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)
“Wh-what…what are you…”
“This. Right here.” Brendan grazed his thumb beneath Cillian’s lower lip, feather-light yet lightning-sharp, and Cillian’s lips tingled, parted. “Where the red in your lips bleeds over your skin. And…here.”
His hand slid downward, curled against Cillian’s throat, and as Brendan lifted him subtly Cillian’s mouth went dry, his knees so weak that he couldn’t even move his legs to satisfy the deep-pulsing urge to wrap his thighs around Brendan’s hips.
“I like here, too.” That stroking thumb followed the lines of Cillian’s throat, slipping down to the sensitive line where it blended into his clavicle. “And…hm.”
Slowly Brendan tilted his head, studying Cillian as if searching him, and Cillian held his breath, anticipation fluttering through him as that touch left his throat, stroked down between them. Over his chest, flattening his shirt against his skin, trailing behind a warmth that stole Cillian’s voice, his willpower, leaving him just this twisting knot of wanting in the shape of a man. Lower. Over his stomach, faint ticklish-shiver touch, inhale and hold, tighten, tense…and then Brendan’s hand slipped to the side, curled over Cillian’s waist where it blended into his hip, fingertips just a kiss of intimacy through his clothing.
“…right here. Every time you turn, the way your body twists into your hips. I like those things about you.” With an easy, self-assured rumble, Brendan bent over Cillian and ghosted just enough of a kiss across his mouth to leave Cillian craving more. “Maybe I’ll discover more things I like tonight. But for now…”
He rolled off Cillian, lifting himself up with a lazy flex of strength, leaving Cillian abruptly feeling cold, exposed, and completely confused.
“Get dressed,” Brendan called, sauntering toward one of the few unobtrusive doors set into the same wall as the entryway. “We’re going to be late for rehearsal.”
Cillian just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, while his entire fucking circulatory system tried to explode one vein and capillary at a time; while he tried to get his raging heartbeat and his aching cock under control.
“Bastard,” he whispered, more to himself than anything. “That man is an absolute fucking bastard.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BRENDAN LEANED AGAINST A STURDY scaffolding, script tucked under his arm, and watched as Cillian reached for Sophie—no. As Richard reached for Violette.
Cillian and Sophie stood on a quickly-assembled segment of spiral staircase made of unvarnished planks, she several steps above him, looking down on him from on high. While Cillian ascended one step at a time, never taking his eyes from her, as he recited the lines of a poem from memory—not one of the greats, known by all, no, but a little-known poet who published anonymously in the weekly papers, and by that recitation, he was telling her…
He knew that anonymous poet was her.
That underneath her icy façade was a heart yearning to be free; to be seen; to be known.
And Cillian was delivering his lines perfectly.
The entire set was silent, watching the two of them together. They played well off each other—Cillian looking at her as if there was no one else in the room, his earnest eyes and shy yet knowing smile speaking of an ache, a yearning, and the delicacy of this secret thing he spoke between them. While Sophie…her talent shone through in the subtle nuances of her expression, telling a story of realization without her ever speaking a word. That moment when it struck her that the words he spoke were her own, her eyes widening with disbelief and a touch of emotion melting her frost, betraying her vulnerability to her own creative work; then the way she seemed to become so fragile, so ethereal, her heart shining through her skin in a radiant glow as it sank in that he knew, and he spoke her words not to accuse her, but to accept her.
They had the entire cast and crew spellbound. Even Newcomb was silent, giving away nothing save for a tiny pinch between his brows.
As it should be.
This was how it should look when actors found their strides. They were both in street clothes, in a mess of a set that was more construction work than anything, not even a hint of costuming or backdrop to set the mood.
And yet between them they created the scene themselves, and pulled those watching into this ethereal and glittering space that was the perfect stage for a snow princess to start to fall in love.
As Brendan watched, Cillian stopped just a few steps beneath her, his hand outstretched, inviting. “I first saw you standing splendid and aloof from all others, Lady Violette,” he breathed. “And in that moment, I loved your beauty. But it was when I first saw you, slipping away from the printers’ in the dead of night with your skirts muddied and your hands stained with the ink of your passion…that I knew I was falling in love with you.”