A broken cry tore from my lips as his tongue immediately began working me with devastating skill—flat, broad licks followed by tight, focused circles, then gentle suction that made my toes curl.
He devoured me like a man starved, groaning deeply against my pussy as if my taste was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever experienced.
Two thick fingers slid into me without warning, stretching me beautifully as they curled upward to stroke that perfect spot inside.
The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth and fingers working my soaked cunt filled the room, mixing with my helpless moans and whimpers.
He ate me with relentless focus—licking, sucking, flicking, fucking me with his fingers faster and deeper.
My hips bucked against his face, but he held me firmly in place with one powerful arm across my thighs, keeping me exactly where he wanted me.
The orgasm built fast and brutal.
My entire body tensed, muscles trembling as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in my core.
“Killian—oh God, I’m—”
I came harder than I had ever come in my life.
A sharp, keening cry ripped from my throat as the climax slammed into me.
My pussy clenched violently around his fingers, gushing hot and wet.
I squirted—something I had never done before—spraying against his chin and mouth as wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashed over me.
My vision whited out.
My thighs shook uncontrollably.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel the endless, shattering release.
Killian didn’t stop until every last tremor had wrung itself from my body.
Only then did he pull back slightly, lips and chin glistening with my juices.
He looked up at me with dark, satisfied eyes and licked his lips slowly.
“You taste fucking delicious,” he growled, voice hoarse.
“Sweeter than I imagined.”
He pressed one last soft, almost reverent kiss to my oversensitive clit, making me twitch, then rose to his feet.
His cock was straining obscenely against the grey sweatpants, the fabric tented and damp at the tip, but he made no move to take it out.
He didn’t try to fuck me.
He simply looked down at my flushed, trembling body with a mixture of hunger and restraint.
“Goodnight, sister-in-law,” he said softly, a wicked little smirk playing on his wet lips.
Then he turned and walked out of my room, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving me sprawled on the bed in a boneless, dripping, thoroughly satisfied heap.
I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, chest still heaving, pussy pulsing with aftershocks.
Because one orgasm from Killian’s mouth had just ruined me for anything less.
And I already knew this was only the beginning.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the large kitchen windows, casting a warm golden glow over the marble countertops and the sleek modern appliances.
I had barely slept after Killian left my room the night before.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth on me again—his tongue devouring my clit, his thick fingers stretching me, the shocking intensity of my first-ever squirt.
My body was still humming with residual pleasure, my pussy tender and slick even hours later.
I had tossed and turned, thighs pressing together, fighting the urge to touch myself again while replaying his low, seductive voice calling me a “good girl.”
By the time I dragged myself out of bed, I felt raw, needy, and dangerously reckless.
I didn’t bother with a robe or anything modest.
Instead, I slipped on a short, silky nightgown—the pale cream one that barely skimmed the tops of my thighs, with thin spaghetti straps and a low neckline that showed the swell of my full breasts.
No panties.
No bra.
My nipples were already pebbled from the cool morning air and the constant low thrum of arousal that refused to leave me.
I padded barefoot into the kitchen, expecting to find it empty.
Instead, I stopped short in the doorway.
Killian was there.
He stood at the stove, broad back to me, wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants that hung low on his narrow hips.
The muscles in his shoulders and arms flexed as he flipped something in a pan.
The intricate tattoos covering his forearms and upper back seemed to come alive in the morning light.
His dark hair was still slightly tousled from sleep, and the scent of fresh coffee, sizzling bacon, and something sweet—pancakes?—filled the air.
He turned when he heard me, and those piercing blue eyes immediately raked down my body like a slow, deliberate caress.
They lingered on my bare legs, the hem of the short nightgown, the way my breasts moved freely beneath the thin silk, my hard nipples clearly visible.
A hungry smirk tugged at his lips.
“Good morning, sis,” he said, voice deep and rough with sleep, sending a fresh shiver down my spine.
“Sleep well?”
I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way my clit pulsed at the sound of his voice.
“Morning,” I muttered, crossing my arms under my breasts, which only pushed them higher.
“You… made breakfast?”
“Sit down.
Let me serve you.”
Something about the casual command in his tone made my stomach flutter.
I should have told him no, should have kept my distance.
Instead, I obeyed, sliding onto one of the tall bar stools at the kitchen island.
The cool marble pressed against the backs of my bare thighs, and when I shifted, I felt how embarrassingly wet I already was—my pussy lips slick and swollen, a tiny trickle of arousal threatening to drip down my inner thigh.
Killian moved with easy confidence, plating fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit.
He set the plate in front of me, then poured a steaming mug of coffee, adding exactly the amount of cream and sugar I liked—something he must have noticed from previous visits.
He served himself and then, instead of sitting across from me, he chose the stool right beside mine.
Close.
Too close.
His bare arm brushed against mine as he settled in, sending a spark of heat straight to my core.
Throughout the entire meal, I could feel his hot stare on me.
Every time I lifted my fork to my lips, his eyes tracked the movement.
When I crossed my legs, trying to ease the throbbing ache between them, his gaze dropped to the short hem of my nightgown, as if willing it to ride higher.
He ate slowly, deliberately, but his presence was overwhelming—masculine heat radiating off his body, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the breakfast he’d cooked.
I pretended not to notice.
I kept my eyes on my plate, cutting my pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces, but my pussy was dripping.
I could feel my juices coating my folds, making the insides of my thighs slippery.
My nipples ached against the silk, begging for attention.
Every swallow, every breath felt charged.
The silence between us was thick, heavy with unspoken filth.
By the time we finished eating, my body was on edge, trembling with barely contained need.
I stood up quickly, desperate for something—anything—to distract myself.
“I’ll do the dishes,” I announced, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.