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)
Then he hit the ground hard, landing not on the concrete—
But on top of Brendan himself.
He froze there. Brendan’s body was hard underneath his, this unforgiving expanse of sinewy, tapered musculature, the thin designer shirt doing nothing to hide the contours and ridges of hard-packed flesh pressing against Cillian. Swallowing, struggling to reorient himself, struggling to push away the sudden surge inside him, Cillian pushed himself up carefully on his hands, trying to hold his body away.
“Sorry,” he managed to force out, barely a whisper, looking down at the man sprawled underneath him with his silver-shot black hair spilling against the gray wool area rug.
But before Cillian could push off, something in dark eyes caught him. Something smoldering, deep, heavy—and Brendan lifted one rough hand and threaded his fingertips lightly across Cillian’s brow, skimming his hair back.
“Use this,” Brendan breathed, voice rough, low. “Ad libs happen. Sometimes brilliance comes from them. This may not ever make it to film…but the woman you love is underneath you, Cillian. Richard. And she’s flushed, breathless, and the way she’s looking at you…it isn’t with hate. Not the way she’s moving under you.” And to emphasize, Brendan gave a subtle roll of his body, making every inch of him press up against Cillian until Cillian had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold still. “How would Richard test this moment with Violette? How overcome would he be, struggling to control himself, waiting for her signal that she wants him?”
“I…I…”
Richard would find it hard, he thought.
About as hard as Cillian was finding it as he struggled to control himself right now.
They were acting. This was Richard and Violette, not Cillian and Brendan, but all Cillian felt was a tightly masculine body underneath him and the sudden throbbing urge to spread his legs and find out how it would feel to have to stretch himself to wrap around Brendan. Cillian licked his lips, started to shift himself, this restlessness that could only be eased by either more contact or by less, but the current frozen trembling state was unbearable, he—
“I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” he rushed out and thrust himself off Brendan, tumbling to the floor next to him and then dragging himself up to sit with his back propped against the sofa, burying his face in his hands.
The soft sounds of fabric moving told him when Brendan sat up. “You all right?”
“…yeah. Just tired, brain’s starting to go a little sideways from staring at lines too long.” Smiling ruefully, Cillian pushed his hair back. “Sorry.”
“We can take a break.” Brendan settled himself on the floor next to Cillian, leaning back against the sofa. “We’ve got a little while to iron our characters out.”
“…did I at least do better?”
“Mmhm.” Brendan thumbed his script. “Seems like when it’s just us, you’re mostly fine.”
“Too bad I can’t pretend it’s just you and me on set.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I…” Cillian frowned. “I don’t know. I suppose that would work, most of the time. Almost everything we’re practicing right now is us.”
“So do that,” Brendan said. “If it works and keeps you focused, why not?”
“Mm. I guess that’s a fair point.” Cillian rolled his head to the side, leaning his temple against the sofa’s armrest, and tried not to think about the fact that Brendan was…right there. “Thanks for dinner. And for helping me find a zone with the reading. I feel a bit less like a fuckup now.”
“Eh. Thank me when I’ve done something worth thanking me for.” Brendan lightly slapped his script against Cillian’s thigh—then pitched it over his head onto the sofa as Brendan stood, uncoiling himself in a single fluid movement. “You planning to head home now?”
“I…” There it was. That unspoken thing hanging in the air. Cillian winced, looking down at his own script. “Sure.”
“Or I could pin you to the bed and fuck you until you beg me to stop, but that’s really up to you,” Brendan said blandly.
“Wha—ow!” Cillian snapped his head back so hard he banged it against the arm of the sofa—and immediately slammed his eyes shut, wincing. “I swear to God you’re going to kill me one of these days, you know that?”
“Not intentionally.”
“…you just…say things, I…” Cillian growled, rubbing at the back of his neck and peering up at Brendan. “You were really serious about that? About…doing stuff with me.”
Brendan settled to prop his hip against the back of the sofa, looking down at Cillian contemplatively. “If you’re comfortable with it, yes. But I’ll need you to tell me how it works.”
“…of course you do. Because you’re not satisfied if you’re not torturing someone, so I have to say all of this out loud.”
“There’s that.” No remorse. Bastard. “But there’s also that people won’t know what you want if you don’t tell them. So…tell me what you want, Cillian.”