Chapter 14
Time Flies When You’re Having Fun?
Killian gazes up at me with an expression of such reverence that it's hard to breathe.
For the first moment or so, his eyes stay fixed on mine, seeking and searching.
And then his gaze flicks over my face and explores the column of my throat and the swell of my breasts, then the flatland of my belly and the bell of my hips, and then the shadowed V of my pussy, where it lingers.
"So fucking…perfect," he murmurs, the pause brief but telling, as if he hunted for a better word and came up short. He reaches for me. "Tell me you're mine," he whispers.
He's still in his jeans, socks, and shoes, shirtless, his zipper open. His cock bulges in the opening, pressing against his underwear, the head outlined against the thin fabric.
I kneel at his feet and untie his shoes, slip them off, tug away his socks.
Hold his eyes, unblinking and silent. Tug at his pantlegs.
He lifts his ass off the bed, and I slide his jeans down, toss them aside.
Now he’s in just his underwear, and my need for him is growing exponentially as I bare more and more of his body.
I curl my fingers in the elastic of his underwear and slip them down, intentionally allowing the waistband to catch at the tip of his cock, stretching it away from his body.
I nibble on my lower lip in anticipation, and then let his cock go free to slap against his belly.
His abs tighten as I pull his underwear off, and now he's finally naked with me, bared for me.
I slide my hands up his thighs, my eyes greedily raking over his body, taking in the hard, sharp-carved blocks of his rippling abs, the thick power of his arms, the heavy slabs of his chest. As I reach my feet, standing between his wide-spread thighs, Killian wraps his hands around my waist, above my hips and beneath my ribs, and pulls me toward him.
I catch up against him, and with me standing and him sitting on the edge of the bed, we're almost perfectly lined up, the hot length of his shaft pressed against the seam of my pussy, the tip of his cock gently waving at my navel with his slow, deep, controlled breaths. "Hi," I whisper. “You’re mine.”
“Not what I said, but I’ll take it.” His eyes are rife with need, void of levity or humor or softness. "I fucking need you, Story."
I pull him to me, and he buries his face between my breasts, and then rests the rough stubble of his chin on my breastbone and stares up at me; I gaze down at him, my hands around the back of his head. "So take me."
He surges to his feet, taking me upward as he stands; I cling to his shoulders with my arms and lock my legs around his waist, biting his lower lip hard enough to elicit a soft grunt of surprised pain from him.
Two short steps take us across the room, and now my back is pinned to the door, his hands cupped under my ass.
His mouth slashes across mine, and he snarls wordlessly, a sound of raw, ragged, erotic arousal.
His mouth tilts, and his tongue stabs between my lips, demanding I open for him.
I do, eagerly, and suck his tongue into my mouth and slither mine over his, cup the back of his head with one hand and reach between our bodies with the other, clutching his thick hard cock.
I ache, my pussy pulsing with need, dripping with arousal. Killy tips his hips toward me, sliding his length through my slit.
"So fucking wet for me," he whispers.
"Yes," I answer, meeting the pivot of his hips with one of my own. "You make me wet, Killy. Fucking take me. Please, Killy."
He growls, a low rattling of his chest, and sets me on my feet, drops to his knees.
“Not yet." Before I can so much as take a breath, his mouth is fused to my pussy and his tongue is battering at my clit with quick, light, fast flicks that take me from wet and hot and pulsing with need to trembling on the cusp of orgasm within a few very literal seconds. "Come for me first."
I cry out through gritted teeth, hyperaware that the window is open and there are people within earshot. "Killy!" I keen, panting, rocking into his mouth. "Ohmyfuckinggod—Killy. Oh god. Oh god."
I struggle to keep my voice down as he assaults me with his tongue, speeding me toward the cliff and then slowing, again and again, for long minutes of agonizing ecstasy, until I'm helplessly wild with the spasming inferno of a long-denied climax, the madness of need totally subsuming my mind.
"Killy, fucking god. Please. I need you.
" I pull him up by his ears until he stands, caging me against the door with his hard body.
His cock is a ramrod between us, bobbing with his breathing, and I wrap my fingers around him, plunge them down his length, grinning savagely as he hisses his pleasure at my touch.
"Maybe I'm not done making you come," he says, trailing a single finger up my seam.
My control, what little of it remains, snaps, then.
I shove him backward, hard—he staggers backward and hits the edge of the bed, sitting down hard with a squeal of protesting springs.
I feel a bolt of unreasoning fear and self-consciousness ripple through me initially, nearly killing the need inside me—a knee-jerk reaction to my natural assertiveness escaping.
Which, as I've explained to Killian, has not, historically, gone well for me.
But this is Killian.
My Killy.
And he just grins, a feral, heated curve of his lips, and stays on his back on the bed, feet on the floor. He tucks his hands under his head, fingers laced, waiting.
My heart hammers in my chest as I stare at him—his long, hard body naked for me, chest rising and falling steadily, stomach tensed, cock hard and thick and leaking precum, thighs bunched and powerful.
"You're fucking gorgeous," I whisper, sauntering toward him, trailing my fingers up his thighs as I move to stand between his legs. "You know that?"
He has no answer; his eyes are fixed on my pussy, and then flick up to linger on my breasts. I can see his hands unlace and clench into fists as he resists the urge to reach for me.
That restraint on his part is my undoing.
Sounds filter in from the open window—a peal of cackling, female laughter, an answering male chuckle; a florid string of curses in Italian mostly consisting of "cazzo,” which I'm starting to think means "Fuck"; the roar of an engine and the squeal of brakes.
Car doors slam closed.
A woman screams, and others follow suit.
I see Killian's brows furrow as understanding hits him at the same instant; he springs into motion an eye-blink faster than me, rolling off the bed and past me.
He apparates into his jeans, yanking on his tee and strapping on the vest; he's dressed in seconds.
I'm only a few heartbeats behind him, clad in the new outfit.
He rummages in the backpack, finds a spare pistol, tosses it to me, and then some magazines. Neither of us is wearing shoes.
There's a distant, muffled shout, and the BANG! of a single shot from an assault rifle. I don't need to be down there to know the innocent proprietor is now dead.
I peek out the window—we're on the second floor, so it's a pretty far drop to the cobblestone street, but both Killy and I have plenty of practice at drops like this.
I take a moment to hurry into my shoes, and Killy does the same.
I hear distant crashes—doors being kicked open, and shouts of anger that morph to fear.
Killy sees me at the window, peers out, and then meets my gaze. "Better part of valor, I guess, right?" He goes to a knee in the middle of the room, back to the window. "Go, I’ll cover you."
"Killy," I say, but the protest dies on my lips at the look on his face.
"Out the fucking window, Story. Now! I'll cover you." When I hesitate still, he growls. "I'll be right behind you, I promise."
I shrug into the backpack, tighten the vest, tighten the backpack straps. Stick one leg out the window, then duck my torso out, straddling the windowsill, and glance back at Killian.
"Go, goddammit!" he snaps. "I'll be fine."
The door flies open inward, the frame splintering at the latch. A body wearing armor and an olive drab tee fills the doorway; I have a split-second impression of a beard and dark eyes, and then Killian's pistol barks once, and the face rocks backward.
I swing my other leg out and drop in a single, fluid motion, my stomach rising into my throat for a split second.
Air rushes past my ear in a loud roar, through which I hear a second bark from Killy's pistol; the ground flies up to meet me and I launch myself into tuck-and-roll to absorb the momentum.
The contents of the backpack smash into my back as I roll—it'll be a wonder if something within isn't smashed.
I hear a third bark of gunfire hard on the heels of the second; a matter of seconds has elapsed since I leaped out of the window.
A barrage of automatic weapons fire erupts from above, and a window shatters in a tinkling of glass and the plaster on the outside of the wall flakes away in a fluttering shower.
My heart surges into my throat again, this time in fear for Killy.
The spray of rounds from what sounded like an MP-5 is punctuated by a single shot, and there’s a deep, snarling, masculine shout of pained rage, and another reckless chainsaw rattle of rounds peppers the window and wall to either side, and then I hear a breathless grunt.
"Hope you can fuckin' fly, bitch," I hear Killian say, and then there's a yell of shocked fear and a body thuds into the cobblestones in front of me. When he hits the ground, it sounds like a watermelon hitting the driveway mixed with someone snapping a handful of dry spaghetti.
The man's eyes flicker and flutter, and then go still as blood spreads in a widening ruby pool.
Silence, then.
A few moments later, Killian swaggers out of the front door of the hostel, pistol in his hand at his thigh, a pair of MP-5s slung over his left shoulder; his face is a mask of blood.