Page 88 of Wicked Fury

“Fuck, Iris,” I grunt, every muscle in my body straining toward the edge. “You feel incredible.”

Her response comes in the tightening grip she has on me, pulling me deeper, marking me as hers just as much as I’ve marked her.

“More,” she whispers, pushing back against me with a ferocity that matches my own.

“Greedy girl,” I snarl, obliging her with a pace that’s both punishing and exquisite.

We fuck hard and fast, and I have no doubt grass stains and turf burn is going to cover the front of my angel.

And when we finally shatter, it’s with a force that leaves us gasping, clinging to each other. We collapse onto the grass, spent, and twisted up together, her labored breaths mixing with my own.

“Damn, Blackwood,” Iris murmurs, her voice laced with satisfaction and adoration. She chuckles as she jokes, “You sure know how to make a touchdown.”

“Only the best for you, angel,” I retort, my laugh mingling with hers into the night, knowing that I just played the best I’ve had on this field.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, already plotting getting her into the shower and into my bed, pulling out of her and forcing myself to my feet. I easily tuck myself back into my joggers.

“So, you gonna give me something to wear or am I’m walking through campus with my shirt and leggings shredded, your cum dripping down the fabric and your little handiwork on display,” she asks, her smirk telling me she’s prepared to do just that and knows I didn’t think this one through.

“Fuck, no,” I rasp out, my voice a guttural whisper against the hush of the stadium. My hands, those traitors, tremble slightly as they frame her face—this enigmatic girl who holds my damnation and salvation in her eyes. “C’mon, I have the access code to the locker rooms and there’s shit in my locker. Not a single fucking eyeball, but mine gets to see you like this.”

A smirk plays on her lips, the same one that’s been driving me mad since the day I laid eyes on her. “Such poetry, Lincoln,” she chides, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Who knew the quarterback was so romantic?”

“Romantic, hell,” I snarl, the words tasting like acid. “It’s survival. You’re under my skin, Iris. Infecting every goddamn thought.”

Her fingers trace the inked lines on my arm, a touch that sears and soothes all at once. “And you think I don’t feel the same?” Her voice is low and sultry and dances along my nerves. “You think I don’t crave the chaos you bring?”

“Say it, then.” The command comes out harsher than I intend, but the hunger to hear the words consumes me. “Tell me I’m not alone in this fucked-up thing we have.”

“Alone?” She laughs, a sound that shivers down my spine. “With you constantly in my orbit? Impossible.” She looks at me, fierce and unyielding. “You’ve got me, Lincoln Blackwood. Body and soul, twisted as they are. I love you.”

“I don’t know what love is. I love my brothers; I’d die for them. I know what that love is. But you, I’m obsessed, consumed by you. If all the things I feel for you are what love is then call me lovesick because baby, I love the fucking hell outta you. I’ll kill for you.” Our breaths mingle, hot and desperate, as I capture her mouth with mine, sealing her words as if we just made a pact between us. I know that whatever lies ahead, Iris is the one string I refuse to sever.

Chapter 37

Iris

My phone buzzes against the mahogany surface of Lincoln’s desk. The screen flashes with an email notification from none other than Professor Hastings—the gatekeeper of my GPA at this point. My heart does a little dance, not sure if it’s for hope or dread.

Miss Shelby, Meeting. My office. I want to discuss your grade. My office hours are extended today.

Just like that. No niceties, no explanation. Could be a break, could be a trap. Relief washes over me first—I’ve been hounding him about that damn test. But then confusion squirms in, uninvited. This is the same man who’s treated my attempts at academic redemption like spam emails.

“Probably just wants to see me cry when he tells me that he’s using that test as my overall grade in the class,” I mutter under my breath, slicking my hair back out of my face and into a bun that screams ‘I mean business’. “A plot twist. Because my life isn’t a mess already.”

I stand up, stretching the kinks from my legs, and let my gaze wander across Lincoln’s room I’ve been taking sanctuary in. It’s quiet, peaceful. The faint scent of lemon lingers in the air, and I smile, wondering if Lincoln notices that his room is starting to smell like me and my things.

As I make my way down the hallway, I notice Jeremiah’s door is ajar. Curled up on Jeremiah’s bed, lost in whatever universe her pen is creating on the pages of her journal is Oakley. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts that looks like if she stood up, it would come down to her knees.

The gentle scratch of her pen against the paper is almost soothing, the rhythm steady and calming. I pause, teetering on interrupting her trance. But no, I won’t intrude on her privacy. I decide to leave without saying anything, because she looks like she’s really into whatever she’s writing.

I grab my bag that I left near the front door of the mansion and head toward a meeting that might just determine whether my law school dreams stay alive or get buried deep beneath a pile of could-have-beens.

I tap out a quick text to Lincoln, my fingers dancing with a tremor that I blame on the caffeine buzzing through my veins.

Heading to see Prof. Hastings about my grade.

He’s going to be pissed that I didn’t wait for him to go with me, but things have died down, and if this will save the grade I’ve worked my ass off for, I need to at least try. Send. The bubble with the checkmark pops up, so at least I know it was delivered.

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