Page 122 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

I bite down on my lip, a whimper escaping, hating myself for responding, for letting him break down my walls with nothing but pressure and a whispered command. His kisses deepen, chasing mine, a hungry exploration that leaves me breathless. He bites my lower lip, a sharp, possessive tug, and then kisses his way down my neck to my cleavage, teasing the lace of my bra with his tongue.

My arms are wrapped around his neck, fingers digging into his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to both submit and claw his eyes out. The pressure builds between my legs, a throbbing ache that’s quickly spiraling out of control. He practically tears open the button of my blouse, revealing the lace bralette beneath, and moves to my breasts, his hands warm and heavy, kneading the soft flesh.

He cups one, milking it gently, before sinking his teeth into my nipple, a sharp, exquisite pain that sends a shockwave through my body. I scream, a raw, desperate sound, and he uses it as fuel, his touch becoming more demanding, more relentless.

“That’s it, Princess,” he breathes, his voice rough with desire. “Scream for me. Let me hear how much you want me. Let me hear how wet you are.”

God, I’m so fucking wet I can hear as his fingers fuck me. The shame of it burns, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the sensation, the building pressure, the complete loss of control. His fingers dance between my legs, finding that sweet spot—the G-spot—and rubbing in a way that makes me arch my back and grind against his hardness. His thumb continues its relentless rhythm, coaxing and teasing, and I can feel myself spiraling, the edges of my awareness blurring. A wave crashes over me, and I moan, my body convulsing, legs squeezing, and I feel him thrust deeper, a final, overwhelming push that sends me over the edge.

The sound of my release is embarrassingly loud, a wet, gasping sound that echoes in the room, and Killian loves it. He drinks it in, his body rigid with his own rising arousal, and then he’s thrusting again, fingers digging deep, his thumb still rubbing, and I’m coming again, faster this time, a frantic, desperate release that leaves me trembling and spent.

He pulls back slightly, angling us so I’m bent over his desk. His fist tangles in my hair, holding my head steady as he unbuckles his belt, the leather clicking softly in the otherwise silent room. The feeling of his hard cock slapping against my ass is shocking, assertive. He brings up the encrypted documents, the stylus and stylus pad already open, waiting.

I start to ask what he’s doing, what this is, but he smacks my ass, a sharp, stinging blow.

“I’m just as much in this relationship as you,” he growls low into my ear, his voice a coarse, possessive rumble I can feel vibrating through my entire body, “but I won’t apologize—not ever—for taking care of you or our baby, regardless if they’re biologically mine or not.”

His grip tightens in my hair, a sharp, anchoring pain that roots me to the spot. He forces the cold, slender stylus into my trembling hand, curling my stiff fingers around it, and then guides my wrist, angling my hand toward the glowing pad on the desk’s surface. The screen displays the lines for my signature, stark and demanding against the soft light.

“So you’re going to be a good girl and sign,” he continues, his breath hot against my neck, “because you know I did all this from a good place and you’re just being difficult for difficult’s sake. And you’re going to make sure each signature is legible—perfectly legible—while I remind you who you belong to, Princess.”

A helpless whimper escapes my lips before I can bite it back. He answers it with another sharp smack to my ass, the sound cracking through the quiet room, and I jump, a fresh wave of heat blooming across my skin. Swallowing hard, I press the stylus tip to the pad and begin. The first signature is a mess, a shaky, uneven scrawl that barely resembles my name. He snatches the stylus from my hand, his body pulling back abruptly, leaving me cold and exposed.

“Fix it,” he snarls, his eyes when I dare to glance back are cold chips of unforgiving ice.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I take the stylus back, my fingers fumbling, and quickly rewrite the signature. I force my hand to steady, to press firm and clear, and only then does he allow me to continue. Each completed signature feels like a tiny surrender, a little chip of my resistance flaking away and crumbling to dust. With every new page that appears on the screen, Killian inches his cock into my opening, a torturously slow, deliberate invasion. It’s a constant, agonizing pressure, a promise and a punishment all at once.

My concentration shatters. I fuck up on a page, misaligning the letters into an illegible smear. He withdraws completely in one swift, brutal motion, his body becoming a solid, unyielding wall pressed against my back. Another stinging smack lands, making me gasp.

“Fix it,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that thrums with warning.

I fix it, my cheeks burning with shame and a traitorous thrill. I continue. The entire document is finally signed, my hand cramping, my body aching from being bent over the desk, from the tension, from him. With the final stroke of the stylus, Killian rips it from my grasp. In one fluid, powerful motion, he pivots me around, pins my wrists behind my back with one large hand, and then he’s inside me, thrusting hard and deep in a single, devastating stroke. His movements are brutal, insistent, claiming.

A moan is torn from my throat, raw and unbidden. “Killian… please…” I beg, the words coming between ragged gasps. “I love you…”

“I love you too, Princess,” he replies, his voice rough with exertion, each thrust punctuating his words. “I love how you taste. I love how you feel. And I love how much you need me.”

The world spins, tilts, blurs into a haze of overwhelming sensation. I surrender completely, my last shred of defiance melting away. I am lost, utterly captive to the ferocity of his desire.

Killian fucks me hard, bent over his desk, and I don’t fight it. I can’t. Not when he’s moving the way he is, each thrust deep and punishing, rocking me forward, making the wood creak beneath us. I whimper, voice breaking with every powerful drive of his hips. “Sir—please⁠—”

He doesn’t slow. Just repositions his grip, one hand now twisting in my hair while the other holds my hip as he sets a relentless pace, pounding into me like he’s punishing us both for every word we didn’t say, every wall I tried to build between us.

“You want me to let you come?” he growls, his breath hot and close against my ear.

I nod frantically, tears slipping free. “Yes—yes, sir—please⁠—”

He smirks. “Naughty girl. So eager. You think you deserve it after being this difficult?”

I sob, my body slick with sweat, the heat between my legs unbearable. “No, sir—but I need it⁠—”

His other hand slips around, fingers finding my clit, circling slow, driving me wild. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with possession. “Pregnant. Gorgeous. Purring around my cock like you were made for this.”

“Only for you,” I cry, because it’s true and he knows it.

“Say it again.”

“Only for you—only yours⁠—”