Page 34 of Playing Dirty
"Hey, I happen to like that look." I laugh, grateful for the pivot back into lighter territory.
Our late-night dinner winds down as we drift into more relaxed conversation, and by the time we finally retreat toward our separate beds, I feel ready to simply collapse.
Once I've finished my skincare, I slip into my bedroom, my little sanctuary of pastel greens and pinks, with a bookshelf groaning under far too many paperbacks and a fluffy floral duvet. It's unapologetically feminine, and one of the perks of being a committed singleton is that no man is around to whine that the aesthetic leans a touch too whimsical.
I slide under the covers and immediately rub my legs together, savoring fresh-sheet night, one of the small pleasures I never tire of. I set my alarm, kill the lamp, and try to find a comfortable position. But the adrenaline from the hockey game refuses to fade, and a stubborn case of insomnia moves in instead.
Flipping the pillow to the cool side doesn't help. Neither does reading, or the breathing exercise from my meditation app. Nothing works, because Cillian O'Rourke is stuck in my head.
All week I've caught myself replaying our every exchange. Somewhere along the way, I actually started to enjoy our sharp back-and-forth, and I'm no longer sure if he drives me crazy because I genuinely loathe the man or because he gets under my skin in a way I have no idea how to handle.
I twist the edge of the sheet between my fingers. I need to get this under control. Athletes are a hard line for me. They look charming and fun on the outside, but in my experience, it always ends in a wreckage of fragile egos and infidelity.
Maybe all this is just the combined effort of Celeste, Sabrina, and Isabelle, all getting in my head. I cling to that possibility with everything I have. Though it certainly doesn't help that Sabrina was right about one thing: he lookeddamngood tonight.
There is something to be said for a man who can pick you up and fuck you senseless.
Celeste's words echo in my mind, and now I cannot stop picturing Cillian pinning me to a wall, which is making sleep feel impossible.
And then the fantasy hits, hard and fast and all at once. Us in some deserted stretch of concrete hallway after the final horn, hoisting me up and pinning me against the wall.
I draw in a breath as warmth spreads low through me, every nerve in my body apparentlyverymuch on board with that image. The idea takes root before I can stop it, and I hesitate, biting my lip, my eyes darting toward the nightstand. I could just…
I reach into the drawer before my common sense can stage a recovery.
The vibrator hums to life, a soft buzz that sounds indecently loud in the quiet of my room, and I press it against my clit and let out a shaky breath into the pillow.
A small, responsible voice somewhere in the back of my head is screaming that this is a line I cannot uncross, that getting off to Cillian is such a bad idea. But it's the most turned on I have been in years and I do not want to stop.
I can almostfeelhis hands on me, practically hearing that deep, warm Irish accent against my ear, murmuring about howlong he has been waiting to do this, telling me to keep quiet because someone might find us.
The fantasy is spiraling out of my control. His hand cupping my jaw to tilt my head back. His cock sliding home, thick and punishingly deep.Christ, Ace.He’d press a hand over my mouth if I let out a sound.Be a good girl for me.
I’m panting into the sheets, picturing him pinning me there while he fucks me. I shatter through the climax, my entire body trembling as I bite down on the pillow to muffle a cry, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me with an intensity that shames every real encounter I’ve ever had.
The post-orgasm clarity hits like a bucket of ice water. I lie there staring at the ceiling, heart hammering against my ribs, one leg tangled in the floral sheets and my pride somewhere on the floor with the throw pillows.
The gala is tomorrow. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll have to look him in the eye and pretend I didn’t just spend my night coming to the thought of him. I press a palm over my eyes, mortified.
"What the fuck was that?" I whisper into the dark.
9
Cillian
My manager Derek talked me into being the centerpiece of the charity auction tonight, his pitch being that it's for a good cause and I'll love it. The first part is true but the second is a massive fucking stretch.
I'm already nursing a healthy dose of regret as the Solstice Estates gala swirls around me. Old stone walls, candles on every fancy table, French doors thrown open to the terrace, all while a few hundred guests mingle in formal black tie.
I've survived enough of these events to know the script by heart. Smile for the cameras, work the room, be charming on cue. Easy enough on most nights. Less easy tonight, because the woman I have been thinking about non-stop is somewhere in this building, and I haven’t seen her since she vanished out of the arena last night before I could so much as wave.
I finally manage to extract myself from a cluster of admirers, my eyes already moving over the crowd in search of the one face I actually want to find tonight, when Derek appears at my side.
"Hey, looking sharp." He's grinning.
"You too." I clap him on the shoulder. "Just get here?"
"A bit ago." He nods toward the stage being set up at the far end of the room. "Lot of buzz around the auction tonight, by the way. And the date on Saturday with your mystery winner. You excited?"
