18. Isla
ISLA
All the sass, all the teasing commentary I had queued up for him evaporates into the hotel room air, replaced by pure, stunned shock.
Because Killian Haynes is pierced.
Way more pierced than I thought.
My eyes trace the line of small, steel beads along the sensitive shaft of his cock, a perfect ladder leading to the thick, heavy ring through the very tip.
A Jacob’s Ladder and a Prince Albert. The clinical terms pop into my head from some long-forgotten article, but there’s nothing clinical about the sight of his cock.
It’s real. It’s masculine. It’s the single most unexpectedly erotic thing I have ever seen.
His confident swagger from the bar is gone, replaced by a hesitant stillness. He’s watching me for a reaction, and I realize my silence is probably killing him. The great Killian Haynes, laid bare and waiting for my verdict.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across my face.
“Well, well, well,” I purr, pushing myself up for a better look as he sits on his knees in front of me.
“The Commissioner comes with accessories. Is this a league-mandated thing?” I finally manage, my voice a husky whisper that doesn’t sound like my own.
My gaze flicks from the mesmerizing steel to his face, and my heart gives a painful squeeze at the vulnerability I find there.
The mask is completely off. No matter who he pretends to be when he’s on the mound, that man is gone. Right now, he’s just…Killian.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “Not exactly,” he says, his voice rough. He shifts his weight, and the movement makes the steel glint in the low light. “It’s…personal.”
I reach out, my fingers hovering just an inch from his skin before I pull back having forgotten my manners. “May I?” The question hangs between us, charged and heavy.
He gives a single, sharp nod, his eyes locked on mine. “Yeah.”
I start at the base of the ladder, pressing the pad of my thumb against the first bead and dragging upward with just enough pressure to feel each one roll under my touch.
He goes very still in the way that means the opposite of calm.
The metal is cool and smooth and his skin beneath it is neither of those things, and the combination does something to my concentration.
I follow the path upward, my touch feather-light, until my thumb brushes against the solid weight of the ring.
I hook my thumb and pull ever so gently and Killian’s head drops back, his eyes slam shut, and he shudders, a full-body tremor that rocks through him.
“Fuck, Isla.”
Seeing how much my touch affects him, I take matters into my own hands, the confidence to give him the pleasure he deserves growing with every passing second.
I lean forward and replace my finger with my lips, holding myself there, not moving, just letting him feel the warmth of my mouth against him.
The sound he makes is pure, undiluted pleasure, a ragged groan that seems to be torn from the very center of him.
His hands fist in my hair, an act that has me groaning right along with him.
My tongue follows the path my fingers took, tracing each bead, learning the texture of him, smooth metal and hot, velvet skin. I take my time, exploring every inch of this new, erotic landscape. When I swirl my tongue around the ring, his hips jerk up, a broken curse escaping his lips.
“Jesus, Isla...”
The power of it goes straight to my head, a dizzying rush that makes my own blood hum. I’ve reduced the great Killian Haynes to a trembling, pleading mess with just my mouth, and the knowledge is intoxicating. I look up at him through my lashes, my lips still pressed against him.
“Still think you’re going to be underwhelmed, Coach?” he grits out, his voice strained as I take him into my mouth with a painstaking slowness that has him gasping.
When I pull off of him with a pop, a slow smile curves my lips. “I’m reassessing the data.” I wrap my hand around the base of him, feeling the weight of his pulse against my palm. “The preliminary findings are…promising.”
A ragged laugh escapes him, one that sounds more like relief than amusement. His hands slide from my hair to cradle my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks with a tenderness that feels at odds with the raw hunger in his eyes. “Good,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “That’s...fuck, that’s good.”
I take him back into my mouth, this time with more purpose, learning the way the smooth beads feel against my tongue, the way the ring provides a perfect anchor. His fingers tighten in my hair, not guiding, just holding on, as if I’m the only solid thing in a spinning world.
Every sound he makes is music to my ears.
Every shudder that wracks his frame is a victory I catalog.
The cocky pitcher is gone, replaced by this raw, responsive man trembling beneath my touch.
I explore him with my mouth, with my hands, mapping the reactions I can pull from him—a sharp intake of breath when I suck gently, a low, guttural curse when I swirl my tongue around the tip.
“Keep that up, Coach, and I’ll be coming down your pretty little throat before I get the chance to spread you open and make you scream.”
My name is a prayer on his lips, a broken desperate thing that makes me feel like a goddamn goddess.
I pull back, dragging it out, and look up at him.
His pupils are blown so wide the gold flecks are nearly swallowed whole and that power is an aphrodisiac.
I have never felt more confident, more desired, or more in control.
He reaches for me then, his hands sliding from my face to my hips, his grip firm as he flips me with a strength that steals my breath.
Suddenly I’m on my back, the comforter soft beneath me, and he’s hovering over me, his eyes dark and determined.
Before I can form a witty retort, he hooks his hands under my knees, pushing my legs up and apart, opening me to him completely.
The cool air of the room hits my warm wet center, and I gasp, but the sound is swallowed by his low groan of appreciation.
“My turn to reassess the data,” he rasps, his voice gravelly with need. “And I plan to be very, very thorough.”
He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t hesitate. He lowers his mouth to me like a man starved, and his tongue—oh, God, his tongue—is a fucking dream.
The first swipe is broad and flat, a claiming stroke that has my back arching off the bed. A broken, pleading sound I don’t recognize tears from my throat as he groans against me. “There she is,” he rasps, his breath hot on my skin. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
Fuck, his grasp on me alone could make me come. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so wanted, so hungered for, but so safe and protected at the same time.
He feasts on me. There is no other word for it. His tongue circles my clit with a precision that is absolutely fucking criminal. I fist my hands in the hotel comforter, my hips bucking against his face, but he holds me down easily, his grip firm and unyielding.
“Tell me what you want, Coach,” he demands against me, the vibration a direct shot to my core. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Someone’s… oh, God… someone’s eager,” I manage to pant out, though my voice is trembling and completely lacks its usual bite.
“That’s not what I asked.” He pulls back just far enough to look up at me, his mouth slick. “Say it.”
I’m trying to hold onto the banter, to the character of the girl who heckles him, but it’s a losing battle. My body is betraying me, singing a different tune entirely, and the only thing I can hold on to is Killian’s hair between my legs.
“Fuck me with that tongue, Killian. Show me how good you really are.”
He chuckles against me, the sound a dark, wicked vibration that sends another shockwave through my system.
“That’s my good girl,” he says. “Just getting a read on the crowd.” And then he lowers his mouth back to me.
His tongue is soft and warm against my pussy as he delves inside me.
I swear to God I see tiny gold stars at the contact. “The reception seems…enthusiastic.”
I try to form a retort, something about his form or his technique, but all that comes out is a high, desperate whine. He’s relentless, his tongue working me with an expertise that feels both practiced and completely, utterly devoted to my pleasure.
“Oh, my God, Killian,” I cry out. “If your tongue is this good, please tell me your—” My words die in my throat as he sucks my clit into his mouth, his tongue working a relentless, circular torture that shatters every coherent thought.
“I’m not telling you another thing until this pussy is dripping all over my goddamn face.”
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
His words are a dark, filthy promise that shatters the last of my defenses.
There is no more banter, there are no more clever retorts.
There is only the raw, desperate need he’s unlocked in me, and the overwhelming certainty that he intends to keep his word.
His mouth descends on me again, and this time, there is no playfulness, no teasing exploration.
This is a focused, relentless assault designed for a single purpose.
My complete and total unraveling.
His tongue fucks into me with a rhythm that steals the air from my body, then flattens against my clit with a pressure so perfect, so exact, my vision blurs and I can’t focus on a single thing.
I am a babbling, pleading, litany of broken sounds and half-formed words that are his name and prayers and curses all tangled together.
My fingers are twisted so tightly in his dark hair I must be hurting him, but he only groans his approval against me, the vibration a direct line to my throbbing core.
“Killian,” I sob, my voice a broken thing I don’t recognize. “Please...”