Sin & Suffer

My head bellowed but I slammed my hands on the table for an anchor and thrust.

She cried out, her fingers working faster as I drove again and again.

There was no ease into this. No tease.

I went from stationary to fucking.

The tightening of my balls built exceedingly fast. The heavy swing of them heightened to tingling pleasure as I rode Cleo hard.

“I love fucking you,” I growled. “I love knowing you’re mine.”

She tensed, her cheeks flushed. “God … I adore it when you talk dirty.”

I chuckled, thrusting deeper, harder, quicker. “Oh, yeah? I can say much filthier things.”

Her cheeks pinked, her lips damp and skin glowing. “Oh, really?” The glint in her eyes urged me on. “Like what?”

I searched my broken brain for something dirty but the damn headache tarnished everything.

“I love how you make small noises when I’m inside you but they act like fucking cannons in my chest.” I thrust again, staying in the moment and not thinking about the overwhelming pressure in my skull.

Fuck, everything was an effort. My tongue was fuzzy and twisted. Consonants and adjectives played hide-and-seek in my despairing grey matter.

“I love your pussy. I love the size of your tits. And I love your scars.”

She twitched. “My scars?”

My hips never stopped rocking as I traced her burns, feeling the strange ridges and smoothness of skin that’d been through so much. “I love them because it shows how strong you are. That you’re a survivor. That you’re so fucking brave. And pure. And sexy. And mine. All fucking mine.”

My hips quickened. My balls ready to spurt and mark.

My touch went to her tattoo; my voice dropped to stone and smoke. “I love your ink. I love the tale you painted. I love that your heart never forgot me, no matter that your mind tried to hide.”

“Never.” Her backed bowed, forcing the colorful patterns deeper into my palm. “I could never forget you.” Her fingers worked harder on her clit, her breathing tattered. “God, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

I was past the point of stopping.

We both were.

The table creaked and the legs scraped against the wooden floor but nothing else mattered.

Dragging her upright, I cushioned her back as I brought her face to mine.

I kissed her. Hard. Our tongues linked, our breathing synced and it was just us—just this.

I couldn’t hold off any longer. I needed to come. I needed to fill this woman. Her body arched in a shameless silent plea.

Her body turned from liquid to lava as her release detonated around me.

“Oh, shit!” Her curse flowed onto my tongue.

Waves of her inner muscles gave me nowhere to hide as my orgasm shot into existence. Shit, shit. Don’t pass out.

The pain was agonizing, threatening to split open my head with pressure.

I groaned as Cleo massaged the back of my neck—almost as if she understood my torture.

I gave in to her magic.

I let go.

Exquisite agony shot up my cock and splashed inside her. My thrusts became erratic, driving into her slick pussy, plunging over and over again.

Her stomach tensed. Her lips devoured. Her legs spasmed around me.

We came together.

We finished together.

My orgasm bulldozed through my headaches and bruises, turning me boneless.

We didn’t move.

Shit, I couldn’t move.

I would’ve stayed forever in her embrace, glued together with sticky pleasure and concreted with love. But my phone rang, vibrating against the back of my knee still in my jeans pocket.

Cleo laughed softly. “Thank goodness whoever that is had the decency to wait and not interrupt.” Reclining on the table, she smiled. “I don’t think I could’ve stomached two instances where you stopped midway.”

I winced. “When will you let me live that down?”

She smiled. “Never.”

The lull of serenity and pleasure made my pain fade considerably. Fisting the base of my cock, I pulled out from her and ducked to pull up my boxers and trousers. “I didn’t want to stop. I passed out. There’s a difference.”

The phone rang louder, shrill and piercing.

“Are you going to answer that?”

“Probably not.” Scooping the peace-ruining device from my pocket, I looked at the screen.

Shit.

“On second thought, I have to.”

Cleo narrowed her eyes as I patted her knee and moved away, trying awkwardly to do up my jeans with one hand.

“Kill speaking.”

“Mr. Killian. We have a Mr. Cyrus Conners on the line. Do you accept the charges from Florida State?”

I flicked a look at Cleo. I didn’t really want her to overhear, but there was nothing I could do. “Yes. I accept.”

The god-awful hold music assaulted my eardrum as I waited. I’d called Wallstreet yesterday to tell him the new timeline of our plan. I’d been expecting his call—just not straight after having fucking sex.

“Kill, my boy.”

The old-world charm and perfect pronunciation of Wallstreet’s voice trickled down the phone.

“How’s it going in there?” Continuing to pace around the meeting room, I gave up trying to secure my pants and focused on the conversation. “You hear any more about your parole hearing?”

Cleo jumped off the table and shimmied back into her jeans.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Some good news on that front. The appeal went well. I’ve been told a positive verdict might be forthcoming. However, I could be waiting months for their conclusions, so I won’t be ordering balloons or fireworks just yet.”