Page 39 of The Final Contract

I cry out, back arching, climax crashing over me like fire. My cunt pulses around nothing, begging to be filled.

“That’s it, little killer… make yourself come for me.” Killian groans—guttural, wrecked—pumping himself faster. “Fuck—look at me.”

My gaze locks on his just as his cock jerks, cum striping his abs, dripping down his stomach. He curses again, teeth clenched, his dick twitching with every spill.

The room reeks of sex. Hot. Raw. Forbidden.

He snatches a handkerchief from the dresser beside him, wipes himself off with rough efficiency. His chest still heaves, muscles flexing as if he’s fighting the urge to cross the room.

I drag my fingers through my wetness one last time and lift them to my mouth. Slowly, deliberately, I suck them clean. My tongue circles each finger before pulling them free with a wet pop.

Killian curses under his breath, fist tightening in the cloth.

I smirk, wicked and smug, settling back into the pillows. “Good night, Killian.”

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t answer. He just watches me like I’ve become his newest obsession.

Fuck.

What did I do?

I crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. The one rule drilled into my head from the start—never get involved. Keep it clean, keep it professional. I’m her bodyguard, nothing more.

Except last night, I sat there in the dark and watched my mark—my mark—pleasure herself in my bed. Her knees spread, her pretty little moans muffled in my sheets, while I sat across the room like a sick bastard, fisting my cock until I came harder than I have in years.

I should’ve looked away. Should’ve walked out, slammed the door, done anything but stay and watch. But I didn’t. I stayed. I wanted every fucking second burned into me.

Now it’s morning and I’m punishing myself the only way I know how. Sweat pours down my back as I crank out pushups on the floor, then pullups, then free weights—anything to chaseaway the image of her mouth falling open when her fingers slid over her clit.

She’s still asleep. Still tangled up in my sheets, in my bed. Innocent as sin after ruining me with the sound of her coming.

And all I can think about is sliding in behind her, one arm wrapped tight around her waist, my hand between her thighs to see just how wet she gets when she teases me. I want to feel it—her heat, her slick, her back arching when I tug that long blond hair and bury myself inside her.

Fuck.

Several doors open at once.

My bedroom door creaks and my heart drops.

This is what I’ve been dreading. What the hell am I supposed to do when I see her? Pretend nothing happened? Apologize for it? Or just haul her onto the kitchen counter, spread her wide, and eat her cunt for breakfast like I’ve been craving since last night?

Before I can decide, the front door bursts open too. A whirlwind of bags and brown hair breezes past Finn.

Eve. Of course.

She’s balancing enough takeout containers to feed the entire security team.

Finn shoots me an apologetic look over her shoulder.

“We bring stalker updates and French toast!” Eve declares like it’s just another Saturday morning.

I wipe the sweat from my face with the hem of my tank, the fabric damp against my skin. My pulse is still kicking hard when movement at the bedroom door catches me.

She steps out.

Fresh from my bed, hair a little messy, eyes flicking over me before she can stop herself. Her gaze stalls low—on my stomach, on the sweat still dripping down it—then snaps away like she wasn’t just looking.

But the pink climbing her cheeks tells a different story.