Page 58 of Wicked Fury

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, driving us both over the edge until we’re nothing but a tangle of limbs and gasps and sweat-soaked sheets. His final thrusts are almost punishing, a relentless assertion of dominance that pushes me beyond the brink of endurance.

“Yours,” I hear myself whisper, not sure if it’s a concession or a delirious slip of the tongue.

Lincoln’s response is a satisfied grunt as he collapses on top of me, his breathing heavy and ragged. I can feel his release leaking out of me wherever it can fit with his cock still taking up residence. And then, darkness claims us both, pulling us under into a void where nothing exists but the lingering aftershocks of our shared oblivion.

When consciousness returns, it’s gradual, like emerging from the depths of murky water. I become acutely aware of the weight still pinning me down, Lincoln’s chest rising and falling against mine in a steady rhythm that belies the mayhem he’s wrought on my body.

I’m still tied up, the rope pulling against my wrists, a stark reminder of how far we’ve crossed the line. Anger flares within me, hot and fierce, followed swiftly by confusion. How did we get here? To this place where hate and desire are so entangled that I can’t tell them apart?

And yet, beneath the furor of emotions, there’s something else. A connection that thrums in time with my racing heart, insidious and undeniable. It scares me more than the anger or the confusion, because it suggests that whatever this is between us, it’s not over. Not by a long shot.

“Get off me.” My voice is hoarse, but there’s steel behind the words.

Lincoln stirs, lifting himself enough to look at me with eyes clouded with something akin to wonder—or maybe it’s just the remnants of lust.

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, and despite everything, my heart skips a beat. Because as much as I hate to admit it, part of me doesn’t want him to move at all.

“Move,” I spit out, anyway, the word sharp, a shard of glass. I need him to believe that he repulses me, even if I don’t think that. “Let’s not pretend that you want to cuddle with me for any reason other than to try and manipulate me.” My eyes roll back when Lincoln shifts his hips again, his cock hardening again inside of me with the motion.

He shifts and his eyes search mine. “Scared you’ll like cuddling with me too much?” His voice is a low growl, vibrating through the charged space between us.

“Terrified,” I snap back, sarcasm lacing through the words. But it’s not fear that knots in my stomach—it’s something else, darker, more dangerous.

Desire. I want Lincoln Blackwood to hold me while I sleep, and that’s playing with fire.

“Good.” He smirks, that expression of his that manages to infuriate and entice all at once.

The room sways as exhaustion battles with the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. My heart hammers against my ribcage, echoing the rhythm of our spent bodies. “Untie me,” I demand, but there’s a quiver in my voice betraying the chaos he’s stirred up inside me.

“Where’s the fun in that, angel?” Lincoln taunts, his breath hot on my neck. “We still have a couple more rounds to go. At least.”

“Fun?” I scoff, trying to ignore the way my body responds to his proximity. “You have a warped sense of amusement.” His fingers rise lazily to pinch my pierced nipples and I feel his cock jerk inside me when I cry out from the evenly matched pleasure and pain.

“Maybe.” He grins, leaning closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. The intensity of his gaze pins me just as effectively as the ropes. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away.”

“Well, you do have me tied up,” I retort, even as my body betrays my words, pricking up at the innuendo.

“Excuses.” He brushes a strand of hair from my eyes, his fingers leaving a trail of sparks on my skin. He’s being so gentle, and that scares me more than when he pulled out his knife.

“Asshole,” I mutter, because what else can I do when every nerve ending screams for more of this twisted game?

My body arches into his; desire and anger warring within me. I want to hate him, to reject this magnetic force that draws me to him, yet here I am, caught in the maelstrom of the Spartans star quarterback.

“Stop pretending you don’t think about this often,” Lincoln murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck.

“Never.” But it’s a lie, and we both know it. Because with each caress, each claim he stakes, I’m losing the battle.

“Give in, Iris,” he urges, his hand exploring the contours of my body, mapping the places that make me gasp and writhe.

“Make me,” I challenge, throwing down the gauntlet, daring him to push me over the edge.

And he does. Without mercy, without hesitation, he pulls all the way out of me and then plunges into me, claiming possession again with every thrust. He’s rough, raw, something feral in his eyes as I meet him with equal ferocity. It’s like a pyre of sensation is consuming us until there’s nothing left but the ashes of our resistance.

He reaches down and rubs my clit with practiced fingers, and it’s all that I need for my entire body to shake with the most intense orgasm. Lincoln follows me, coming hard inside my clenching pussy. We collapse together again, a tangle of limbs and labored breaths. His weight pins me to the mattress, his presence a constant reminder of the line we’ve crossed—and keep crossing no matter how much we dislike each other or how angry we are.

“Let me go, Lincoln,” I insist, though my resolve wavers.

“Can’t,” he replies, voice ragged. “We’re past the point of no return, angel.”

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