relaxing only a little, I tug open the fridge door. It’s stocked with Tupperware, each neatly labeled withbreakfast, lunch, dinner.I choose lasagna and shove it in the microwave, hoping that I’ve stabbed enough buttons on the panel for it to heat through. I’m too nervous to set the table and make a proper meal out of it, so I wolf it down over the kitchen sink and wash it down with a glass of tap water.
Then I decide I’m safer back in the cover of the jungle.
The Garden of Eden.
The humid air hits me as soon as I walk outside, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it. I wander around aimlessly, gently stroking the petals of bright flowers, smelling their sweet scent, and trying to imagine myself living here for the next month.
What will I be doing?
Heat rises to my cheeks. Theobviousaside, I picture myself spending my days with my feet in the river, pouring over the psychology textbooks I brought with me. Whatever happens with Cillian, I’m determined to use this time to study, so that once I’m released back out into the wild, equipped with yet another new name and new life, I’ll be ready to take the entrance exam to any college I like.
After spending some time snaking through the network of cobbled paths, all of which seem to eventually lead back to the river, I decide to walk along the perimeters, following the curve of the dome. On the opposite side to the living quarters, there’s another glass wall.
Cillian is on the other side of it, cell phone to his ear, pacing up and down the length of an office.
I freeze, my heart missing a beat. But he hasn’t seen me. Relaxing a little, I sink down on a nearby bench, just out of sight, and watch him.
He’s emotionless, strong. Like he always seems to be. Stalking up and down, up and down, in long, powerful strides, only his mouth moving when he talks. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can tell whatever comes out of his mouth comes with pure confidence. Suddenly, he takes the cell from his ear, looks at the screen, and tosses it onto the desk.
Then, he looks right at me.
His white-hot stare pins me to the bench.
Oh god, should I pretend I can’t see him? Can’t do that, we’re looking right at each other! God, I hope he doesn’t think I was just…watchinghim. Well, technically I was, Jesus, I’m so creep—
My thoughts stop racing as he breaks the stand-off with a flick of his finger.
