11
Cillian
I’m playing it cool. Because a part of me knows that if I freak out, she will, too.
But this is all totally fucking insane.
I’ve spent less than twenty-four hours with Saoirse Connelly. And I’m ready to move fucking mountains for her. I’m ready to kill if I have to.
I’m ready to pull down the goddamn skies just so that the sun can’t rise on us.
I trace circles on her back as she lies on my chest, her soft breaths falling against my skin.
“I can hear that,” she says suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Hear what?”
She smiles, turning her face up to meet mine. “Your thoughts,” she explains. “They’re going a million miles an hour.”
I laugh. “Well, I’m a thinker.”
“Wanna share them with me?”
“Usually, I’m the one asking you to tell me what you’re thinking.”
“The tables have turned, pal.”
I press a kiss to her head. “I’d tell you, but—”
“Then you’d have to kill me?”
“Worse. I’d have to kiss you again.”
She laughs and I pinch her ass. She squirms, but she doesn’t move away from me. In fact, she wriggles a little closer. Her coconut scent fills my nostrils and I breathe her in.
“You smell so damn good.”
“Stop trying to change the subject.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then why are you trying to avoid giving me an answer?”
“Because I don’t want to freak you out,” I admit.
She pushes herself up and lies on her chest so that she’s facing me. “Nothing you say could possibly freak me out.”
She sounds confident, too.
But just because she believes that now doesn’t mean she’ll feel the same way when I’ve said the words out loud.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“A hundred percent?”
“Cillian.”