30. 30
Harlow
Killian slams my chest against the cold granite of the kitchen island. My dress is yanked up. I lift on my forearms as I look over my shoulder. His knife slices through the elastic of my panties.
Wetness pours over my backside and slips between my cheeks, coating my most sensitive parts. The space is dark except for the blue moonlight streaming in from the balcony’s glass doors. Still, I catch the olive oil bottle in his hand.
Uh, no.
He’s going for it.
“I, I don’t know if I’m ready,” I blurt.
The plug’s widest part stretches me again before slipping free. My ass clenches around nothing, but Killian places the blunt head of his cock against the skin before I can recover.
“You screwed up tonight,” he murmurs, dark and low.
“Wha—What?”
“Who texted you? Because it wasn’t Keysha.”
“It was,” I counter, but my voice wobbles.
“And the flowers?”
“How did you—?” My mouth gapes open, trying to understand how he knew that. Maybe he did see them at the trailer.
My stomach sinks as guilt blankets my body.
Suddenly—
He presses in, but his length doesn’t advance. He smacks my ass — hard — scalding the skin.
“Arch your fucking back and take me.”
My arms tremble at my sides. There’s no warm-up. No please, or reassuring words. Nothing.
“I’m sorry... about the phone,” I sputter.
Another slap, harder.
“Ow!”
I push off the granite. His forearm presses against my spine, pushing my chest flat against the stone.
His weight lifts, just for a moment as he retrieves his wallet from his pants, which are tethered around his legs. A fistful of green bills flash in the light. He bunches them in a wad of crinkled cash. His hand grasps my throat, and he stuffs the paper into my mouth, filling it.
“Don’t fucking spit it out.”
That isn’t a request. It’s a dark command.
I can’t respond with my mouth full. I am frozen in shock.
His tip returns and pushes against the tight muscle. Firmer this time.
“Come on, Harlow,” he growls.
Smack!
Smack!
I cry out, but the money muffles my voice.
Smack!
Smack!
It’s too much. Too painful. I relent and arch my spine to make him stop. My hips lift into the air.
His big hand grips the flesh, and his other holds his shaft in place. Slowly, he presses in.
I hold my breath, the pressure enormous.
Then—
The muscle finally yields, stretching wide enough for the head to slip through. My ass closes tightly around his shaft as he pushes deeper.
My eyes squeeze shut and my molars bite down on the wad of paper jammed into my mouth. I take him inch-by-inch, each one a challenge.
Halfway in, I squirm more, whimpering into the paper.
“Shhh,” he orders low.
Then his hips touch mine. I am trembling and full.
Really full.
“So damn tight,” he groans and exhales a long breath. “I finally get to fuck this stubborn, virgin ass.”
My cheek sticks to the cold granite as I look back at his towering form, tall and ominous. He moves, giving me his first thrust. Every nerve in my body responds to the intrusion. He doesn’t have to touch my clit, yet it’s engorged.
I hate it. I love it. I bear it.
He keeps going, careful and steady. He folds over me and gives me slow, grinding strokes, seating himself to the base every time.
“You like that, lowly CNA?” he rasps.
A broken little moan is stuck behind the paper, but I don’t think he cares because he suddenly grips my hair tightly, messing up my beautiful hairdo.
With his other hand, he clutches the money sticking out of my mouth. He doesn’t remove it — just holds it there.
“Who’s been texting you tonight, baby?”
My eyes widen. He can’t know. He just can’t.
“Keysha,” I say, but the word is indiscernible.
His hips snap, jolting me.
I grunt.
“I know you’re not telling me the truth,” he murmurs, his face close to mine.
He forces the money further into my mouth, then retracts a little. The bills are crinkled against my tongue.
“Suck it like it’s a filthy cock.” He slams into me hard once more, and I gasp. With my mouth opened wider, he rams the money deeper. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes. “Go on, suck, or I’ll make you hurt for a week.”
Every time I try to speak, he stuffs the money deeper, hitting my gag reflex.
With my lips trembling, I relent once more and suck.
Spit collects in my mouth, and I use my tongue to coat it against the paper’s dry surface, desperate to make it slide easier.
It’s dirty. All money is, but at least the spit lessens the musty, stagnant taste.
He keeps the cash held in place as I rock my chin, feeding the money in and out.
He chuckles darkly. “Look at you. You’re a whore for money, aren’t you, baby? You can’t help it. Trash is born hungry for it.”
The word trash lands harder than his palm. He called me trailer trash when we met, and it hurts more now that he knows me. It must be role-playing. Otherwise, he’s furious. Shame burns through me, yet my body tightens around him anyway. I hate that it wants what hurts me.
“God, I love watching your mouth take it like you’re starved.”
He straightens, his weight lifting off my back. He gazes down, watching where we’re connected.
And then—
His hand slips under my hips and reaches my clit. But it isn’t his fingertips.
His knife.
He turns the blade sideways. He lays the flat of the blade across my swollen clit. It pulses against the cold steel while the sharpened edge waits one careless movement away.
The sharp edge is right there, ready to cut if not held perfectly, yet I don’t protest, the danger only fueling my arousal.
Instantly, I cry because my body hates me. It responds to dangerous touch so fast.
Too fast.
I spit out the money and unravel, pinned beneath him, the blade held with care.
Tears pool onto the counter and wet my hair and cheek.
“Oh, Kill,” I say meekly, despicably weak and small.
“Jesus, you’re fucking easy. Your sad little body was made for me.” He moans while pumping in sensual strokes. “Your ass sucks so hard when I pull out. You’re desperate to keep me inside of you.”
I swallow back tears and nod. He retracts his hips and my bottom chases him.
He’s right. I want all of him.
Inside of me.
Every inch.
“Say it,” he growls, threatening to pull out completely.
“I love your cock inside of me,” I confess, loud and audacious. “I can’t get enough of you.”
He pulls out anyway — completely.
I groan in frustration. “No, Kill. No.”
He drags his crown through the slick oil, up and down my ass crack, then massages the opening, teasing me.
I lean into him, back fully arched, begging for more.
“This ass want me, baby? First it wouldn’t let me in, and now it can’t get enough.”
My thighs shake and I lean back more, feeding in his tip. The tight ring opens for him. The tip slides in, but he won’t advance. My hips tilt, and the muscle releases and squeezes, trying to pull him in again. He holds it there.
My throat is tight as I beg, “Please. Please. Please. Oh, God, please.”
Because I do want more. I want him using me as hard and fast as he desires. I ache to feel that fullness again.
“Fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth as he watches my hips rock back and forth on his tip.
Finally — finally — he pushes in.
“Ohhh, Killy,” I moan.
I can’t believe I just called him that!
“Killy,” he echoes, amused. “Is that stubborn mouth finally trained like other women?”
I frown. “No! It was a mistake.”
Immediately, he palms my ass cheek, worshipful and tender. “It’s okay, baby. I’ll let you be the only one who gets to call me that.”
My heart skips a beat.
“God, you make it so hard to deny you anything.” This time, his tone holds angst I don’t recognize. “And this ass is fucking phenomenal.” He gives it a slap, then watches in awe as it bounces with every mind-blowing thrust.
“It’s all yours,” I murmur, my mind lazy as euphoria spreads through my body.
I don’t care anyway. It’s true. I want him to know I’m his. I want him. Only him. And I’ll give him whatever he needs to prove it. I melt onto the counter in complete submission.
Like the woman-pleasing sex god he is, the flat of the blade rocks against my clit as his hips drive into me, riding the pleasure wave together.
I break again, my cry visceral and desperate.
“Oh, ohhh, Killy— You’re the best I’ve had. The best.”
Just then, his groan fills the space as he reaches climax, releasing deep into my body.
His panting carries, loud and heavy as sex swirls around us — heavenly and sensual.
He pulls out, but I stay frozen, shocked, shaking, and even a little scared.
His pants rustle, then his belt clinks. I finally manage to move. I gather my ruined thong from the floor and wipe the oil from my trembling thighs before tugging my dress down.
My senses slowly return.
Wow... That just happened.
I look around.
A light flips on in the distance. Water runs. A faucet.
He doesn’t ask if I’m okay before walking away. The distance leaves me colder than the granite. I need something — anything — to prove tonight was more than punishment.
My body says it was. I am sore. Really sore. It hurts to stand straight.
I take a step and wince. The toe of my high heel kicks something.
The moonlight catches a set of keys. I pick them up, figuring they’re Killian’s.
Maybe they dropped from his pants pocket.
There’s a FOB, a silver key, and a decorative charm.
The FOB is exactly like the one for my car. The silver key says “House.”
House.
Whose house?
The charm reads “Harlow.”
I freeze and bite my bottom lip.
No. Can’t be.
“Killian,” I call out.
Silence.
He must be washing up. I walk stiff and careful, the muscle and skin still burning from his rapture. As I creep in the other direction down a hall. At the end, I grasp the front doorknob. It creaks open, letting in the sweltering Florida heat.
“It can’t be,” I whisper to myself.
The house key slides in perfectly. It twists.
My head tips back and I stare at the ceiling in disbelief.
Killian wants me to move in.
Here.
With him.
“Harlow,” he says.
My gaze snaps down the dark hall where he stands.