18. Isla #3
“Wasn’t planning on it.” His mouth drags to my ear.
“You think I’m letting this pussy go before you fall apart on my cock?
” His hips piston against mine, each thrust a perfect, devastating collision.
My legs wrap around his waist and he groans, raw and guttural.
“Greedy girl, pulling me in like that.” His voice drops lower.
“You want this cock, Coach? You want it all? Then take it. Tell me you can take all of it.”
“Yes—yes—”
“I can feel you shaking.” His thumb finds my jaw, tilting my face up to his. “Eyes on me, Coach. I want to watch it happen.”
I can only nod, my vision blurring at the edges as I lock my eyes on his. He shifts his weight, one hand sliding between us, his thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The dual sensation—the relentless thrusting and the precise, circling pressure—is my undoing.
My orgasm hits me like a physical blow, a silent scream trapped in my throat as my body convulses around him, every muscle seizing in a white-hot wave of pure ecstasy.
The world dissolves into sensation; the pounding of his heart against mine, the ragged sound of his breathing in my ear, the way his piercings seem to vibrate inside me, drawing out the pleasure until I’m sobbing with it.
Killian’s rhythm fractures completely, his thrusts becoming wild and desperate.
“Isla...fuck...I can’t...” His voice is a broken prayer against my skin as his own release crashes over him.
“Ah fuck, Isla!” I feel him pulse deep inside me, a series of sharp, shuddering thrusts that milk the last aftershocks from my own trembling body.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing and the frantic beating of our hearts.
He collapses against me, his full weight a warm, comforting pressure, his face buried in the crook of my neck.
His skin is slick with sweat, and I can feel the rapid, unsteady thrum of his pulse everywhere we’re connected.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just holds me there, pinned beneath him, as we both slowly float back to earth. His lips find my shoulder, pressing a soft, damp kiss there. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word a puff of air against my skin.
I can’t form words. I just run my hands up and down his back, feeling the tremors still working through his muscles. My own body feels boneless, liquid, completely wrung out in the best possible way.
“Sixty-three seconds,” I finally manage to choke out, my voice hoarse and ruined. “You owe me fifty-eight more.”
A rough, breathless laugh shakes his entire frame. He lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft and dazed, the gold flecks glowing in the dim light. He looks utterly wrecked, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “So, you’re underwhelmed then?” he asks, his voice rough and sleep-slurred.
A laugh bubbles out of me, breathy and spent. “The data requires further study,” I tease, pressing back against the solid warmth of him. “Extensive study.”
His chuckle has a low vibration against my skin. “I’ve got all night, Coach.”
And he does. The second time is slower, a languid exploration that feels more like a conversation than a conquest. He takes me from behind, his chest pressed against my back, one arm wrapped around my waist to hold me close.
His lips are at my ear, muttering filthy, beautiful things as his hips move in a deep, rolling rhythm that owns me.
The piercings are a constant, delicious shock with every movement, a secret language of pleasure only we understand.
The third time, I’m on top, riding him with a confidence I didn’t know I possessed, watching his face as he falls apart beneath me. His hands grip my hips, his eyes dark and worshipful, and when he comes with a broken cry of my name, I feel like I’ve won the World Series.
We don’t speak much. Words feel too small for the space we’re occupying. The room smells of sex and sweat and us, and the city lights outside his window paint shifting patterns across our tangled limbs. I trace the tattoos on his forearm, my fingers following the intricate lines.
He watches me, his gaze heavy-lidded and soft. He reaches out, his thumb stroking the curve of my hip. “I could get used to this view,” he slurs, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.
I let my head fall back against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
His arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against the solid warmth of him.
He fits against me like a piece of me I never knew was missing.
The scent of him—sweat and sex and something uniquely Killian—wraps around me, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel utterly, completely safe.
The kind of safe that makes your bones go soft and your mind go quiet.
His breath evens out against my hair, his body heavy and relaxed against mine. One of his hands finds mine on his chest, lacing our fingers together, and he brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft, absent-minded kiss to my knuckles.
This is the dangerous part. This is the quiet after the storm, where the pretending stops and the real feelings rush in to fill the space.
The sex was one thing—a spectacular, earth-shattering, three-times-over thing—but this…
this is something else entirely. This is the part that’s going to leave a mark.