Then he moves.
The first thrust drives me into the table. The edge bites into my hips. I brace against it. His hands clamp down on my waist—both hands, the grip annihilating. He pulls back and drives forward again. And again.
The rhythm is punishing. Deep. Hard. Each thrust landing with the full weight of his body behind it. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the studio—a wet, percussive slap that echoes off the brick walls.
"Harder," I beg. "Don't stop. Killian—fuck—don't stop."
He doesn't stop. He accelerates. His hips piston. He hits the spot that detonates a white-hot cascade through my nervous system.
My back arches. My hands slide on the table, scattering sketches.
I reach back. My hand finds his hip—the wound side. I grip it.
The sound he makes when my fingers dig into the muscle near his stitches is animalistic. Pained and aroused. His thrust deepens in retaliation.
His hand wraps around my throat. From behind.
The fingers close over my airway. He narrows my breathing to a thin, whistling stream—not enough to choke, but enough tocontrol. My vision narrows. The sensation of his cock pounding into me while his hand controls my oxygen is overwhelming.
"You're mine," he rasps against my ear. "Say it."
"Yes."
The word is strangled. Honest.
His hand tightens on my throat. His hips stutter, then drive deeper, hitting a nerve that sends a shockwave through my spine.
My vision blurs. The pain of the wood digging into my hips merges with the burning stretch of him inside me until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. It builds low in my belly—a heavy, coiling heat that tightens my testicles and makes my toes curl in my boots.
The noise in my head stops. There is only the burn.
"Killian," I gasp.
He slams into me one last time, hitting the prostate with a precision that breaks me.
I come.
It isn't a detonation. It’s a collapse. My legs give out, my entire body seizing as pleasure rips through me, hot and blinding. I spill onto the drafting table, thick ropes of seed coating the scarred wood, dripping onto my thigh. My hole clamps around him, milking him, desperate to keep him inside.
The constriction rips a roar from his chest.
He buries himself to the hilt. I feel him pulse—hot, thick spurts filling me up. He groans, his forehead pressing into my sweat-slicked back, his breath scorching my skin as he pours himself into me.
He grinds forward—small, desperate movements, working through the aftershocks.
We stay there. Bent over the table. His weight on my back.
He pulls out. The withdrawal is slow, slick. The emptiness is a physical absence I register instantly—a negative space shaped exactly like him.
I turn around. I lean against the table. My chest is bare. There is cum drying on the edge of the table and running down my leg.
Killian is standing there. Breathing hard. His trousers are open. His cock is still half-hard, glistening with oil and fluids.
I check his side. The stitches are intact.
He steps forward. His hand cups the back of my neck.
He leans in. His mouth finds the junction of my neck and shoulder. He bites. Hard. A sustained, deliberate pressure that breaks the surface.
