Killian.
“You need to stop!” he ordered. His eyes—blazing, dark, wide with temper, one breath from giving in, from letting the fury take over. He looked at me as if I was both the trigger and the target.
“Use me.” I snapped, and his hold on my throat tightened. “Do it!” I tried to scoot down, to get my hands on his cock, to inhale him, swallow him, choke on him, but he wriggled back and threw me away from him in disgust.
This was what I needed. His hatred, his anger. He took a step from me, and I whined—was he leaving me? I fumbled for my zip, lowering it and pushing my hand inside to grab my cock. If he wasn’t doing it to me, then I was getting off on my own, right here in his cozy fucking home.
“Hands off,” he growled and yanked my hand outof my pants with a vicious snap of his wrist. Before I could blink, he was tearing my T-shirt over my head and pinning my arms behind my back, his grip bruising, desperate.
“Open your mouth.”
There was no room to argue—he didn’t wait. He shoved his cock between my lips with a violence that stole my breath, one hand fisting in my hair, the other braced on my shoulder to hold me in place. He drove in deep, raw and relentless, until my throat convulsed around him and tears blurred my vision. I gagged, fought, then surrendered.
Panic and fear flashed white-hot across my nerves—but under it, the exhilaration, the spark of being wanted like this, used like this, owned. It broke me open and pieced me back together all at once. My chest heaved, pulse thundered, and every broken part of me sang as I choked around him, grateful for every inch.
He didn’t slow down. The grip on my hair tightened, and he used me like a weapon, like a punishment, as though he needed to purge something violent from his soul, and I was the only person to help him. His hips snapped forward with precision, and every thrust scraped something open inside me—fear, need, belonging.
My fingers curled into the cushions as I fought for air, tears streaking down my face, spit slicking my chin. And I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted to drown in him, in the weight of his rage, in the proof that I was still real, still wanted, even if it came through violence.
He hissed my name, guttural, low, then pulled back just long enough for me to inhale, to drag in one ragged breath, before slamming forward again, deeper, harder.
He wasn’t kissing me. He wasn’t touching me gently. He was fucking my mouth as if he hated me—and maybe he did. But despite the hatred, there was heat. Connection. Fire.
His orgasm slammed into him, and he held his cock in my throat, yelling his release, then easing it out and stumbling back. “Get the fuck out,” he snapped, then stalked through another door.
I squirmed in the grip of my twisted T-shirt, desperation clawing through my veins. I got my hand on my cock and stroked hard, fast, frantic. My orgasm was brutal, ripping through me in a flash of relief and fury. I doubled over, gasping, shaking, every nerve frayed to ash.
Panting, I wiped the come off my stomach with the same shirt Killian had torn off me, dragging itacross my skin like a final insult. I let the damp fabric fall from my fingers, grabbed my backpack—the one with the tools I’d used to break into his life—and slung it over my shoulder as if nothing had happened.
And then I left. Shirtless. At peace. Back to Redcars.
Back to somewhere that stopped me from bleeding out in slow motion. From chasing fire that burned me raw. From begging Killian to tear me apart to feel something as good as fire. Because that was what it was, in the end. Need. Not love. Not lust. Not even revenge. Just the desperate hope that someone, somewhere, could burn hot enough to cauterize the holes in me.
Killian’s fury, his touch, the violence of his release had grounded me. Made me real. There was no shame in it, not for me. Shame came with pretending I could want gentle, could be touched with care, when all I’d ever understood was pain wrapped in need.
The garage didn’t ask for explanations. Redcars didn’t care why I flinched at kindness or why fire felt like peace. It was the only place that held me without condition. It was all tools, oil, and broken men who didn’t expect me to be whole.
I didn’t look over my shoulder. If I had, I might’ve run back to him.
And I didn’t trust myself not to beg.
And now, I had to face the music, and when I told Rio what hadaccidentallyhappened, he was going to kill me.
TEN
Killian
I leanedagainst my bedroom door, the wood solid against my spine, and tried to catch my fucking breath.
Jesus Christ.
My jeans were still tangled around one ankle, my thighs trembling, and all I could think about was the sight of Jamie on his knees, lips slick and red, pupils blown wide with hunger. That wicked tongue, those greedy hands, the way he’d looked up at me as if I was the only goddamn thing in the world worth worshiping. And I’d let him. Hell, I’d needed it. Neededhim.
And now?
Now, I was wrecked.
But not in a bad way.
