Page 77 of Shipwrecked

“No.”

“I’m good at blow jobs.”

“Save your blow jobs for Mathieu. What I want is to fuck your mouth.” He nips the shell of my ear, his breath hot against my cheek.

I’ve seen the outline of Cillian’s cock, had the tip of it brushing against my chin. Felt that small, wet bead of precum that had dampened his shorts. I can feel it now, a hard mound digging into my stomach.

“Don’t do this to me again,” I beg. “Please.”

Cillian’s chest rumbles as he chuckles. It’s too strained to be truly amused. “You’re not getting off with nothing this time.” His arm locks around my back, keeping me in place. He reaches between us and guides out his cock. He lifts my shirt and presses against my skin. His balls are warm against my stomach. The rest is scalding against my chest.

He disappears so quickly beneath my shirt that I don’t catch more than a glimpse of pale skin. His cock curves to the left. His tip dampens my skin as he rubs against me, and he plumps up to full mast with a few strokes.

His hand sinks into my hair, and his chin presses against the top of my head. His grip is restrictive, locking me in place as he humps my stomach. My lashes flutter shut, and I suck in breaths as heat washes through me in waves. I feel his pulse, his neck so close to my mouth. I smell his sweat, his arousal.

The movement of his hips grows sharper, and his chin presses into my head, sharp exhales ruffling my hair. “I can’t decide if I want to pull down your shorts and come on your cock, press against your hole and shoot there, or make you swallow.”

I don’t have to decide. It’s up to him.

“Ah, but you picked a place where I can’t do any of those. So, so clever,” he continues.

I groan. I’m not clever. I’m an idiot. Why did I initiate in the open?

Cillian’s grip tightens. His mouth digs into my hair as he grunts, hips jutting forward sharply. His cock jerks against my torso, and hot cum shoots out in pulses, following the curve of his cock. My nipple is drenched, my pec, my sternum.

Cillian relaxes against me, catching his breath in gasps. I stand perfectly still, cum running down my chest. It’s warm. Beneath my shirt is humid and damp. I’m filthy. I’m going to come too. I just need a little contact. Just a teeny bit.

Cillian loosens his grip and pulls away. His cock slides out of my shirt, hanging in mid-air for a moment—I glimpse the damp, glistening tip—before he tucks himself away. His grey eyes are satisfied but focused. He studies my expression, then the mess of my chest, then my tented shorts.

His breathing is uneven as he reaches for me. He arranges me so I’m tucked behind the band of my shorts, then lets go.

I blink free of my daze.

Cillian’s arm slides around my lower back, encouraging me towards the main camp. I go, half-confused, but grow very uncomfortable with the walking situation. Control returns to me. I cast Cillian a sideways look, finding a contemplative expression in place.

When he catches my look, the expression wavers. “I haven’t ever touched a guy’s cock before.” Cillian rubs his jaw, something embarrassed in the movement. How can he show embarrassment for the admission but not for humping my stomach on the beach?

My eyebrows shoot up. Despite Seán’s assertion that Cillian is straight, I assumed he’d hooked up with men. He’s tall, attractive, and has a good personality. Undoubtedly, he gets propositioned all the time.

Does this mean he’s currently thinking about touching my cock? “Didn’t you and Mathieu hook up? He said you had him in tears.”

“I touched him over his clothes. And when I cleaned him, I didn’t…” He trails off with a shrug.

“I don’t want you to feel pressure to return the favour or anything like that.” I consider how to articulate my thoughts. “I said the other night, didn’t I? I like giving.” Giving isn’t the right word because what I like is being used. Like someone rubbing against my body and coming all over my chest. Having my shirt stick to my skin where his semen is left behind.

It’s dripping into my waistband. I’ll have to clean the knife belt later.

“The thing that you’re putting pressure on is my self-control, Jules. I’m just hitting pause because I want to grab Mathieu’s lube. Wait here.” Cillian drops his hand from my lower back just outside the main camp. “I’m not sure Seán will forgive me if he sees the mess I made of your shirt.”

Dusk has settled, the trees all shadows. I keep my eyes in the direction where Darren is camped, but there’s no sign of him. Nobody has seen him except Seán since he was expelled from the group. If I mull too long over what he might be thinking, how he’s likely blaming me for his social exclusion, I get nervous. I can’t think about that moment. I’ll have to unpack it at some point, probably unload it on a therapist once we’re off the island, but for now, keeping busy is more manageable than stewing.

“Son of a—” Cillian curses as he steps out of the camp. He’s got three bags in one hand. With the other hand, he snatches something off his arm and flings it on the ground. It’s green and vanishes into the treeline in an alarmingly fast slither.

“Did it bite you?” I rush forward.

Cillian turns over his hand, nose scrunched. “He bit my triskele. Why are they obsessed with me?”

I catch him by his hand and elbow, tilting his forearm to the fading light. There are two punctures, a finger’s width apart, piercing his tattoo. Beads of blood well up and spill over, black in the low light.