Page 2 of Wicked Fury

“Nobody,” I lie, because she is definitely not nobody. She’s somebody, and suddenly, she’s all I can see. Her gaze hasn’t found mine yet, which means I still have the element of surprise. And I intend to use it.

I lean in, my voice a low thrum over the chaos of the party. “Her name—anyone know?” The question is for my brothers, but if someone is eavesdropping and wants to supply it, I’ll take it any way I can get it.

“That’s Iris,” Graham tosses out casually, not taking his eyes off the jock across the room. “Iris Shelby, in my Econ class. She’s got brains enough to school everyone.”

“Little Miss Summa Cum Laude,” Penn quips with that shit-eating grin plastered on his face, “wouldn’t mind seeing how she earns those honors.”

“Classy as ever,” I mutter, rolling my eyes before pushing away from the wall. The guy’s humor’s darker than a black hole sometimes.

“Where you off to now?” Penn calls after me, but I don’t bother answering.

I weave through the throng of bodies, each step taking me closer to Iris. The air’s thick with the scent of too much perfume trying to mask the reek of perspiration—a losing battle in this lingering heat of September.

“Lincoln Blackwood,” I announce myself, towering over her seated form. It’s more of a statement than an introduction.

She tips her head back, locks eyes with me. Her pupils are blown wide, resembling sea-green pools. She’s high on something, and it only adds to the allure. “You’re fucking big,” she says, words heavy with something illicit, “like a giant brute.”

“Observant,” I retort, smirking down at this sass wrapped in an Ivy League veneer. There’s no recognition in her gaze, just a challenge. And damn, do I love a challenge.

“Are you going to tell me who you are?” I question, wondering what sharp retort’s going to slip out of her mouth next.

“Someone who doesn’t particularly care for football or your campus god status.” She bites her lip, and I can tell she’s been feigning ignorance. It’s a bold move.

“Is that so?” My tone is challenging. I lean in, close enough to catch the hint of her floral, citrus scent. It’s fucking intoxicating. “Then why am I getting the feeling you know exactly who I am?”

She matches my intensity, holding my gaze without faltering. “Maybe because most of the school thinks you and your brothers walk on water, quarterback.”

I arch an eyebrow at her brazenness, the corner of my mouth quirking up. “You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who doesn’t really know me.”

“Maybe because I don’t need to,” she fires back with a smirk, her moss-colored eyes glinting with provocation.

“Planning to psychoanalyze me, Miss Shelby?” I tease, tilting my head to meet her gaze.

“Wouldn’t need to,” she fires back, “your Freudian slips are showing.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” I drawl, closing the gap between us.

“Hardly professional,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now, are we going to stand here swapping witticisms all night, or is there something more… physical we could be doing to help me destress?”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” My voice dips lower, barbed with amusement. “Do tell, Iris, what exactly are you after?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She leans in closer, the scent of her, jasmine and lemon, a heady mix with the alcohol on her breath. “Or do I have to spell it out for St. Charles’ star quarterback?”

“Spell away,” I challenge, though we both know she’s reading me loud and clear.

“Fuck,” she says bluntly, tilting her chin up to meet my gaze squarely. “I want to fuck. No bullshit chit-chat. Just a good, hard?—”

“Say no more,” I cut in, my hand snaking around her waist. Without another word, I’m propelling us through the sea of bodies, heading for the staircase that leads upstairs. Her laughter rings in my ears, a reckless sound that matches the beat of my racing desire.

The door slams behind us with a thud, echoing our urgency. There’s a darkness here that hides all of our secrets. Perfect.

I close the distance, my hands finding her hips, and I spin her around with a firm grip. The suddenness elicits a gasp from her lips, and I revel in the sound.

“Like it rough, do you?” Her voice holds a challenge as she glances over her shoulder at me.

“Only when it’s warranted,” I reply, bending her over the edge of the bed. My hands trail up her thighs, hiking her skirt up to reveal the delicate lace of her thong. “This what you had in mind?”

“Keep guessing,” she retorts, but her breath hitches when I hook my fingers into the band and slide the fabric down her legs, leaving her bare. I pocket the lace before turning all my attention on the bombshell bent over for me.

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