Page 167 of Slashed Bonds

As if he’d bless me with the chance to reply.

His mouth is on me before the words have fully landed. Sucks like a man who has cultivated thirst.

No teasing beyond that first taste.

His tongue opens me—flat then pointed—drinking what escaped his earlier pass. The sound is obscene in the newly quiet room: wet, focused, intent.

I moan; the slate echoes it back. On my shoulder, Nikolai’s chin shifts minutely—cataloging the sound.

Killian does not rush.

His tongue drags a slow, deliberate path from the very root of me, through every slick fold, until it finds the aching center.

He seals his mouth over my clit and sucks, deep and relentless, until my hips arch off the tile, seeking more.

One hand cinches behind my thigh, hauling me wider. The other parts me with two fingers, exposing the source of my wetness to his seeking tongue. He groans against me, the vibration a direct current to the core of every nerve ending. He laps. He seals his lips and pulls.

The scrape of his stubble burns the soft inner skin of my thighs—a sharp contrast to the soothing flat of his tongue that follows, over and over, as if his only purpose is to consume everything I give and then demand I produce more.

I do.

The room fills with it: the obscenely wet sound of his mouth working me, the small, greedy noises he makes and doesn’t bother to swallow, my own breath reduced to thin, useless gasps against the blindfold.

He establishes a rhythm and holds it: his tongue thrusting into me, then retreating to circle my clit without granting relief, then granting it—hard—with a suction so intense it bleaches the darkness behind my eyes. My hands fist in his soaked hair.

He allows it; he wants the anchor. Each time my thighs instinctively try to clamp around his head, he presses them wider and drives deeper, his nose pressed against me, his mouth sealed tight, drinking as though that first taste had only sharpened his hunger.

“Killian—”

His answer is not a word but a motion: one firm, filthy stroke of his tongue, then another, then the final devastating suck that shatters me.

I come into his mouth.

It strikes like lightning—sharp, electric—then unfolds into a long, pulsing wave I cannot control.

He stays through all of it. Takes it. Groans as if I’ve given him something he’s been owed for years, licking steadily through each clenching aftershock, not relenting until my hips jerk helplessly and a raw, broken sound I don’t recognize tears from my throat.

Only then does he ease—generous in his retreat.

Long, slow passes of his tongue clean what escaped; he kisses my swollen flesh between licks, murmuring.

Two fingers, slick and insistent, push into me before the pulse of the first orgasm has even faded from my body.

The stretch is immediate and so easy it embarrasses me—he doesn’t need patience or coaxing, I’m already ruined open. He knows it, too. Killian’s mouth stays right where it was, lips locking my clit in a rhythm he’s already mapped out on the inside of his skull, tongue flicking with the kind of precision you only get from a decade of hand-eye coordination dialed up for violence and fine control alike. His fingers crook, deliberate, and find the spot with zero pretense, zero searching. He’s not asking where; he already lives there.

He works me in short, ruthless strokes, like he’s drawing up a sample for evidence, and every pass sends a superconductor’s charge up my spine.

“That’s it,” he growls into me, and his voice is shredded, nothing left to shield it. “Give me that too.”

I think I might, right then and there, but it’s lower this time, deeper than the first—a build that doesn’t climb so much as sink down and expand until it’s too big for my body. There’s pressure, helpless and unsolvable, and I recognize it at the last second before it detonates.

I come so hard I hear it—an animal sound, not mine, not anyone’s, just a noise that belongs to the locked seam between his mouth and me. The squirt follows, hotter and more than I thought there’d be; it spills over his hand and his chin, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t recoil, only groans as if I’d just set a record he means to break again. His hand pumps through it, coaxing every drop, and his mouth stays on me, lapping it up, swallowing with greedy, urgent pulls. I have no idea if I’m standing, falling, speaking in tongues; the world tunnels down to the feel of him and the chaos in my head.

My legs give way. Just fold, the way they always warn you they might, the way I never believed was literal. The only thing that keeps me upright is Nikolai, and it’s not graceful—his arm loops around my waist, and it is pure containment, a theater rope yanking me back before I go to the floor.

He laughs, muffled but sharp, right against my ear, and I register for the first time how close he’s gotten. His chest is against my back, and the heat should be impossible this fast, should require more physics than he has, but it’s there. His hand, the one not banding my sternum to his, slides up and flattens under my ribs, palm splayed just above the rise of my breast. He’s breathing hard enough to make the blindfold shift micro-millimeters on my face, the air between us shivering.

“Now, now, Mommy.” He says it so low I think I imagined it, but I feel his smile, feral and bright, against the side of my cheek. “Kill ain’t finished with you.”