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His free hand cradled my jaw as he rocked into my mouth, gaze locked to mine. “Look at me,” he growled. “I want to see those pretty eyes when you take it all.”

I did because I needed this. Needed him. Needed the weight of his cock, the power in his hands, the punishment and the promise wrapped up in every groan slipping from his lips.

He didn’t wait for my answer. His thrusts deepened to the limit of how much I could take.

I gagged once, and he eased back, letting me breathe, his hand gentle for a moment—then he pushed forward again, steady and ruthless, and this time he didn’t let me breathe.

He gripped the back of my neck, fingers digging in, holding me still as he fucked my mouth with unrelenting control.

His rhythm was measured, precise—punishment and reward in each motion.

Every time I flinched or gagged, he paused only long enough to make me feel the absence of him before pushing in again, deeper.

“Take it,” he growled. “You came to me like this—desperate, filthy. You want to be used? Then fucking earn it.”

I whimpered again, and this time it was all need. His voice coiled around me like barbed wire, dragging everything raw to the surface. The fire in me surrendered, and I pressed a hand to my cock, but he pulled out abruptly, and I gasped, drool on my chin, eyes wide.

“Hands behind your back,” he ordered. “You don’t touch unless I tell you to.”

I did what he asked, my shoulders trembling, and need was a vicious pulse.

He didn’t just take control—he stripped everything else away until all that was left was me, aching and obedient at his feet.

He made me wait, his cock heavy on my tongue, hips still, breath ragged above me.

I could feel him tremble before the tension snapped.

“Swallow,” he gritted out.

I did. Took every drop as if it meant something, as if it might fill the hollow space inside me. His taste hit the back of my throat, and I swallowed again, needy and obedient and desperate for any part of him he’d give me.

Then, he yanked me up roughly, my knees weak, vision blurry, his hands still in my hair. He pushed me hard into the corner of the elevator, his body crowding mine, heat and command radiating off him like fire.

He shoved a thigh between mine, pinned me there with nothing but pressure and presence, and then, his hand cupped me through my jeans.

One stroke. That was all it took.

I came with a broken sound, hips jerking, my body betraying every wall I’d ever built. It was raw. Messy. Humiliating. Perfect.

Everything was quiet. Still. I felt nothing but peace.

Killian zipped his pants and leaned into me, his breath still sharp, but slower now.

He adjusted my clothes gently, straightening my jacket and smoothing down the front as though it mattered how I looked.

Like I mattered. His fingers lingered on my jaw, tilting my face up.

He didn’t kiss me. Didn’t whisper cute shit.

But he met my eyes, and that was enough.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.

I nodded. Couldn’t speak.

He took a handkerchief from his inner pocket—fucking typical, as if he’d planned this—and wiped my chin with careful precision. Then, handed it to me without a word.

“You don’t have to be fucking nice,” I snapped, too raw, too close to breaking again.

Killian didn’t flinch. He held my gaze, his voice even but quiet.

“You think this is me being nice, Pretty?” he asked.

“This is me making sure you don’t fall apart five seconds after giving me everything.

” He tipped my chin so I stared up at him.

“You gave me control. You don’t just get to crawl out of that and pretend it didn’t mean something. I take care of what’s mine.”

The deliberate way he said it made something in me twist. Not fear. Not want. Something I didn’t have a name for, but maybe needed more than either.

I shoved him away, and he moved into the far corner.

His jaw was tight, his breathing still uneven, and for a second, his gaze dropped—not cold or commanding, but something else.

Regret? Restraint? His hand flexed once at his side, as if he wanted to reach for me again but couldn’t.

Whatever war he was fighting behind his eyes, he didn’t let it show for long.

He straightened, smoothed his suit, and when he looked at me again, it was as if nothing had happened.

Almost. ”Caleb tells me you’re some old-school hacker called DaemonRaze? ”

I blinked at him. That was what he wanted to ask me now?

I hadn’t hidden the code when I uploaded the files.

I hadn’t even tried because whoever he had working with him, or maybe Killian himself, needed to know I could see the same things as they did.

I might not have access to everything they did, but I knew the names and locations of the people I needed to burn.

I met his eyes. Cool. Sharp. No accusation in them. Just a question. A guess.

“Does it matter?” I asked, voice raw, throat aching, lips wet. The door slid open and light flooded in, real life intruding on whatever we’d done in the elevator.

“Can we open our eyes yet?” A woman called out, and I was mortified and proud all at the same time.

“After you,” Killian said and gestured for me to step into the light and meet whoever was on the other side.

I recognized Caleb, sitting back in a desk chair, smirking, but the other person, a woman, was new to me, and yeah, she had her hands over her eyes.

“It’s all good, Sonya,” Killian murmured, and Caleb snorted a laugh when Sonya revealed her eyes one finger at a time.

“Morning,” she added with a wink at Killian.

I should have felt ashamed, embarrassed, or any of a million things, but I didn’t.

Not with him. Not after everything that had passed between us.

With Killian, I was past shame—past fear of what it meant to want this, to need him.

He saw through every mask I wore and still hadn’t walked away.

If anything, he’d stepped closer. And somehow, that made me feel seen.

Whole. Maybe I wasn’t broken after all—just waiting for someone who could hold the pieces without flinching.

But I felt quiet and proud. I’d done that to Killian, pushed him to the edge, swallowed him, made him come, and he’d wanted to touch me.

“Sonya, intelligence; Caleb, less intelligence, more computer.” Killian was introducing them, and Caleb huffed.

“I resemble that remark,” he deadpanned, then tilted his chin at me. “We’ve met; Redcars ex-con, blah blah, aka DaemonRaze, I assume?”

I hesitated, and Killian must’ve read that in my silence. “You made your choice when you stalked our elevator, Jamie. DaemonRaze or not, you’re in this. Call in sick because you might as well enjoy some air-conditioning while you watch us work.”

“Daemon? Uhm… DaemonRaze? Take a seat.” This was from Caleb, who waved at a chair. I’d left DaemonRaze behind in the fire that killed my uncle, and I didn’t want that millstone around my neck.

I stared at him, then at the two others.

“Call me Jamie.”