I work him. I use my tongue, my suction. I pour everything I have into this act. The rage. The grief. The love.
Yes. Love.
I love him. I love the man who stitched me up. I love the man who stood in front of a bullet for me. I love the man who is standing in the wreckage of my life and telling me we can build something new.
I suck harder. I drag my teeth lightly over the head. He groans, his knees trembling.
I look up.
His head is thrown back. His eyes are closed. His face is open, vulnerable in a way the world never sees.
He is mine. And I am his.
I speed up. I make wet, sloppy noises. I want to hear him. I want to break him.
"Turn around," I say.
I pull off him. I stand up. Alessandro looks at me, dazed, his eyes dark.
I spin him around. I press his chest onto the drafting table. The wood is covered in sketches and dust, but I don't care.
"Spread your legs," I order.
He obeys. He widens his stance.
I step behind him. I undo my own pants. I free myself.
I grab a bottle of linseed oil from the counter. I pour it into my hand. It’s thick, warm.
I reach between his legs. I coat him. I push a finger inside him.
He gasps, his back arching. "Killian..."
"I need inside," I whisper against his neck. "I need to know you're mine."
"I am," he chokes out. "I am."
I add a second finger. I stretch him. He is tight, hot.
I can't wait.
I line myself up. I press the head against him.
I drive forward.
He screams into the table. It’s a tight fit. The friction burns. I force my way in, inch by inch, until my hips slam against his ass.
I hold still. I am buried in him. I can feel his pulse around me.
"Mine," I growl.
"Yours," he sobs. "Yours."
I start to move.
It is brutal. It is desperate. I piston into him, chasing the darkness away. Every thrust is a claim. Every impact is a promise.
The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room. The table groans under our weight.
