Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Lily
When I wake up, I’m in the room alone, but I can tell Killian spent the night in that chair.
There is a blanket hanging off the armrest, and the room still has his scent.
I throw off the covers I buried myself in last night.
The bedroom is spacious and has its own living room area, similar to my parents’ room, but this one is a lot bigger.
All I want is to wash my face, brush my teeth, and shower.
I feel gross. Going through the duffle bag that Jodi put together for me, I pull out a toothbrush and body wash buried under a few pieces of clothing.
Dad would call this a go bag. Growing up, he would say in case we ever have a surprise trip planned, all we need is our go bag, and it should only hold a few necessities.
Now I understand what it really is—for moments like these. A surprise trip is more of a hideout.
Pulling out what I need, I carry it out of the room. The door across from my bedroom is the bathroom, and I quickly dart from one to the other as though I’ll get in trouble for taking a shower. As I do so, I see the door to Killian’s room slightly open, and he’s on the phone with someone.
There’s an open foyer area right before reaching his room, and I stop when I hear a voice. It’s a low rumble, too deep for a normal phone call. Curiosity, sharp and immediate, prickles at my skin. I move toward his room quietly so as not to make a sound on the worn wood.
I press my eye to the narrow gap between the door and the frame.
The air in my lungs freezes. He’s there.
He’s standing in the middle of his room, his back to me, and he is completely, utterly naked.
The phone is pressed to his ear, his other hand resting on his hip.
My first thought is just a blank, stunned recognition of his body—the broad, tapering lines of his back, the solid strength in his legs, the curves of his ass.
I should look away. I know I should. This is a line I shouldn’t cross. But my feet are rooted to the spot.
We already did the deed, but I didn’t have a view of his body like this.
“What are you wearing?” his voice drifts out, a low, intimate murmur. “Send me a video of you touching yourself.”
The words are crude, a raw slap in the quiet of the hall.
They hit me with a physical force, a jolt that goes straight to my core.
A flush of heat blooms in my belly, creeping up my chest to my neck.
My breath catches, a tiny, audible hitch that I pray he can’t hear.
I can’t see his face, but I can hear the smile in his voice, the confident, filthy amusement.
“I bet you’re soaking wet right now, aren’t you?” he continues, his voice dropping even lower. “Record everything. Touch yourself for me. Slide your fingers through that mess and tell me how it feels.”
My own hand clenches around what I’m holding.
My panties, a simple cotton barrier, suddenly feel constricting, damp.
An ache starts to pulse between my legs, a slow, insistent throb that mirrors the rhythm of his voice.
I watch as he shifts his weight, the muscles in his hamstrings flexing with the movement.
He’s getting into it, his body leaning slightly into the phone as if he can reach through the line and touch the person on the other end.
“I want to hear everything,” he says, the command soft but absolute. “I want to hear that slick little sound your fingers make when you fuck your hole. Don’t hold back.”
What is wrong with me? Why am I getting turned on?
My nipples pebble into hard, aching points against the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
The friction is a delicious, maddening tease.
I press my thighs together, trying to quell the building pressure, but it only makes it worse.
The heat intensifies, a low, liquid fire spreading through my veins.
I’m a voyeur. I’m listening to my captor have phone sex, and my body is reacting with an honesty that shames me.
“Mmm,” he groans, and the sound is pure hotness.
It vibrates through the floor, up my legs, and settles deep in my pussy.
I can see the tension in his shoulders now, the way the muscles cord and release.
He’s stroking himself with his free hand, I realize.
I can’t see it, but I can hear it in his voice, in the slightly ragged edge to his breathing.
“Tell me you want to suck my cock,” he growls. “Tell me you want me to fuck your mouth until I come down your throat.”
The image his words paint is so vivid, so graphic, that a soft gasp escapes my lips.
I clap a hand over my mouth, my eyes wide, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate to escape.
Does he hear me? He doesn’t react. He’s lost in his own world, a world of filthy whispers and imagined touches.
My body is no longer my own. It’s a vessel for this illicit arousal, a traitor responding to the sound of his voice and the sight of his naked skin.
I can feel the slickness coating my inner thighs, the desperate clench of my muscles around an emptiness that suddenly feels unbearable.
I want to touch myself. I want to slide my own fingers into the wet heat he’s describing and find out just how good it feels.
“I’m close,” he breathes, the words strained. “Are you close? Are you gonna come all over your fingers for me?”
He turns his head slightly, and for a terrifying second, I think he’s going to see me. But his eyes are closed, his face a mask of concentration and pleasure. The line of his jaw is tight, his lips parting.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice a guttural, raw thing that tears right through me. “Now.”
His entire body goes rigid. The muscles in his back and ass clench, a beautiful, agonizing sculpture of tension.
A shudder wracks his frame, a visible wave of release that runs from his shoulders down to his heels.
My own body mimics the response, a sympathetic convulsion of pure, unadulterated lust that makes me dizzy.
I have to bite down hard on my knuckle to keep from crying out.
The wave of pleasure is so intense it almost brings me to my knees.
I’m pressed against the cool wall outside his door, my heart thundering, my body thrumming with a desperate, aching need. The silence that follows his release is heavier than the quiet before it. And I am trapped here, soaking wet and utterly undone by a man who doesn’t even know I’m watching.