Chapter 119: Pounding Kira I R18

The staircase creaked under Damian’s weight when he shifted, and Kira watched the way his shoulders moved beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Dust motes hung in the slanted evening light. Somewhere upstairs a clock ticked, indifferent.

“They might be looking for us and already know what we’re up to,” Damian said, looking up at her.

The dry humor surfaced in her expression before anything else could. A precise, narrow thing. Kira registering a true statement and appreciating its edges.

Then his mouth found her breast again and drew, and the humor left her face entirely, like a curtain pulled from a window.

Her moan cracked the quiet of the stairwell. Unfiltered. Loud enough that she heard it echo off the plaster and back into her own ears, which only made her flush harder, which only made her want to make the sound again.

Damian didn’t pause. His fingers hooked the waistband of her pants and dragged them down her hips in one motion, taking her panties with them, the fabric bunching at her thighs. Cool air hit skin that had been waiting for it. He pulled back just far enough to look.

The soaked cotton told him everything before his fingers did.

“You’re already this wet,” he said. Not a tease. An observation, delivered flat, the way he’d tell her the kettle was boiling.

Her face burned. “Don’t make me more embarrassed than I already am.”

“Sorry.” He said it against her cheek, and then his mouth was on her cheek, licking a slow line down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat, all the way back to her breasts. He sucked one nipple between his lips while his hand slid beneath what remained of her panties, fingers parting her, finding the slick heat waiting there.

The wet sound of it filled the stairwell. Kira’s head tipped back against the railing strut. A moan crawled out of her, slow and long.

His fingers worked her with a patience that felt cruel. Two of them, curling, dragging along the front wall of her, and every stroke produced that same obscene, wet noise that she couldn’t pretend wasn’t hers. Her hips began moving before she decided to move them, a small rolling rhythm that chased his hand.

“Damian…”

“Mhm.”

He didn’t stop. He pulled her pants and panties the rest of the way down her legs, over her ankles, and off. Then he looked up at her from the step below.

“Spread your legs.”

She looked at him for a beat. Her chest rose and fell. “You look experienced.”

“Spread them.”

Slowly, she did. One knee bent out against the banister, the other braced wide against the wall, opening herself to the cool air and to him. Damian lowered his mouth between her legs and licked her from entrance to clit in one flat stroke.

Kira’s hand shot into his hair and gripped.

The sound she made wasn’t a word. It was closer to a squeak, high and helpless, followed by his name over and over, moaned into the dusty air in a rhythm that matched his tongue. He ate her like he had all afternoon and nothing else to do with it. Slow circles, then a pointed flick, then his mouth sealed over her clit and sucked.

Her thighs started to shake. His fingers stayed inside her, stroking, and she could feel herself clenching around them.

“I’m..” Her grip in his hair tightened. “Fuck, I’m coming..”

The orgasm broke through her and fluid gushed out over his fingers and chin, splashing warm across his hand and down her thigh. Her whole body seized, bowed, and then went loose against the railing. She was still gasping when he pulled his mouth away and wiped it with the back of his wrist, eyes fixed upward on her face.

“We’re not done yet,” he said.

Her legs were jelly. She barely got the words out. “What…”

“Arc your back on the staircase.”

Kira stared at him. Sweat at her temples. Chest heaving. The wet shine still on her inner thighs caught the slanted light.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an instruction.”

She turned, bracing her forearms on the step above, knees planted two steps down, and arched her back the way he’d asked. Her spine curved, ass tilting up, everything exposed and open. The wood pressed cold against her forearms. Behind her, she heard his belt buckle come undone.

He stepped in close. The head of his cock dragged along her wet slit, once, twice, not entering, just painting himself with her.

“Is this…” Her voice cracked. She tried again. “Is this what you pictured? When you came down the stairs?”

Damian’s hand closed on her hip, hard.

“Wider,” he said.

She spread her knees until they hit the edges of the steps.

He pushed in.

The stretch of him stole her breath in a single, silent gasp. He was thick, and careful—more careful than the stairwell and the dust and the cold wood deserved—sliding all the way in until his hips met the curve of her ass. Kira bit down on her forearm, and the moan she swallowed escaped anyway, muffled and low.

“Fuck,” Damian breathed, the word frayed at the edges. His palms settled on her hips, thumbs pressed into the dimples above her ass, and he held her there a moment. Just held. Letting her feel the full weight of him inside her.

The clock upstairs ticked.

Then he drew back—slow, deliberate and drove forward. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the stairwell, an obscene slap that echoed off the plaster and made her clench around him.

Again. Again.

The stairwell had become a bell tower. Every thrust rang through it.

Kira’s cheek pressed flat against the wood of the step above, dust grinding under her forearms, and she could smell the raw timber and the ghost of old varnish. Damian’s hands found her hipbones again, thumbs settling into the same two dimples like they were grooves carved for him. He pulled back until he almost left her, and she heard herself make a sound — a thin, humiliating whine that seemed to come from somewhere beneath her ribs.