Page 42 of Wicked Fury

The room smells like my cologne and leather, and I want her here. I want her to drown in my scent.

“Get your ass in my bed,” I demand, my voice low and commanding. She looks at me with tired eyes and nods.

But before she crawls into bed, she tells me she needs a shower. And something inside me snaps. “Fine,” I grunt, handing her a towel and some toiletries. “But don’t take too long.”

She nods, and I watch the sway of her hips as she disappears into the bathroom, the click of the door sounding far too final. I can’t shake the urge to control her every move. The hiss of the shower fills the silence, and I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. I shouldn’t think about the water cascading over her curves, the way the steam will cling to her bare skin—but I do. I’m trying to resist the temptation to barge in and take what I want.

“Are you just gonna stand out there the whole time?” Iris’ voice startles me out of my thoughts.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, feeling exposed. “Just hurry up.”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” she snaps back at me.

“Better than being a pushover,” I retort, not missing a beat.

I finally hear the water stop, and Iris emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel. My eyes roam over her body, taking in every curve and dip, and I feel my cock grow hard. Her hair clings to her shoulders, damp tendrils framing her flushed face. My fingers itch to peel it away.

“Can I borrow a shirt or something?” she asks, breaking me out of my trance.

“Fine,” I grunt, tossing her one of my old t-shirts. “But no panties.”

“Jesus, Lincoln,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

I watch as she dresses, admiring the way the fabric clings to her curves, and I have to fight the urge to take her right then and there. But I know I need to be patient if I want to keep her in my life.

“Alright, you can sleep now,” I say, trying to sound casual as I lead her to my bed. “And angel?”

I watch her for a moment, taking in the way she looks so vulnerable and exhausted. And then I hand her an Ambien, wanting her to knock the fuck out and get some actual rest.

“Take this,” I say, my voice low and commanding. “You need to sleep.”

She takes the small white pill without resistance, swallowing it dry. I crawl into bed beside her and try not to think about the feelings stirring in me from the act of taking care of someone. No, not someone. Her, it’s from taking care of her, even in this small way.

She collapses onto my bed; the exhaustion etched into every line of her body. My sheets swallow her up, and she’s already drifting, succumbing to the chemical lullaby I provided. As we lie there, her breathing slowly becomes more rhythmic, and I feel myself becoming even more aroused.

I watch her for a moment, fixating on how she looks wrapped up in my St. Charles football shirt, before pulling out my phone and texting my brothers about the situation. But my mind keeps drifting back to Iris, and I can’t help but feel jealousy rise in my chest in the most possessive way.

I pick up my phone and send a message to my brothers about Iris being here.

Iris is in the house. Her dorm room got trashed, and there’s some shit written on her walls.

I type out.

Graham responds first, as usual, with his usual grumpiness.

G-Wagon

Great another girl in the house. This ain’t a goddamn sanctuary.

Shut the fuck up

I text back. Graham can be a pain in the ass sometimes.

Jeremiah chimes in next, his annoyance evident even through text.

Mr. Always Right

I don't want to deal with your shit right now. I have enough of my own.

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