Heat surged through me as I leaned in, opening my mouth to take him in. His hand guided my pace, firm but never cruel, and I stroked myself as I hollowed my cheeks and let him fuck my mouth.
And somewhere in the sound of rushing water, I let go of the chaos and sank into the pleasure.
His fingers threaded tighter into my hair, his hips rolling with more force now as I moaned around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. I kept stroking myself, matching the rhythm he set, heat coiling deep in my belly, tightening with every thrust.
“You look so fucking perfect like this,” he groaned, hand tightening, not enough to hurt—butenough to keep me grounded, tethered. “Taking me so well. I’m coming.”
Pleasure crashed through me, my body tensing as I spilled over my hand and onto the tile. My moan choked off around him, and he came a moment later, thick and hot, hips stuttering as he held me there, then eased out.
He helped me up, kissed me—tasting of steam and salt—and we toweled off in silence, our movements slow and unhurried.
I dressed, and he handed me water, then coffee, then walked me to the door as if it wasn’t hard for him to let me go.
But I saw the way his hand lingered, twisting into the back of my hair as he kissed me one last time. The pain-prick was sharp, brief, and beautiful.
“See you soon,” he said, low and certain.
I didn’t answer.
Because I wasn’t coming back.
Not for more of Killian. Not for more of this.
It had been everything—and that was precisely why it had to end.
Except it didn’t.
The next night, I found myself back at his door. I didn’t even remember making the decision. One second, I was alone in my room listening to Rio fuckwhoever he’d brought back with him, and the next, I was knocking at Killian’s door. And when he opened it, said nothing, just pulled me inside and kissed me, I let him.
And then it happened again. The night after that.
Three nights in a row.
Each time, I told myself it was the last. That I was scratching an itch. That it didn’t mean anything. But that was a lie, and I knew it. Because every time I left, I carried more of him with me. And every time I came back, it was harder to pretend I didn’t want more.
I didn’t understand what was happening to me. Why couldn’t I stay away? Why did I keep letting him touch me, taking me apart with his hands, spanking me until I was raw and pliant, bending me to his will until everything else disappeared? He made the chaos stop. He made me feel seen, wanted, and wrecked in the most addictive way. I needed that high, that release. I needed him like oxygen.
I had to stop.
The fourth night was different.
I can do this. I can stay away from Killian.
We were all staying late to work on a project—the Pontiac 1970 GTO none of us was in a hurry to finish,because the experience of our blended family bonding was everything that helped me forget about fires, or, worst of all, Killian. Robbie and I were shoulder-deep in rebuilding the suspension, greased up to our elbows and teasing each other through the whole mess. Rio turned up the radio and started dancing like an idiot, hips jerking, laughing when Robbie threatened to throw a wrench at him.
Enzo joined in to tease Robbie—shirtless, smug—and even Logan showed up, his partner Gray in tow. Cassidy followed, her laughter filling the space, dragging Tudor along for the ride.
It was chaos. Loud, happy chaos. It felt like family.
And then it ended.
People left. One by one. The lights dimmed. The quiet settled in. The noise started, the cravings, the need… And I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I felt jittery. Restless. And then, like gravity pulling the tide, I found myself at Killian’s door.
Again.
FOURTEEN
