Chapter 120: Pounding Kira II R18+

Damian 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.

“Don’t stop,” she said.

“I didn’t.”

He drove home. The slap of skin against skin cracked off the plaster, and her whole body jolted forward into the step, tits pressed to the grain, nipples dragging against wood. Her breath left in a hot rush. The clock upstairs kept ticking, indifferent, and somehow that made it worse — some clock in some upstairs room counting out seconds while she got fucked stupid on the landing.

Behind her, Damian’s belt buckle chimed softly with each stroke. He wasn’t fast. He wasn’t showing off. He had that same unhurried patience from the stairs above, like he was still deciding whether to be gentle. His cock dragged along that swollen front wall of her on every pull-out, the friction wet and loud enough that Kira heard her own slickness wrapped around him.

Fuck. He was filling her completely. Every inch, every time.

His breath came out through his nose in a slow, controlled stream. His hands shifted — one slid up the knobs of her spine to the small of her back, then further, closing warm fingers around the nape of her neck.

Not squeezing. Holding.

“Arch it more,” he said.

She arched. Her back bent until it ached, hips tilting up to meet him, and the angle changed. He slid in deeper than before. The head of him pushed up against something that made her eyes water and her mouth fall open on the step.

“There..” came out of her in a whisper. Then louder: “There. Right there.”

“Mm.”

He found a rhythm and kept it. Long, slow, deep, deliberate — pulling back until the empty ache made her squirm, then burying himself to the root with a wet smack that rattled her teeth. She stopped hearing the clock. She stopped hearing anything that wasn’t the obscene percussion of their bodies and her own voice being wrung out of her.

“Damian..” His name came out broken into syllables. “Damian, Dami-an..”

“I know.” He began thinking. ‘How did the so-serious detective Kira turned out sus, sex really has its own character’. He thought.

“Do that again…”

He did it again. Every time she said his name he answered with his hips, a small reward, and Kira caught on fast. She started saying it just to get what she wanted. His name became a button she pressed. His name became a sound she made instead of breathing.

“Damian.”

Harder, wetter — a slap that shook the banister.

“Damian.”

Her knees fought the stairs for balance. The wood was cold under her, but the heat had spread all the way down. Sweat beaded behind her knees, at her temples, between her shoulder blades. Her top was still on, bunched up and damp at the back, and it was somehow obscene — everything else bare and open and him still mostly dressed behind her, only his belt undone, only his cock freed. She felt used and put away at the same time.

His rhythm shifted. Something in his breath — a short, sharp exhale — told her he was losing the leash.

He bent over her. Chest pressed to her back, cotton against her shoulder blades, his mouth finding the side of her throat. He kissed the pulse there, then bit down on it, just teeth on skin, hard enough to leave something.

Kira’s hand shot back and caught his hip. She rocked back into him, meeting every drive halfway, riding the angle to keep him pressed exactly where she needed him. The wet sound between them went rhythmic, filthy, memorized.

“Look at me,” Damian said.

She twisted her head over her shoulder. Upside down, upside down — his face above her, jaw tight, hair damp at the temples, eyes fixed on her like the rest of the stairwell didn’t exist. A bead of sweat ran from his hairline down his cheek.

The eye contact did something to her chest. She saw the exact moment his focus fractured.

“Say it again,” he said.

She knew what he meant. She didn’t care how red her face got.

“Damian.”

He fucked her like he was trying to burn the word into her.

The step below her knees moved — one of the spindles creaked and popped, old wood under new force — and neither of them cared. Dust puffed up in a little cloud in the slanted afternoon light, drifting past his shoulder like tiny gold snow. Kira could feel herself climbing again, that second peak rising up the back of her spine, and this time there’d be no warning for her. No words. Just..

Her orgasm hit and her thighs shot wide, knees cracking against the edges of the steps. Fluid pulsed out around him, dripping hot down her thighs and his, splashing onto the step below in a wet slap. She heard it hit the wood. She heard herself scream into the step and bite down on the musty grain.

Damian didn’t slow. He kept the same rhythm through it, dragging her through the aftershocks until every stroke made her twitch and claw at the floor.

“That’s it,” he said quietly, half to himself. “There it is.”

His hand came down on her ass. Not hard. But the sound of it cracked through the stairwell like a gunshot, and Kira flinched and moaned at the same time, and she felt him twitch inside her in response — that thick, full second where he went rigid and stopped moving, buried to the base, holding her.

Then he pulled out.

The wet noise of it. The sudden, awful emptiness. Cold air on her flushed, swollen opening.

“Danny,” she said, and she didn’t even know why. His name just fell out.

He turned her by the hips. Spun her until her back hit the banister, the wood pressing a cold line between her shoulder blades, and she was staring up at him — shirt soaked through, chest heaving, cock slick and red against his belly, looking down at her like he was deciding something.

“Now,” he said. “Wrap your legs around me.”

Kira reached for him.