I spent years feeling barren of sexual desire. I didn’t crave sex in the least. In fact, I actively did everything I could do to avoid it.
It wasn’t specific to Tristan, either. I wasn’t attracted to any other men.
None except for the one in my head.
And when I did fantasize about Cillian, I didn’t really imagine sex.
I imagined life playing out. I pictured new places, new countries, a house of our own, children that looked a little like him and a little like me.
Maybe I was so focused on an alternate life that I didn’t dig too much into the details of what that life might include.
Or maybe it was simple self-preservation. Why torture myself with yet another thing I couldn’t have?
But now, with Cillian only inches away from me, there’s a stinging throb still hot on my lips from a kiss that’s already a day old.
That throb emanates through the rest of me, too. From head to toe, I’m burning up with it. Aching with it.
The last time I had sex—real, passionate, intimate, consensual sex, not the nightmarish excuse for sex that Tristan did to me—was thirteen years ago.
With this man.
And suddenly, I’m more aware of that than anything else.
Maybe he is, too? The way his eyes flicker over my body like a hungry predator seems to suggest that he’s in the same place I am.
But assuming is always a dangerous pastime.
And I need to keep my head on straight, castle or no castle.
“How about that tour then?”
Cillian smiles and offers me his hand. He pulls me out of bed and onto my feet. I look down and frown, realizing that I’m wearing soft silk pajama shorts and a matching pajama top.
I raise my eyes accusingly. “You changed me?”
“No, of course not,” he says. “I had Matilda and Mary do it. They’re the ones who keeps this place running smoothly.”
I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.
He laughs. “You don’t trust me?”
I’m still thinking about it when he shakes his head.
“Would it matter anyway?” he asks. “I’ve seen you naked before.”
Again, the words send a flash of heat scathing across my body. This time, though, the heat zips through my limbs and lands right between my legs.
“That was a long time ago,” I point out, fighting my blush. “And I was eighteen.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m definitely not eighteen anymore,” I point out, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I’m a thirty-one-year old woman.”
“Yes,” he replies softly. “I can see that.”
The dark huskiness of his tone has the velvety quality of a compliment. It washes over me and makes me feel like there’s nothing sexier than being thirty-one.
I clear my throat pointedly, letting the topic drop before we find ourselves in dangerous territory.