Page 7 of Unreasonably Yours

I give her all the info I know and share my location.

Now this was only slightly stupid.

Cillian's hand rests on my thigh, giving it an appreciative squeeze. His fingers tease, running up, stopping just short of where my thighs meet, the touch causing my breath to quicken and making me shift in the seat.

After ten minutes of torture, I finally break, “You're mean.”

At the light, he turns to me, the red wash of taillights making his wicked grin even more intoxicating. “I could be.” He grips my chin, pulling me toward him to deliver a chaste kiss. “If you'd like.” I swallow hard, trying not to vomit out just how much I'd like that in excruciating detail.

The light changes.

Even though it feels like hours, in reality, it only takes about five more minutes to pull into his driveway.

“Are you some kind of trust fund kid?” I ask, taking in the detached townhome before me.

Admittedly, as someone who has unironically uttered the statement “that's a nice double-wide” more than a few times in my life, my opinions on architecture aren't the most refined.

A fact my ex absolutely loved to point out.

However, with at least three stories, a charming red brick driveway, ivy growing up the side, and a lovely, well-maintained brick patio surrounded by flowers, the place is inarguably stunning.

“My dad ran a bar and my mom’s a school counselor, so. . .” He slips an arm around my waist, settling my back against the car. “No.”

I press my hand to his chest, temporarily pausing his kiss. “Ok. Are we about to meet your six roommates then? Because, while I’m sure they’re lovely people, if so, I will get us a hotel.”

He cocks a brow. “No. Just us.”

I look around him to get another peek at the facade. “The only other option is the mob or a rich spouse, because there is no way you live here alone. No offense.”

Cillian laughs, that rich sound once more turning my insides molten. “You know, not everyone in Boston is in the mob, right?”

“A wife, then?” I ask, grinning up at him. “I’m down to be a third, I just want to be sure all sides are consenting.”

“No sugar mommy or daddy. Just me. ”

“Look, no millennial without a wealthy family or a nefarious side hustle lives like this on their own.”

“It's my uncle's house. He and his husband moved to Florida a couple of years ago, and he didn't want to sell.” Finding the answer sufficient, I nod and let him lean in to kiss me.

“Now, do you need to see the deed or?” he asks, taking a step back, leaving me breathing heavily against the car.

“Maybe later,” I concede.

I was kidding, but when we walk into the kitchen, I realize I may actually want to know everything about this house. Old wooden beams run along the ceiling while a brick fireplace and oven take up an entire wall. All original. All dreamy.

We don't pause at the first-floor living room, but I take note of the deep sectional, tastefully scattered with blankets and pillows, and the uncluttered coffee table.

In fact, as he leads me up to the fourth-floor primary suite, it's clear everything is uncluttered.

Lived in, yes. But overall, incredibly clean.

Shame sends a twinge through my gut. My own apartment was a rat's nest in comparison.

Thankfully, the bedroom manages to distract me. Not because it reveals all the mess the rest of the house lacks, but because one wall of the attic room has been replaced with a massive floor-to-ceiling window.

“Oh,” I breathe. Little lights twinkle down the hill from the house, and to the left, a sliver of Boston proper glows against the night sky.

“Best part of the house,” Cillian says. He wraps his arms around my middle, pulling my back to his chest. I shiver with pleasure as his lips graze my ear and move down my neck.

He releases me to settle on the well-worn loveseat facing the window. “Come here,” he says, extending a hand to guide me onto his lap. I straddle him, happy to find the furniture doesn't let out even the barest hint of protest.

Between the room's warm light and the glow of the city behind me, I'm able to study him more closely than before.

Too pretty.

My palms itch to pull the sketch pad from my bag.

Beg him to play Rose to my Jack. Instead, I try to memorize his features: green eyes framed by dark lashes, thick brows, full mouth, freckles scattered across strong cheekbones, and a short, well-groomed beard.

Even the few things that could be accused of being flaws—like his nose, strong and broad but clearly broken at least once, or the flashes of white through his dark beard and hair—only make him more appealing.

I pull the elastic from his hair, running my fingers through the shoulder-length waves. He practically purrs with satisfaction as my nails graze his scalp. When his eyes slide shut, I pull him into a kiss.

Rough hands travel up my bare thighs to the exposed skin at my midriff. He tosses my top aside, leaving my breasts exposed.

Silently, I thank past me for embracing one of the few perks of being a card-carrying member of the ‘Small Tits Fat Ass Club’ and skipping the bra today.

Cillian looks just as grateful, smiling as he trails his mouth down my neck to my chest.

My head falls back, and my hips grind against him as he teases each of my nipples with his tongue.

He takes his time, his mouth and hands mapping my upper body until I'm practically whimpering with want. “Bed?”

I just nod. Finally.

Before I can move, he places my arms around his neck, takes hold of my ass, and stands.

I shriek, clinging onto him like my life depends on it .

A laugh vibrates through his chest. “I've got you, doll,” he says against my hair.

“I hope so,” I squeak.

He sets me down on the edge of his bed, the duvet cool and soft beneath my hands. He lifts my chin to look at him. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” I say with a nervous laugh. “I. . . that has never happened to me.”

“Glad to be your first.” He winks. I roll my eyes and playfully push his head away.

His laugh distracts me from his hands. They grab my hips, pulling me to the very edge of the mattress, and I suddenly fall to my elbows. He unbuttons my shorts, tugging them off along with my underwear in a fluid motion.

Cillian takes me in and I let him, savoring his slow appreciative gaze. “Gorgeous,” he says.

He goes to his knees, slipping my sneakers off, kissing my ankles, my calves, my knees, all the while keeping his eyes on mine.

With every inch closer to my center, my anticipation ratchets up.

His lips trail the inside of my thighs, the delicious scratch of his beard sending gooseflesh across my body. He nips the lower edge of my belly. “Let me taste you,” he says, breath hot against my skin.

I nod. My yes hardly audible, even to my own ears.

Cillian wraps an arm around one thigh, fingers teasing before opening me to him. His tongue dips down, moving up slowly to circle my clit, but not quite making contact.

I whimper, need threatening to burn me alive.

His laugh puffs against me, and my hips buck. His free hand presses me down with swift, solid force. “Patience,” he chides .

“Not a virtue of mine,” I manage. “Please,” I sigh. If he asked, I'd happily beg at this stage and probably enjoy it.

The tip of his tongue flits across my clit and my breath catches.

As a less-than-chaste fat girl, I've had my share of disappointing head. Not for lack of trying by my partners, but sometimes they simply don't know how to properly please a body like mine from jump.

This man was not going on that list.

He draws me close to the edge, pulling me back, building and building my pleasure. The moment this divine torture becomes too much, he slides a finger inside me, then another, stretching me slowly, fingers finding my G-spot with ease.

“Cillian,” I rasp. A tremor thrums through me, my whole body beginning to feel staticky and weightless. “Cillian,” more a cry now. “I-I'm?—”

Stars explode across my vision.

He lifts his head, slowly pulling his fingers from me. Moisture glistens on his dark beard, and a satisfied smile rests on his face.

Shaky but determined, I sit up, grabbing his t-shirt and dragging him to me. I want to taste myself on his beautiful mouth, want to burn this moment into my memory.

When we finally pause to breathe, I slide my hands beneath his shirt. Beneath the ink on his left side, the skin is bumpy with a latticework of scar tissue. I don't linger, moving my hands to feel the muscles of his back. I lightly drag my nails down his spine. He shivers.

“It seems unfair that I'm the only one without my clothes on,” I say into the shell of his ear, playfully tugging on the piercing in his lobe with my teeth.

He grabs my chin, kissing me fiercely. “Guess I should fix that.”

Clothed, Cillian was enough to make me more than a little stupid—as my present state made painfully clear—but naked?

I try to tell myself not to openly stare. Surprising no one, I fail, drinking him in.

He's built like a power lifter or rugby player—not sculpted but solid. Every inch of him, from his broad chest to those thighs, screams strength. No wonder the man had carried me to the bed without fuss.

The silver pendant I noticed earlier sparkles against the dark hair curling on his chest and trailing down his abdomen. My gaze follows that path to his cock, hanging hard and so thick I almost moan at the thought of how damn good he’ll feel.

I want to trace the tattoos across his chest and down his legs with my tongue. I want to tell him he's beautiful. Instead, I just watch as he reaches into his nightstand, rips the condom open with his teeth, and rolls it down the length of his cock.

Cillian kisses me, slow and deep, as he pushes me onto the mattress.

I scoot back as he does, taking advantage of the swath of soft space offered by the king-size bed.

His cock twitches against my pussy.

My body rises to meet him. I had been patient enough.

He teases before sliding halfway into me. I gasp, the ache excruciating and wonderful.