Page 88 of Third Strike Smitten

“Killian—”

“You want to talk timers?” He does it again, that same devastating almost touch, and I hear myself make a sound I will never admit to. His lips are at my ear now, his voice dropping to something quiet and ruinous. “The timer doesn’t start, Coach, until I’m inside you, so tell me what you need. Tell me exactly what you need, and maybe I’ll give it to you.”

“I need you to stop being a smug bastard and fuck my brains out.”

His laugh is low and raspy. “There she is.” He notches himself against me and goes still, the pressure unbearable. “Say please, Coach.”

“Please, Killian.”

He drives into me, and every thought in my head shatters.

It’s not just him. It’s the cool, smooth glide of metal against my core. The beads of his ladder create a friction I have never felt in my whole damn life, a rolling, textured sensation that has me crying out before he’s even fully seated. The ring at the tip catches on my inner walls, a shocking point of pressure, and my entire body clenches around him.

“Ah! Fuck! Kill…Oh, uung God, yes!”

“Fuck, Isla,” he groans, his voice ragged above me, his forehead dropping to mine. “You feel that? Fucking feel me?”

I can only nod, a broken, breathy sound escaping my lips. He pulls back almost all the way, and the drag is exquisite torture, each bead a separate, distinct point of pleasure. He thrusts back in, and my nails dig into his shoulders.

It’s too much.

And it’s not enough.

The rhythm he sets is relentless, every thrust deliberate, every drive of his hips a controlled demolition that leaves me with nothing to hold onto. I’ve watched him on the mound, wound tight and unreachable, but this is what lives underneath all of that. Something ferocious and unguarded that he’s aiming entirely at me. Every stroke is earth-shattering. The piercings amplify every sensation, transforming a familiar act into something entirely new and overwhelmingly arousing. I am hyper-aware of every inch of him inside me, of the cool unyielding metal contrasting with his velvet-soft skin.

“Right there,” he rasps, his voice thick with a mixture of awe and carnal knowledge. He adjusts his angle minutely, a master craftsman honing his instrument, and does it again. And again. “Fuck, Isla. You’re taking me like a goddamn champ. Tell me you’re okay, Coach.”

“Yes! Oh, God, Killian. Keep going. Fuck me until I can’t breathe.”

His rhythm stutters for a fraction of a second, a broken gasp escaping his lips at my words. Then he drives into me with a new, desperate intensity, his control fracturing completely. “You want me to fuck you, Isla? Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” I sob, my head thrashing against the pillows. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” His mouth drags to my ear. “You think I’m letting this pussy go before you fall apart on my cock?” His hips piston against mine, each thrust a perfect, devastating collision. My legs wrap around his waist and he groans, raw and guttural. “Greedy girl, pulling me in like that.” His voice drops lower. “You want this cock, Coach? You want it all? Then take it. Tell me you can take all of it.”

“Yes—yes⁠—”

“I can feel you shaking.” His thumb finds my jaw, tilting my face up to his. “Eyes on me, Coach. I want to watch it happen.”

I can only nod, my vision blurring at the edges as I lock my eyes on his. He shifts his weight, one hand sliding between us, his thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The dual sensation—the relentless thrusting and the precise, circling pressure—is my undoing.

My orgasm hits me like a physical blow, a silent scream trapped in my throat as my body convulses around him, every muscle seizing in a white-hot wave of pure ecstasy. The world dissolves into sensation; the pounding of his heart against mine, the ragged sound of his breathing in my ear, the way his piercings seem to vibrate inside me, drawing out the pleasure until I’m sobbing with it.

Killian’s rhythm fractures completely, his thrusts becoming wild and desperate. “Isla...fuck...I can’t...” His voice is a broken prayer against my skin as his own release crashes over him. “Ah fuck, Isla!” I feel him pulse deep inside me, a series of sharp, shuddering thrusts that milk the last aftershocks from my own trembling body.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing and the frantic beating of our hearts. He collapses against me, his full weight a warm, comforting pressure, his face buried in the crook of my neck. His skin is slick with sweat, and I can feel the rapid, unsteady thrum of his pulse everywhere we’re connected.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just holds me there, pinned beneath him, as we both slowly float back to earth. His lips find my shoulder, pressing a soft, damp kiss there. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word a puff of air against my skin.

I can’t form words. I just run my hands up and down his back, feeling the tremors still working through his muscles. My own body feels boneless, liquid, completely wrung out in the best possible way.

“Sixty-three seconds,” I finally manage to choke out, my voice hoarse and ruined. “You owe me fifty-eight more.”

A rough, breathless laugh shakes his entire frame. He lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft and dazed, the gold flecks glowing in the dim light. He looks utterly wrecked, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “So, you’re underwhelmed then?” he asks, his voice rough and sleep-slurred.

A laugh bubbles out of me, breathy and spent. “The data requires further study,” I tease, pressing back against the solid warmth of him. “Extensive study.”

His chuckle has a low vibration against my skin. “I’ve got all night, Coach.”