Page 97 of Godless Saints

Cillian’s grip on my hips turned bruising. “Fuck… So fucking tight. You’re squeezing me so good.” His voice was wrecked, hips twitching like he was barely holding back from slamming up and forcing every inch inside. “You okay? Talk to me.”

“It hurts,” I rasped, voice cracking. “Don’t stop.”

I kept sinking down until I was flush against his hips, the fullness so intense my vision blurred.

I was breathing hard against his neck.

Cillian’s hands moved over me. One hand slid up to gently grab my face, tilting it so our eyes met. His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. His eyes were dark and vulnerable.

“Fuck… look at you,” he rasped, thumb dragging rough over my wet cheek. “Taking me like you were made for it. That Saint Lucia boy who used to run… Missed this so bad it fucking hurt, Moonshine.”

“Fuck,” I gasped, grinding down harder, chasing that sharp edge of pleasure and pain. “Cillian—”

His hands shook as he gripped my hips hard and flipped us suddenly without pulling out. He pressed me into the mattress and fucked me with three slow, deep strokes. The wet, obscene sound of skin slapping skin filled the room.

Then he pulled out. The sudden emptiness made my hole clench around nothing. He flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up, and drove back in with one brutal thrust.

I moaned loudly into the mattress, back arching hard, the stretch burning deep and perfect.

“Fuck,” Cillian growled. “Look at this greedy hole. Swallowing my cock so deep. This ass is mine, Moonshine. All of you is fucking mine.”

He pounded into me. Hard. Brutal. One hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip as he drove deeper.

“Say it,” he snarled, slamming into me harder. “Tell me whose cock is ruining this tight ass. Tell me who you fucking belong to.”

“You,” I gasped, voice breaking on every thrust. “I’m... Fuck—I’m yours, Cillian.”

He fucked me harder.

“Good boy.”

The praise hit like a gut punch. I tried to hold on. My body betrayed me anyway. The orgasm tore through me as I spilled between us, hole clenching hard around his cock. Cillian snarled my name and followed, slamming deep. I felt every thick pulse as he spilled inside me.

We collapsed. His weight pinned me to the bed. Chest heaving against my back. Cock still buried deep. I couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. My body was loose and trembling.

Cillian pulled out carefully and dropped onto the bed beside me, dragging me with him.

It was almost 5 AM. The fire had burned low. The room was quiet except for our ragged breathing.

I tangled myself in him. Leg thrown over his thigh. Face buried in his neck. Arms wrapped tight around his waist. Cillian held me just as hard. One arm locked around my back. The other hand buried in my hair, pressing my face to his chest.

After everything, maybe it didn’t have to be the end. Public kiss. Videos. Father’s silence. The Patronage Seat already cracking apart. How much worse could it really get?

I still had time. I could talk to Father. Frame it as strategy. Vivienne could spin the optics. Sawyer could distract. Aleksei would back Cillian.

If they saw the real him, the one who butchered Korean at dawn just to meet me halfway, who kept choosing me when it was reckless and suicidal, who would burn his entire legacy for me, maybe they’d understand.

Maybe we’d survive this after all.

The thought felt almost innocent. Stupidly hopeful. Ugh. Who was I kidding? I knew better.

I pressed my lips to his neck. “I wish it could just be us,” I whispered. “No one else. Just us, Cillian.”

Cillian’s hand dragged slow through my hair. He pressed a rough kiss to my temple. “I know,” he muttered, breath hot against my skin. “Me too, Moonshine. Me too.”

My eyes drifted shut. Exhaustion dragged me under.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t run. I stayed.