Page 43 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

A month. That’s how long it’s been since I carried her out of the fire.

The first week was hospitals—IVs, oxygen, her thigh stitched shut, skin bandaged where ropes and glass bit deep. When they finally said she was stable enough to leave, I thought she’d want her penthouse.

Instead, her weak hand clutched mine, her voice glassy with drugs and exhaustion. “Can we go to your place?”

It gutted me, hearing that plea. She didn’t need to explain. Too much had gone down in her apartment—ghosts in every corner. But pride bloomed sharp in my chest. She felt safe in mine. She said it was warm there.

So I took her home.

For the next three weeks, I didn’t let her lift a finger. I waited on her day and night. Held her when she slept, which was most of the time at first. Watched her strength creep back inch by inch.

She’d laugh and swat me when I scooped her up instead of letting her hobble on crutches. I only did it a handful of times, but I never let her forget—I’d carry her anywhere if she asked.

Stasia brought the kids once. I turned the couch into a giant bed so they could pile under blankets for a movie. Daniel hung in the kitchen with me, talking woodwork while I made enough snacks to feed an army.

When she tried to read, the bandages on her palms made turning pages hell. So I read to her. Should’ve checked the titles—half were smut wrapped in innocent covers. I started highlighting passages, saving ideas for when her body could take what her eyes kept asking for.

One night, after a particularly filthy oral scene, she shoved the covers down, legs spread. “Killian, if you don’t eat my pussy right now, I may die of arousal.”

And fuck, I did. Careful. Tender. Slow—because every time I closed my eyes, I still saw her limp in my arms, soot-covered and silent. That memory kept my hands soft even when I wanted them rough.

Now—today—a storm batters the windows, rain slashing in sheets, thunder rolling heavy. We’ve been curled on the couch all day, drifting between old records, bad movies, and the dog-eared book I’ve been half-reading, half-mocking just to make her laugh.

I clear our dishes and sink down beside her.

“Come sit on your throne,” I tell her, patting my lap.

Her mouth curves. “Your smart mouth or your fat cock?”

“Take your pick,” I murmur, my hands already sliding to her hips. “Both are yours.”

She swings a leg over, straddling me. My palms find her ribs, her waist, the swell of her ass. I harden under her, and she gives me one slow roll of her hips—promise, threat, tease.

“You feeling up to tomorrow?” I ask, thumbs stroking circles under her shirt. “Touring the rest of the Irish territory.”

“You mean your territory,” she counters, eyes glittering. “Now that you sit on the Irish throne?”

“It’s always been my throne,” I tell her, voice low. “Just like you’ve always been mine… to watch, to guard, to own.”

She huffs a laugh. “Did I just trade one stalker for another?”

“Angel,” I drag my knuckles up her spine, “I’ve always stalked you. Just did it in plain sight—with no plans of ever letting you go.”

I peel her shirt off. Braless. Nipples tight in the cool air. I pinch, suck, bite until she gasps and bows into my mouth.

“Now you’ll be my Irish queen,” I growl, “my ruined little killer. My cockwhore, begging me to own you.”

“Why don’t you stop talking and show me how you’ll ruin me, big man?”

Challenge accepted.

“Strip,” I command.

She rises slow, peeling herself bare. Heat flushes her throat, her chest, her thighs. I slide my knife free, press the flat of the blade to her slit. It comes away slick.

“Already drooling for me, you filthy little slut.” I lick the metal clean, tasting her, then grip her throat and kiss her hard as I walk her backward down the hall.

“Lay on the bed. Head off the edge.”

She obeys, throat a pale vulnerable line over the mattress. I strip, cock heavy above her lips.

“You want it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to fuck your mouth—own your throat.”

Her swallow is audible. “Yes.”

“Then beg.”

Her fingers stroke my length, wet from her pussy. “Please, sir. Feed me your cock.”

Sir. Goddamn. That one word snaps chains off me.

“That’s my girl.”

I slide deep, hitting the back of her throat. She gags, hands flying to my thighs. I hold her there just a beat. “Breathe through your nose.” I ease out, then drive back in, teaching her rhythm, praising between thrusts.

When she steadies, I lean down, tongue lapping her clit. I fuck her mouth while I eat her pussy, greedy for every sound she makes. Her orgasm floods my tongue, her throat spasming around my cock. I groan, haul her up, kiss her deep—her release still wet on both our mouths.

“ O n all fours.”

She goes, ass high, wrists sinking into the sheets. I cuff her ankles to the footboard, spreading her wide.

“Spread like a good whore.”

She trembles but obeys. I murmur against her ear, “If your leg hurts, you tell me. Promise me, angel.”

“I promise, sir.”

Good girl.

I slick my fingers, press into her ass—one, then two, then three, stretching her slow. She moans into the sheets, drool wetting the pillow.

I slap her pussy lightly with a thick dildo. “Suck it.”

She takes it deep, gagging, eyes watering as I finger her ass open. When I pull the toy free, I grind it over her clit. “Ask for it.”

“Please, sir,” she sobs. “Stuff me full. Use everything.”

“Atta girl.”

I push my cock into her ass, slow but relentless, while I slide the toy into her pussy. She’s filled everywhere, obscene and perfect. I pound her, cock and silicone working in tandem, until she breaks apart screaming, squirting all over the sheets.

I don’t stop until I’m spilling in her ass, snarling her name.

B ut I’m not done.

I unclip an ankle, flip her onto her back, hook her good leg high and slide into her cunt in one savage stroke.

“Yes, sir—fuck me,” she cries out, back arching.

I pound her open, ass-to-pussy, branding her throat with my palm. “Dirty girl. Took me in your ass and now you’re sucking me into your cunt. You love being my slut. Say it.”

“I love it—I love being your slut.”

“Fucking good girl.”

I drive harder, until her walls convulse around me and my seed floods her again. I stay buried, choking on the sight of her—ruined, trembling, radiant.

I soften my grip on her throat, press a reverent kiss where my thumb left her pulse hammering.

“My enemy took you, and I came for you. Killed for you. Claimed the Irish to rule with you. But you—” I angle her face to mine, voice rough, “—you’re the only throne I’ll ever bow to.”

Her pupils blow wide. She bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood. “You killed for me,” she whispers, hips rolling to take me deeper, “but I’d burn for you.”

I groan into her mouth, tasting copper and heat. “Then take me with you, angel—because you’re mine. This life, the next. You go, I go. Forever.”