Page 116 of Trailer Trash

I can’t believe I just called him that!

“Killy,” he echoes, amused. “Is that stubborn mouth finally trained like other women?”

I frown. “No! It was a mistake.”

Immediately, he palms my ass cheek, worshipful and tender. “It’s okay, baby. I’ll let you be the only one who gets to call me that.”

My heart skips a beat.

“God, you make it so hard to deny you anything.” This time, his tone holds angst I don’t recognize. “And this ass is fucking phenomenal.” He gives it a slap, then watches in awe as it bounces with every mind-blowing thrust.

“It’s all yours,” I murmur, my mind lazy as euphoria spreads through my body.

I don’t care anyway. It’s true. I want him to know I’m his. I want him. Only him. And I’ll give him whatever he needs to prove it. I melt onto the counter in complete submission.

Like the woman-pleasing sex god he is, the flat of the blade rocks against my clit as his hips drive into me, riding the pleasure wave together.

I break again, my cry visceral and desperate.

“Oh, ohhh, Killy— You’re the best I’ve had. The best.”

Just then, his groan fills the space as he reaches climax, releasing deep into my body.

His panting carries, loud and heavy as sex swirls around us — heavenly and sensual.

He pulls out, but I stay frozen, shocked, shaking, and even a little scared.

His pants rustle, then his belt clinks. I finally manage to move. I gather my ruined thong from the floor and wipe the oil from my trembling thighs before tugging my dress down.

My senses slowly return.

Wow... That just happened.

I look around.

A light flips on in the distance. Water runs. A faucet.

He doesn’t ask if I’m okay before walking away. The distance leaves me colder than the granite. I need something — anything — to prove tonight was more than punishment.

My body says it was. I am sore. Really sore. It hurts to stand straight.

I take a step and wince. The toe of my high heel kicks something. The moonlight catches a set of keys. I pick them up, figuring they’re Killian’s. Maybe they dropped from his pants pocket. There’s a FOB, a silver key, and a decorative charm. The FOB is exactly like the one for my car. The silver key says “House.”

House.

Whose house?

The charm reads “Harlow.”

I freeze and bite my bottom lip.

No. Can’t be.

“Killian,” I call out.

Silence.

He must be washing up. I walk stiff and careful, the muscle and skin still burning from his rapture. As I creep in the other direction down a hall. At the end, I grasp the front doorknob. It creaks open, letting in the sweltering Florida heat.