Chapter 17 #3
I see it when he goes for the waistband of my pants—fine tremors running through those big, blood-scabbed fingers—and the second he notices me noticing he snarls under his breath and yanks harder.
Fabric tears. My pants and underwear come off in one rough pull and then I’m naked under him while he’s still half-dressed, rainwater dripping from his hair onto my stomach.
“Look at you,” he mutters. His eyes are black. “All spread out like you’ve been waiting for this.”
“I haven’t—”
“Yeah you have.” He shoves my thighs apart with his knees and drops between them. One hand pins both of my wrists above my head. The other drags down my chest, over my stomach, and wraps around my cock. I’m already so hard. Embarrassingly hard. He gives me one rough stroke and watches my hips jerk.
“Sensitive,” he says, almost pleased. “Good.”
He doesn’t ease into anything. He spits into his palm, rough and deliberate, and then rubs the heel of his hand on my hole. The pressure feels exquisite and I arch into it. Then he works two fingers against my hole with the wetness, pushing in. The stretch burns.
I gasp. He watches my face the whole time and doesn’t slow down.
“That’s it. Take it.” His voice is low and filthy as he pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in. “Gonna open you up until you can take my cock without crying about it.”
I make a broken sound. My wrists twist under his grip but I don’t try to pull free. The burn eases into something hotter the more he works me open. When he scissors his fingers I push down onto them without meaning to.
“Greedy.” He adds a third finger too soon—more spit, another rough push—and the stretch punches a sharp noise out of me. “You like that? Being stretched open like this?”
I bite my lip and nod.
“Words, baby.” He stills completely. Fingers buried deep, not moving. “Tell me what you want or I stop right here.”
The sudden stillness is worse than the burn. I stare up at him, breathing hard, face on fire.
“I want—” My voice cracks. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Louder.”
“I want you to fuck me.” It comes out raw. “Hard. Please. I can take it.”
Something dark and satisfied flashes across his face. He pulls his fingers out, spits into his hand again, strokes himself once, and lines up. The blunt head of his cock presses against me—thicker than I expected, hot—and then he’s pushing in with one long, relentless thrust.
The stretch is brutal. I cry out. My back arches off the bed as every nerve in my body lights up.
The pressure is intense and my muscles seize.
He doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush against mine, and then he just holds there for a second with his forehead pressed to mine, breathing like he ran a mile.
His hands are still shaking.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
He doesn’t move.
For a few long seconds he just stays buried inside me, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard through his teeth.
The stretch is intense—thick and relentless, every inch of him forcing me open around him.
I can feel my body trying to adjust, the burn slowly shifting into a deep, heavy fullness that makes my thighs tremble.
My fingers curl into fists but he still won’t let me move.
Killian’s mouth finds the corner of my jaw. He kisses it once, rough. Then lower, along the side of my throat—careful to stay away from the mark—before his teeth scrape the skin just under my ear. A soft nip. Then another, harder. His breath is hot against me.
“Breathe,” he mutters. Not gentle. Just an order. “I’ve got you. You’re taking it.”
I do. A slow inhale. Another. The worst of the burn eases. My body starts to accept the size of him, and the fullness turns into something hotter, darker. I shift experimentally under him and feel him twitch inside me on a groan.
That small movement is all it takes.
He starts moving.
There’s nothing careful about it. He fucks me like he’s trying to crawl inside my skin—hard, deep, relentless snaps of his hips that shove me up the bed until I have to brace my hands against the headboard.
Every thrust punches a sound out of me. He likes those sounds.
I can tell by the way he chases them, angling until he finds the spot that makes my vision white out and then hammering it without mercy.
“That’s it,” he growls against my mouth. “Take my cock. Look at you—taking it so fucking well. Bet my brother never fucked you like this.”
“Killian—”
“What? Too much truth?” He pins my wrists again and drives in harder. “He was careful with you. I can smell it. All soft and gentle. You needed that then.” His teeth scrape my jaw. “You don’t need it now.”
He’s right. The realization hits me harder than the next thrust. I’ve spent my whole life being handled like glass. Killian is handling me like I won’t shatter, and something inside me is lighting up under the roughness like it’s been waiting for permission.
He shifts, drags me further down the bed by the hips, and folds me almost in half. The new angle is devastating. I sob. He laughs—low, rough, almost mean—and does it again.
“There it is. That’s the sound I wanted.”
His mouth moves down my throat. I feel him get close to the mark—Calder’s mark—and for half a second I think he’s going to put his teeth there.
Instead he jerks back like he’s been burned.
A low, frustrated sound rips out of him.
He turns his face and bites down hard on the other side of my neck instead, high up under my ear, far from the gland.
Pain flares bright and clean. He’s leaving something of his own. Not a claim. Just proof he was here.
I notice the swerve. Of course I do. He won’t touch what isn’t his to take.
The thought should make me feel claimed by someone else. Instead it makes me push up to meet the next thrust harder.
“More,” I hear myself say. “Please—more—”
“Greedy little thing.” He gives it to me. The bedframe knocks against the wall. Rain hammers the window. His scent is everywhere—smoke and whiskey and blood and pure, furious want—and I can’t get enough of it.
Somewhere in the middle of it his rhythm stutters. His forehead drops to my shoulder. His hands are shaking worse now, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
“I almost killed you,” he says suddenly, voice raw against my skin. “I had my hand in your hair and I wanted—” He cuts himself off. “You should’ve told me to get the fuck out of this room.”
I turn my head and find his mouth. Kiss him hard enough to shut him up. When I pull back I’m breathing just as hard as he is.
“I didn’t,” I say. “I’m not. Shut up and fuck me.”
Something in his expression cracks open. He stares at me for one stunned second—like he can’t believe I just said that—and then he’s moving again, harder than before, like the only answer he has left is this.
I come first, sudden and violent, spilling between our stomachs with a broken cry.
My whole body locks up around him—thighs shaking, back arching hard off the mattress, hole clenching tight in helpless pulses that drag another rough sound out of his chest. The pleasure is sharp and overwhelming, white-hot behind my eyes, every nerve ending lit up from the relentless drag of his cock against that spot inside me.
I’m still coming when he keeps fucking me through it, short, brutal thrusts that force the orgasm to stretch out longer than it should, until I’m oversensitive and gasping and half-sobbing into his shoulder.
He doesn’t slow down.