Page 83 of Sweet Vengeance
It’s low sixties, but the sun is out, the weather prepping to change seasons. I haven’t gone hiking at all since I moved to Ashford, and it’s perfect that the first time I went was with Cillian.
Cillian, whom I’m in love with. Cillian, who set up this perfect day for us. We hiked, had a picnic lunch he’d made, and talked—talked and laughed and cuddled on a blanket.
Afterward we went for ice cream and walked around the shops in downtown Ashford, and now we’re pulling back up at the house. This is the only date I’ve ever been on, but I know none before it could have topped it. No one could have been better to share all the firsts I’ve had with Cillian other than him.
There are still no cars in the driveway, and just like Cillian said, he didn’t get a phone call all day. When we get inside, I’m surprised when he doesn’t go straight upstairs. I’m dying to feel Cillian inside me, and I know he must feel the same.
“Hey,” he says softly, and I look up at him. “Can I play for you?”
My hands start shaking. My heart races, and it also feels so big, like it doesn’t fit in my chest anymore. “Yes. I wouldlove that. You don’t have to if you’re not ready, but I would love to hear you.”
“I can’t promise I’ll be any good. I haven’t played in a long time, but I think it will be one of those things I can’t forget, ya know? Like the muscle memory is still there. I want to try. I want to be more like you.”
It’s wild the way he sees me. I imagine it’s the same the other way around—me seeing things in Cillian he doesn’t see in himself. “Come on. I want to hear you play.”
When we get to the black, upright piano, Cillian pulls out the bench seat. We sit down together. He opens the piano book, going directly to page eighty-seven, the book creased there.
Moonlight Sonata.
“It was her favorite.” Cillian’s hands are shaking, and seeing it makes my heart break, while at the same time, I’m so proud of him.
“I can’t wait to hear it.” I press my lips to his shoulder. “You can do this.” The man beside me has done unimaginable things. He’s hurt people. He’ll hurt more people, yet this is probably the scariest thing he’s ever done—and maybe one of the most important.
Cillian doesn’t slowly work his way into it, instead placing his fingers directly onto the keys and starting to play. He only gets about ten seconds in before fumbling two notes. “Fuck,” he grits out. “Sorry. I should be able to do this.”
“Cut yourself some slack, Cil. You don’t have to be perfect.”
“Yes, I do. I haven’t played for her. She would hate that. I want to do it right.”
“She wouldn’t care about that, and neither do I. She would just want you to have this.”
He nods, and I realize how much Cillian needs this. Thathe’s playing for me, and for her, but more than that, he’s playing for himself, to get back a piece he lost with his mom, something he’s been afraid to look for until now…until me.
He starts over four times but doesn’t get as frustrated, doesn’t curse or get down on himself. He simply tries again until we get to that fifth time and Cillian makes it further than on any of the others. The melody is gorgeous—melancholic, with an almost haunting sound. From there it goes into something faster, more upbeat. I can tell he hits a few wrong notes, but this time he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let it hold him back. Cillian keeps playing, lost in the chords, his hands so beautiful against the keys. His hair is in his face, his body completely into the music, into this song he’s giving to his mom, the person he loved so much and lost.
The next part of the song feels…darker. Dark and rough but equally as beautiful. Not flawlessly played, but that doesn’t matter. It’s Cillian claiming a piece of himself back, and that’s what makes it perfect.
And then…it’s over. He’s sweating and breathing heavily before an anguished cry rips from the back of his throat. I pull him into my arms, and Cillian comes easily, sobs openly and honestly—and passionately, like he does with everything. I wonder if he’s let himself do this at all since his mom died. If he’s tried to be strong and not believed that strength is found in this moment right here, when you show how you feel and let yourself feel it. He believes that for me and would with anyone else, but we’re always hardest on ourselves.
Cillian lets me hold him while he cries for a mom he loved with his whole heart, for a lost childhood and maybe even the ways he’s lost his father too.
He cries like he’s making up for lost time, and I tell him it’s okay, that I love him, that he’s strong and brave, because he needs to hear those things are a strength just like he toldme they are.
And when he’s all out of tears, his lips press against my neck over and over and over again, soft but needy, desperate, like some of the moments in the music he just played.
“I need you,” he says, all breathless want.
He turns me so I’m straddling the bench, pulls me closer, my legs wrapping around his waist, and when he takes my mouth, I know this is exactly where I’m supposed to be, where I was always supposed to be. None of the other things matter. Just this. Just us.
He tastes like salty tears mixed with Cillian. He owns my mouth the way he does the rest of my body, tongue pushing in deep, making me feel needed and desirable, both things I only get with him. I’m pretty sure all the blood in my body congregates in my groin, my cock hard as stone, every nerve ending in my body buzzing with need for him. I claw at him, a surprising growl slipping past my lips when he pulls away.
“Listen to you, sounding all feral for me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not ever going anywhere.” He takes off my glasses, then tugs my shirt over my head. I help him along, and the second the shirt is on the floor, he slides my glasses back onto my face.
Cillian goes for his own shirt, but I shake my head. Neither of us ended up putting our hoodies on earlier. It was the perfect day, cool enough not to work up a real sweat, but not cold yet, so I’m able to go straight for the buttons on his short-sleeved shirt. I open them one by one, fingers more eager as I go. I want to make this last, but we’re both vibrating with hunger for each other. I feel it radiate off him as potently as I feel it inside myself.
Our mouths fuse together again, hands grazing, touching, sliding against heated skin. I want him to touch me everywhere, want to do the same to Cillian. I want to be a part ofhim, want there to be no end to me because I just continue on in him.
His hand slides down my back, every place he touches on me coming even more alive. Cillian pushes his hand down the back of my jeans, cups my ass, making me moan into his mouth and roll my hips against him.
