Page 19

THIRTEEN

Jamie

I woke up sore.

Not injured. Not aching as though I’d gone ten rounds with someone who hated me—but sore, in all the best ways. The kind of ache that hummed along every muscle, deep in the bone. The kind of ache that said last night had been real. Intense. Fucking unforgettable.

I blinked into the half-dark, warm and comfortable, and it hit me slowly that I wasn’t in my bed. The sheets were too new. The pillow smelled wrong. Correction—Killian. It smelled of Killian. Spiced soap and aftershave and heat. I shifted and stiffened when an arm tightened around my waist.

Killian mumbled something in his sleep, voice low and rough with exhaustion, his breath ghosting along the back of my neck.

Carefully—quietly—I extricated myself from his hold, trying not to wake him. He let go with a sigh, and I slid from the bed and padded to the bathroom.

Of course, his bathroom was luxury incarnate—heated floors, rainfall shower, spotless counters. Fluffy folded towels that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The mirror was lit around the edges, glowing warm and golden.

But it wasn’t the mirror’s light that stopped me. It was what I saw in it.

There was a bruise on my ass, the imprint of a hand, faint but distinct. A bite mark bloomed red-violet at the top of my shoulder. I turned and winced as the memory of a slap across my ass flared like a phantom echo.

Jesus.

I pressed a palm to the counter to steady myself.

It had been amazing.

Hot and brutal and raw, and something else I didn’t have the right word for yet. I looked like I’d been fucked. Properly, thoroughly, deliberately fucked. And I didn’t regret a second of it.

Even if part of me didn’t know what to do with that .

I exhaled and leaned in closer, running a fingertip over the bite.

Killian fucking McKendrick had marked me.

And I’d let him.

Behind me, the door creaked open. I caught his reflection in the mirror before I turned—Killian, shirtless, hair rumpled, sleep still heavy in his eyes. He looked softer in the morning light, as though all his sharp edges had dulled overnight.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gravelly with sleep.

I nodded, though my throat felt tight. “Yeah. Just… processing.”

His gaze dropped, taking in the bruises, the mark on my shoulder, the way I was standing.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he was behind me, his hands resting on my hips. “Too much?”

I shook my head. “No. It was… perfect. Just more real this morning, you know?”

He met my eyes in the mirror, searching for something. “You look beautiful like this. Marked.”

A shiver rolled through me, and I hated how much I wanted to hear that.

How much I wanted it to be true. “It was good,” I said, knowing that wasn’t enough to explain the transformation that’d happened when he was fucking me.

All the noise in my head had receded, and for a few blissful minutes last night, I hadn’t needed to think at all.

He took a new toothbrush from the drawer, still half-asleep, and passed it to me.

Then, he stepped back, not far, but enough to give me room, his fingers trailing away as if he didn’t want to let go.

I focused on brushing my teeth—mundane, grounding, normal—but my neck was burning with awareness.

The intimacy of it—the fact he was brushing his teeth beside me at the other sink as if we did this every morning—was unreal.

Two sinks. Matching towels. And him, rumpled and real and so close I could feel the warmth coming off his skin.

I felt wrong, because now that the ache had settled and the adrenaline was gone, embarrassment was starting to creep in.

I’d asked for it. All of it. I’d begged. And fuck, I’d loved it. But that didn’t stop the second-guessing, the part of me wondering if I’d gone too far. If I’d looked desperate. If he’d been into it… or if he’d just given me what I wanted because I asked.

My eyes flicked to him in the mirror again. He was watching me—quiet, unreadable—but not pulling away. Not judging.

And I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

Killian set his toothbrush down, stepped closer again, and without saying a word, kissed me, softly at first, testing—but when I didn’t pull away, he deepened it, his fingers curling at my hips.

“Come on,” he murmured, “shower with me.”

We stepped into the glass-walled shower, steam already curling through the air. The water was hot, pouring over my back as Killian reached for the shampoo. He worked it into my hair with slow, gentle fingers, massaging my scalp, rinsing it out and tilting my chin to avoid getting suds in my eyes.

Then it was my turn. I lathered his hair, smoothing it back and feeling the tension slide from his shoulders. We passed soap between us, washed each other without teasing or rushing, hands on skin with something that felt dangerously close to tenderness.

Still, my head was a mess.

He must’ve seen it in my eyes as I leaned back on the tiled wall. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “I feel… sad, I guess. A little selfish. Like maybe I needed it just to make the noise stop.”

Killian’s expression didn’t change. “There’s nothing wrong with needing something.”

I swallowed, throat tight. “Even when it’s getting my ass slapped raw and begging for your cock? ”

“Yes,” he said firmly, stepping into my space. “Even then.”

His kiss came again, firmer now, and when he backed off, I was already sinking—dropping to my knees on the warm tiles, water cascading around me.

I looked up. He was already hard.

I reached for him with shaking hands, but he gently nudged one away and rested his palm against the top of my head.

“Start slow,” he murmured, voice thick. “Take me into your mouth. And touch yourself, Pretty. I want you to come like this.”

Heat surged through me as I leaned in, opening my mouth to take him in. His hand guided my pace, firm but never cruel, and I stroked myself as I hollowed my cheeks and let him fuck my mouth.

And somewhere in the sound of rushing water, I let go of the chaos and sank into the pleasure.

His fingers threaded tighter into my hair, his hips rolling with more force now as I moaned around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. I kept stroking myself, matching the rhythm he set, heat coiling deep in my belly, tightening with every thrust.

“You look so fucking perfect like this,” he groaned, hand tightening, not enough to hurt—but enough to keep me grounded, tethered. “Taking me so well. I’m coming.”

Pleasure crashed through me, my body tensing as I spilled over my hand and onto the tile. My moan choked off around him, and he came a moment later, thick and hot, hips stuttering as he held me there, then eased out.

He helped me up, kissed me—tasting of steam and salt—and we toweled off in silence, our movements slow and unhurried.

I dressed, and he handed me water, then coffee, then walked me to the door as if it wasn’t hard for him to let me go.

But I saw the way his hand lingered, twisting into the back of my hair as he kissed me one last time. The pain-prick was sharp, brief, and beautiful.

“See you soon,” he said, low and certain.

I didn’t answer.

Because I wasn’t coming back.

Not for more of Killian. Not for more of this.

It had been everything—and that was precisely why it had to end.

Except it didn’t.

The next night, I found myself back at his door.

I didn’t even remember making the decision.

One second, I was alone in my room listening to Rio fuck whoever he’d brought back with him, and the next, I was knocking at Killian’s door.

And when he opened it, said nothing, just pulled me inside and kissed me, I let him.

And then it happened again. The night after that.

Three nights in a row.

Each time, I told myself it was the last. That I was scratching an itch. That it didn’t mean anything. But that was a lie, and I knew it. Because every time I left, I carried more of him with me. And every time I came back, it was harder to pretend I didn’t want more.

I didn’t understand what was happening to me.

Why couldn’t I stay away? Why did I keep letting him touch me, taking me apart with his hands, spanking me until I was raw and pliant, bending me to his will until everything else disappeared?

He made the chaos stop. He made me feel seen, wanted, and wrecked in the most addictive way.

I needed that high, that release. I needed him like oxygen.

I had to stop.

The fourth night was different.

I can do this. I can stay away from Killian.

We were all staying late to work on a project—the Pontiac 1970 GTO none of us was in a hurry to finish, because the experience of our blended family bonding was everything that helped me forget about fires, or, worst of all, Killian.

Robbie and I were shoulder-deep in rebuilding the suspension, greased up to our elbows and teasing each other through the whole mess.

Rio turned up the radio and started dancing like an idiot, hips jerking, laughing when Robbie threatened to throw a wrench at him.

Enzo joined in to tease Robbie—shirtless, smug—and even Logan showed up, his partner Gray in tow. Cassidy followed, her laughter filling the space, dragging Tudor along for the ride.

It was chaos. Loud, happy chaos. It felt like family.

And then it ended.

People left. One by one. The lights dimmed. The quiet settled in. The noise started, the cravings, the need… And I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I felt jittery. Restless. And then, like gravity pulling the tide, I found myself at Killian’s door.

Again.