Page 119 of Slashed Bonds

I sink. Stop. My hands are shaking and I’d rather eat my own glove than admit it, so I talk instead.

“Tight. Fuck, Killian. You feel— every time. Every time it’s like you forgot this fucking ass of yours. All for me.”

“Move,” he grunts.

I give myself one second of mercy—a breath, a heartbeat, the space between a puck hitting the post and deciding its fate.

Then I don’t.

Fucking him is the only quiet my head knows that isn’t a pill.

The desk hits the wall in a rhythm I could skate to—the heavy thud of a body check, the lighter tap of a rebound. He stops swallowing his voice around the fourth thrust; it comes out raw, unfiltered, and the sound of Killian Graves coming apart on my cock is better than a shutout, which is a sentence I’d never survive if he repeated it. I hook the band at his neck.

Not over his eyes. He didn’t ask for the dark. He asked for me.

I pull him back onto every stroke until I’m nailing the place that makes his thigh jump under my hand like a live wire.

I talk because if I don’t talk I’ll say the other thing. The soft thing. The thing about three days of him in doorways and me pretending to nap so he’d have to come in.

“That’s it. Take it. You wanted to be jealous, so be jealous on my cock. She’s down the hall with her boots up. She can have the captain’s afternoon. This is mine. You’re mine. You were mine on a bathroom floor before she had a name in this house.”

True. Incomplete. She has a name now. Monarch. I gave him the word and he made it a religion, and I am not giving the religion back.

He asks for harder—voice frayed, knuckles white where they grip the desk’s edge. I give him harder. I get a better angle, ridiculous, one foot braced on the floor like I’m digging into ice, and he claws my thigh and I snarl into his shoulder like a man who’s never seen a crease.

“Touch yourself. I want to feel you come while I’m in you. I want it messy. I want to smell it on this desk tomorrow when Cash asks why I’m smiling.”

He starts—hand sliding down, trembling—and I take it away.

My hand covers his, stilling him. My pace does not falter. If he comes, he comes because I decided the clock, the way I decide when a shooter doesn’t get a second look.

He comes like a building giving up—a shudder that starts deep and rolls through him until the desk groans under our weight. Clenches so tight around me I see white behind my eyelids.

My name, wrecked, into the wood grain.

I follow him down, grinding in until there’s nothing left, spilling deep, teeth marking his shoulder all over again, a sound ripped out of me that I’d be embarrassed by if embarrassment had ever once worked on me.

After, I don’t pull out until I can feel my legs again—until the shaking stops and the world rights itself.

I clean him up with my shirt—the one he stretched out of shape last week—dabbing gently at the mess on his stomach and the wood beneath him.

I pull his sweats up over his hips, my fingers lingering on the warm skin there. I kiss the bite first—a slow press of lips to bruised flesh—then his mouth, slower still, because the frantic part is fed and the other part is worse and better.

“Insufferable,” he pants, voice rough as gravel.

On the rug, I haul him in against me—all sweat-damp skin and slack muscle.

Face to my throat. Fingers under the band, not over his eyes.

He’ll get up to check the locks soon; he always gets up to check the locks.

I’ll bite him if he does it in the next twenty minutes, and he’ll let me, and somewhere down the hall an Omega with a dog and a ruined scent is arguing about a backhand with our captain, and the house is holding.

“Still hungry?” I ask him, my lips moving against his temple.

“Shut up,” he grunts but doesn’t move away.

That’s a yes.