4. Cillian #3
“Never,” she hisses, and it pisses me the fuck off that she’s not obeying. But there’s time. I’ll get her.
Her cunt tightens around me and I suck in a breath, groaning as she grows slicker.
I know she’s close. I quicken my pace while leaning forward to capture her lips.
The kiss is greedy and my tongue slips into her mouth against hers, opening her up to me.
“Harder,” she whispers, breaking her lips away from mine.
My grip tightens around her neck as I increase the intensity of my thrusts.
“Cillian—I—gods—please. I—please.”
I watch as her eyes begin to roll as her orgasm takes over.
Her nails rake down my back as she cries out with pleasure.
I clench my jaw as she pulses around me.
Before her orgasm can finish, I pull out of her. I watch as her body shivers from the emptiness.
Flipping her around, I lift her up back onto the table so she’s on her stomach and slam myself back into her.
Valentina screams out as I begin pounding into her, my hand splayed across her shoulders, keeping her pressed onto the table.
“Such a dirty girl,” I whisper before nipping at her ear. “You take my cock so well.”
She moans her response and I slap her ass with the palm of my hand. She gasps at that and a low chuckle rolls out of me.
Hey, she slapped me first.
This is just payback.
I slap her ass twice more, and each time Valentina lets out a moan louder in anticipation.
“You going to come for me again?” I ask while pounding into her. My grip on her hips tightens, pulling her back against my cock at each thrust.
I know I’m going to leave bruises. I just didn’t care.
“Yes, god, yes,” she cries out, lost in the feeling of me stretching her and filling her completely.
I groan. “So fucking good.” Lifting her back up, I slam my hips forward again, pounding into her at a punishing pace as I reach beneath her and stroke her clit.
Valentina whimpers beneath me as I claim her over and over.
My one hand grips her hip tightly while the other keeps its attention to her clit.
“Fuck, Valentina,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Gods,” she cries out beneath me as her hands scrabble against the smooth table. More plates and glasses crash to the floor. I feel her clench down on me and I grunt at each pulse of her cunt. “I can’t…I can’t—”
“You can.” I slap her ass hard and watch as her warm skin blooms pink from the force of my hand. “And that’s. Not. My. Name.” I emphasize each word with a hard thrust.
“Cillian,” she says with a heaving breath.
My fingers move faster against her clit.
She tries to move her hips away, but my grip stays firm.
Her whole body shakes beneath me, then her strength begins to fade as her orgasm rises to the surface.
A desperate noise escapes her throat, and her pussy tightens around my cock.
She’s close again, I can feel it.
I slam into her so forcefully her arms give way.
“Cillian!” she screams as her orgasm takes over.
Her cunt clamps down on my cock so tightly I see stars.
Before I can stop myself, I grunt out her name between curses as my own orgasm rips through me.
My muscles tighten as an intense wave of pleasure courses through my body.
The apartment is very quiet in the way that rooms go quiet after something significant has happened in them, like the air is still rearranging itself.
Valentina is sitting on the edge of the dining table with her dress back in some order, but her hair is everywhere and her lipstick is completely gone.
She’s barefoot, I notice.
I don’t know when her shoes came off, but one of them is near the baseboard by the window and the other is nowhere I can see.
She’s looking at the far wall with an unreadable expression on her face.
I’ve pulled my clothes back on and I’m standing across the wreckage of the dining room from her with my arms crossed.
She looks at me.
I look at her.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says. Her voice has come back to itself—even, measured—but there’s also a quakiness there.
“It doesn’t change the fact that I despise you.
It doesn’t make us anything other than two people stuck in a marriage neither of us wanted who apparently have”—she pauses, and I watch her select the word—“physical chemistry.”
That’s an understatement. “Agreed.”
She seems to expect an argument and the absence of one seems to make her short circuit and before she smooths her expression back out.
“This was just sex,” I tell her.
“Just sex,” she quickly agrees.
“We still hate each other.”
“Obviously.”
“Nothing changes.”
“Nothing changes,” she confirms, and she slides off the table with the composure of a woman who has not just been thoroughly fucked and brough to orgasm twice.
Her composure is really fucking admirable.
She smooths her dress and locates one shoe near the window.
She picks it up then finds the other under the table and picks that up too.
She holds them in one hand and looks at me from across the debris field with those dark eyes that are back to their usual careful arrangement.
“Good,” she says.
“Good.”
She nods sharply then walks past me toward the bedroom with her spine straight and her head up, stepping over a piece of the broken bowl without looking at it.
The bedroom door closes.
I stand in the middle of the dining room and take in what’s left of it.
The broken glass.
The scattered plates and silverware.
The table that’s no longer where it was when the evening started.
My lip stings and my body hurts, but I also want to take a fucking nap.
This is uncomplicated.
Two people.
Physical chemistry.
Stress release.
Nothing that changes anything.