35. Killian
KILLIAN
He was in my father's room.
I know because I counted the minutes. I was in the hall for most of them—not listening, just aware. The quality of the quiet through that door is its own thing. I've been in that hall before and I know what the quiet means.
When the door opens, my father comes out. He straightens his shirt. He looks at me. He gives me the nod.
I go in.
She's on the bed exactly as my father left her. Following instructions—I can tell by the way she's still, her hips elevated, her hands flat on the blanket. She looks at me when I come through the door. She doesn't apologize or explain or move to cover herself.
I close the door.
I come to the edge of the bed and I look at her for a moment. What my father left. What she's holding. My hand comes to her without me deciding it—thumb tracing through the warmth of her pussy, careful, reading the slick heat of her. She makes a soft sound and her hips tilt toward my hand.
I look at her face.
"Jesus," I say. Then, quieter: "Look at you."
She is full of my father's cum, held exactly as he told her to hold it, her thighs pressed together, body doing what she was told, and looking at me like she's been waiting for me. There is nothing in the world that has prepared me for what this does to me.
I turn her over. Get her face-down against the pillow, her wrists pinned above her head in one hand. She doesn't resist. She settles into it—the full surrender, the ease of letting go—and something cracks through my chest at how naturally she gives me this.
"Say my name," I tell her.
"Killian."
I push inside her bare.
I feel my father immediately. The warmth of him—the slick heat around my cock on the first stroke, the evidence of him still inside her.
For a split second I wait for the rage. It's always there.
Two years of watching her, eight months of watching Ryan eat consequence, weeks of this arrangement—the rage at being second has been structural.
It doesn't come.
What comes instead: She took him. She held what he gave her. And now she's taking me on top of it.
"You feel that," I say. Not a question.
"Yes," she breathes.
"What do you feel?"
"Both of you." Her voice is already wrecked. "I feel both of you."
Something tears open in my chest. Not rage.
The opposite—the raw, unglamorous feeling of a man who has been keeping count his whole life and finds, in this one moment, that the count doesn't matter.
She's warm with him and warm from me and all the accounting I've been doing my entire life has stopped adding up to anything useful.
I grip her wrists and drive in harder.
"Say my name again," I say.
"Killian—"
"Again."
"Killian. Please?—"
"Please what." I set a pace that's nothing like my father's.
Deep and urgent, everything I've been holding back for the past hour of standing in the hall.
She's clenching around me—those small reflexive grips—and each one breaks my rhythm by half a beat.
I can feel how wet her pussy is, how full, that slick warmth of her around my cock on every stroke, and it's destroying me faster than I expected. "Say what you want."
"I want your cum," she says. Her voice breaks on it. "Please—I want you to breed me, Killian, please?—"
The scorekeeping goes completely quiet.
What's left is just this: her body taking mine, his already in her, and my entire system reducing to the single urgent need to add myself to what she's holding. I let go of her wrists. Both hands on her hips now—gripping, measuring, not careful. She pushes back into me.
I drive into her with everything I have.
Her second orgasm takes her loud and sudden, her whole body gripping me, nails in the blanket, my name again but differently—the stripped-down version, the one that doesn't have room for anything extra.
Her clenching tears through my pace. I go harder.
I can feel every pulse of her around me and I'm driving through all of it, her grip, his warmth, the full overwhelming fact of her, and then my own body stops following any instruction I'd give it.
I bury myself.
The breeding thought detonates through me without permission, without decision, the way only the true ones do: stay, fill her, put something in her that lasts, put it in her on top of his, let her not know whose it is, let that be the answer to the question.
I come.
Hard. Long. My cock pulsing in distinct beats, the heat of me filling her on top of his, and she's still clenching around me through her own orgasm and the combination of it—the warmth, the grip, the full knowledge of where I am—is the most undone I have ever been in my life.
I don't move. I stay buried. My hand comes flat to her lower belly—same place as my father, without thinking about my father. Just her. Just the full warmth of her body around mine, and what might be happening in there, and the fact that I genuinely cannot make myself care whose it turns out to be.
After a long while I withdraw. Slow and careful. I watch. Then I reach and press it back in—what I left and what he left—keeping her full. Covering her with the sheet. Smoothing her hair back from her neck.
I lie down beside her on top of the covers. I look at the ceiling.
The scorekeeping is still quiet. I don't know what to do with that.
I've been competing my entire life—with my father's authority, with Ryan's history with her, with the simple fact of always being second to someone.
And lying here right now, beside her, I find that I don't care.
Not about first or last or whose. She's warm with all of us and she's holding all of us and I can hear her breathing go slow beside me.
That's enough.
I get up when she's close to sleep. I go back to my room.
I don't sleep for a long time.