14. Jade #2
The headboard slams again and I make a sound—a real sound, full and loud, nothing managed about it—and Killian groans like that was what he needed.
I get louder. I let myself. The whole room is noise: the headboard, the bed, his sounds and mine layered together, and I'm aware that anyone in this house can hear exactly what's happening in here and I don't care.
I don't care at all. Something in my chest releases with every sound I make, some long-held quiet finally letting go.
"Look at me," he says.
I look up at him. His face is flushed. Jaw tight. Eyes on mine and not moving.
"Good girl," he says. Rough. "There you go."
Killian reaches between us and finds my clit and I whine—high, embarrassing, I don't try to stop it—and my hips jerk up against him.
He keeps his thumb there. Keeps thrusting.
His pace is deep and driving and the headboard is slamming and I am completely at his mercy and he knows it and he likes it.
His other hand goes to my breast. Grips. His thumb rolls my nipple and I whimper and Killian watches me do it and his whole face shifts—hungrier, satisfied, like my sounds are exactly what he came in here for.
"Been thinking about this," he says. He drives into me. "Every Sunday." Deeper. "Every time you sat at that table." Harder. "You in my bed giving me those sounds?—"
"Killian—"
"I know." His mouth to my temple. "I know."
Killian gets his hand under my ass and tilts me up and drives deeper—and I cry out.
Loud. Unguarded. Because he hits somewhere I didn't know was there and my legs wrap around him and I don't try to muffle anything.
Let the whole house hear. Let Ryan hear.
Let Cormac hear. Two years of Sunday nights with my face in the pillow and I am done with that.
Killian groans. A real groan. Low and long and nothing controlled about it.
He holds that angle.
"There?" he says.
"Yes—"
"Good." He does it again. "Tell me when you're close."
I'm already close. The thumb on my clit and the depth of him and the wet slick sound of it—the headboard, his groaning, every grunt that means he's feeling me—and I'm clenching around him without trying and Killian can feel it.
"Close," I manage.
"Come on my cock," he says. "Come on. Give it to me."
I come hard. My whole body locks. A moan that fills the room, fills the hall, fills the whole house, and I don't care. Killian doesn't slow—his thumb stays, his cock keeps driving, deep on every stroke—and I clench and pulse and keep cresting and it won't stop.
"Good girl." Rough, low. "One more."
"I can't?—"
"You can." He grips my hip. "I've got two years to work through. One more."
Killian's fingers find my clit again. He's still thrusting. Still making those sounds that pool in my stomach and make my toes curl. The second one builds from somewhere underneath the first—slower, deeper, enormous.
"Tell me about the pill," he says in my ear. "Tell me."
"I didn't take it." Breathless. Broken. "Tonight—there's a chance—small but?—"
"Whose chance."
"Yours. Right now it's yours?—"
Something about saying it out loud. Something about hearing him want it back.
I've been carrying this alone since I stood at the medicine cabinet—the quiet of the decision, the weight of it, knowing what I was walking toward.
And now Killian knows. Killian wants it.
He's pounding into me and his voice is wrecked and he wants the same thing I want, and I feel that in my chest the same place I feel his hands on my hips.
Like being seen. Like the thing I'd been trying not to name in myself finally getting named.
"God." His rhythm goes ragged. "I want that. I want you taking my cum and it actually—" He drives into me. "Think about it? You carrying my?—"
"Yes," I breathe. "Yes?—"
"Tell me you want it." His voice is wrecked. "Say it."
"I want your cum in me, please—fill me bare, want to feel all of it?—"
He groans—long and broken—and the second orgasm hits. I clench hard around him, nails in his back, my whole body shuddering through it.
Killian loses it completely.
He's pounding into me. The headboard slamming the wall so hard I'll see the mark tomorrow, the whole bed frame shaking, the sound of it filling the room and the hall and probably the whole floor.
His sounds are completely unguarded—grunts, curses, my name—and Killian's hands are gripping my hips like anchors.
"Want to breed you," he says, not planned, not chosen, pulled out of him mid-stroke.
"Want to fill you so full. Want to put a baby in you?—"
He comes.
He drives in once—deep, fully seated—and holds there. And I feel it.
The warmth of his cum flooding into me. Long pulses, one after the other.
It's a lot. More than I was ready for. Thick and hot and real, filling me up, the heat of it spreading outward.
I feel each pulse against my inner walls.
His cock pulses through his orgasm and I feel every pulse.
He's groaning into my neck—low and broken, my name somewhere in the middle—and his hips are working in short strokes, grinding in, not pulling back, not wasting any of it.
Then: still.
He doesn't pull out. He stays buried. His whole weight on me.
And I lie there and I feel it. The warmth of him inside me, settling.
The heat of his cum and the fact of it—that I chose this, that I skipped the pill and came down the hall and asked for this, bare, with the real possibility of what that means.
I'm not scared of it. That's what surprises me.
I thought there'd be fear somewhere in here and there isn't. There's just the warmth and Killian's weight and the deep animal satisfaction of being full of someone who wanted me before I gave him permission to.
It could take. It won't—probably won't—but it could. I'm aware of that with my whole body. The warmth of him is right there, real, mine to hold onto or let go.
I want to hold onto it.
His forehead comes to my neck. His breathing is ragged. Mine is too.
"Fuck," he says against my skin. Quiet. Like he's talking to himself. "That's—god. Okay."
I clench around him. Feel the heat of it inside my pussy—all of it, warm and slick, filling the space around his cock. I clench again just to feel it.
He makes a sound that doesn't have a word.
"Don't do that," he says. His voice is completely wrecked. "Don't—you'll make me?—"
I do it again.
"Jade." A warning. Hoarse. "I mean it."
His hand comes flat to my lower belly. Not hard. Just there. "Don't let it out," he says. "Hold it."
I hold. I feel the warmth of him settle deeper. A lot of him. I can feel it when I breathe.
He stays inside me. He doesn't pull out.
He stays there until his heartbeat slows against mine and his cock has softened and the warmth of his cum is so fully inside me it's just part of me now.
Then slowly, carefully, he rolls us onto our sides.
Still connected, as long as he can. His chest at my back.
His arm over my waist. His palm flat on my lower belly, same place.
"Still full," he says.
"Very."
"Good." His thumb moves, slow, across my skin. "Stay that way."
I can feel it when I shift—the warmth of him moving inside me, the volume of it, all the cum he put there and kept. I clench softly just to feel it again. His arm tightens around my waist.
"Stop," he says. "Or I'm rolling you over."
"Is that a threat."
A low sound. "No."
I stay still. The warmth inside me. His warmth behind me. The lamp low, the north slope dark through the window, the house quiet around us.
"Very small chance," I say.
"Better than none." He presses his palm firmer against my belly. Just once, deliberate. "A lot better."
I look at his hand on my stomach. Feel the warmth still there, still settling.
He holds me like he said he would. Like half is enough. Like he's not going anywhere. His breathing evens out. His thumb moves once more, slow, and stops.
I let my eyes close.