“P-please, Killian?—”
“Not yet,” I growled, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back, forcing him to look over his shoulder at me. His eyes were glassy, lips parted, wrecked.
I reached around, wrapping a hand around his cock. “Now,” I breathed. “Come for me, Pretty.”
He shuddered beneath me, the cry he let out punched out of him as if it had been ripped from his soul. He spilled over my hand, his back arching hard as his release overtook him. And fuck—seeing him like that? That undone? It dragged me over the edge too, hips snapping, cock pulsing deep inside him as I buried myself and came with a groan torn from my chest.
I didn’t let go. Not immediately. I pressed my forehead between his shoulder blades, both of us shaking, breath mingling in the thick, humid air. His skin was slick with sweat and lube, hot beneath my touch, and I inhaled the scent of sex, of oil. My cock still twitched inside him, oversensitive, and every inch of me throbbed with what we’d done. I could feel the rapid thud of his heart, the tremble of his muscles under mine, and I stayed there, letting myself breathe him in. Letting myself feel it all.
“Pretty,” I whispered again. “Fuck… Jamie.”
He was still trembling, visibly so, even as I eased out of him and stripped off the condom. I kept a hand on his lower back, grounding him with touch alone, before coaxing him to stand.
He didn’t speak. Just let me take his arm andguide him to the bedroom as if he couldn’t quite hold himself together. I cleaned him with a warm cloth, gentle touches—no teasing, no talking. He let me. And when I nudged him onto the bed, he went without resistance, loose-limbed and pliant, letting the sheets cradle him.
I came back with a bottle of water and a fistful of snacks. Jamie was still lying there, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes, his expression unreadable.
I handed him a granola bar.
He blinked, took it. “No cookies?”
I rolled my eyes. “Eat. And drink. You’ll feel like shit if you don’t.”
He chewed slowly, sipping water as if he hadn’t realized he needed it until it hit his mouth.
Somehow—I didn’t even remember lying down—I ended up with Jamie draped across me. His head on my chest, his leg tossed over mine, one hand curled loosely on my side. He was already asleep, breaths huffing against my neck.
And I didn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
THIRTEEN
Jamie
I woke up sore.
Not injured. Not aching as though I’d gone ten rounds with someone who hated me—but sore, in all the best ways. The kind of ache that hummed along every muscle, deep in the bone. The kind of ache that said last night had been real. Intense. Fucking unforgettable.
I blinked into the half-dark, warm and comfortable, and it hit me slowly that I wasn’t in my bed. The sheets were too new. The pillow smelled wrong. Correction—Killian. It smelled of Killian. Spiced soap and aftershave and heat. I shifted and stiffened when an arm tightened around my waist.
Killian mumbled something in his sleep, voicelow and rough with exhaustion, his breath ghosting along the back of my neck.
Carefully—quietly—I extricated myself from his hold, trying not to wake him. He let go with a sigh, and I slid from the bed and padded to the bathroom.
Of course, his bathroom was luxury incarnate—heated floors, rainfall shower, spotless counters. Fluffy folded towels that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The mirror was lit around the edges, glowing warm and golden.
But it wasn’t the mirror’s light that stopped me. It was what I saw in it.
There was a bruise on my ass, the imprint of a hand, faint but distinct. A bite mark bloomed red-violet at the top of my shoulder. I turned and winced as the memory of a slap across my ass flared like a phantom echo.
Jesus.
I pressed a palm to the counter to steady myself.
It had been amazing.
Hot and brutal and raw, and something else I didn’t have the right word for yet. I looked like I’d been fucked. Properly, thoroughly, deliberately fucked. And I didn’t regret a second of it.
