Page 87 of Wicked Fury

“Never, Blackwood!” she yells back, defiance fueling her speed.

Her breaths come in ragged gasps that cut through the stillness of the night like a knife. My footsteps pound against the grass, rhythmic, relentless—hunting her down with a precision. The distance closes between us, yard by yard, until I’m upon her.

“Thought you could outrun me?” I taunt, my voice a low growl as I tackle her to the ground. She falls beneath me, and I straddle her back, pinning her down with a grip that takes no argument. Her pulse races under my fingers, syncing with mine.

“Lincoln, damn you—” she spits out, but her words evaporate into the night air as I wrench her shirt apart, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip. Power surges through me, raw and intoxicating—I am in control here, and we both know it.

“Shh, angel,” I whisper, my mouth close to her ear, my breath hot on her skin. “Fight all you want, baby. Let me take your pain and shame. Let me own it.”

I pull out the switchblade, its blade catching the moonlight with a gleam. The metal whispers promises of pain and pleasure as I slide it across her exposed back, tracing the constellation of scars that map her history—a history only I have the right to rewrite.

“Only me,” I murmur, pressing the edge into her flesh, just enough for her to feel the bite. “Only I can touch you like this.”

She doesn’t fight me. The tension in her body melts away under the pressure of the blade, and I carve new lines with practiced ease—each one a testament to our wicked fury.

“I want to be the one who slaughters every demon that’s haunted you. I want to carve your scars with my own marks until every memory you have is of me.”

“Linc...” she breathes, and there’s something like reverence in the way she says my name. It’s all the invitation I need, all the power I crave.

“Remember, angel,” I say, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear as I mark her once again. “Every scar, every line—it’s all mine. You’re mine.”

She sinks into the grass of the field, hands gripping at the strands, “Yours. Always yours.”

“Good girl,” I murmur, my lips curving up as I feel her give in.

With the switchblade still in my grasp, I carve my name across the expanse of her back, a signature of ownership on her scarred skin. Each letter etched with precision, a declaration that she’s mine in ways no one else could fathom.

“Feel that?” I hiss, leaning over her, my breath scalding against the shell of her ear. “That’s power, Iris. Your power.”

She shivers, and I know she’s listening, hanging on every word like a sinner seeking absolution.

“You decide your own story,” I continue, pressing closer, my words laced with decadence and sin. “Let these scars be your chapters. Only you get to say how they define you.”

The air between us crackles with the unsaid, with the understanding that while I may wield the knife, it’s Iris who carves her destiny. And damn if that doesn’t turn me on even more.

I peer down at the leggings clinging to her form, a barrier I’m about to obliterate. My fingers hook into the fabric seam, tearing through it like tissue paper. The sound of ripping threads punches through the night air. Her flesh greets me, wet and ready, and a low growl rumbles in my chest.

“Fuck...” she moans out, a challenge and an invitation all at once.

I don’t respond with words. Instead, I shove my joggers down, just enough to free my cock that’s been straining for release since I took off after her. There’s nothing gentle about this moment—it’s pure, unbridled hunger as I position myself against her exposed heat.

“Ready to play?” I taunt, knowing full well the answer is etched in the arch of her back, the way she pushes against me, silently begging for more.

The football field stretches around us, an empty coliseum under the watchful gaze of the moon. The grass beneath us is dewy, I can feel it seeping into the knees of my pants. A shiver courses through me—not from the chill, but from anticipation. This is where I always find my greatest victories.

“Ready for you to stop running your damn mouth and give me an orgasm,” she demands, that smirk audible in her voice even without seeing her face.

“Patience, angel,” I reply, drawing out the moment. “You’ll get whatever the fuck I give you.”

I keep one hand pressed against the back of her neck as I drag the tip of my cock through your folds, up and down and pressing the bar of my piercing between her cheeks. Her heavy breathing and gasps are feeding my soul, what little of one I have.

“Look at you, half-dressed, as I’m about to fuck you through a hole in your leggings. My pretty little hole for pleasure, aren’t you? My name across your back, my cock rearranging your guts, and your cream covering me.” I’m sick of waiting, of teasing and trying to drag this out. It consumes me, this feeling to crawl into her body and attach myself to her. Vein to vein, muscle to muscle.

I slide in, parting her lips and sinking to the hilt because this is home. More than the house I share with my brothers, or my brothers themselves. She fucking grabbed me by the balls that first night, which feels like forever ago. My one-night stand turned stepsister. My enemy turned into my obsession.

“Fuck, you have the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen. She wraps around me so snugly. You should see how your lips stretch around me and how they tug as I pull out of you. It’s so fucking hot.” I can’t help but let my own moan escape as I do just that. Still pinned down, she’s immobile and I can fuck myself in and out of her body to bring us both closer to the edge.

The wet, sloppy sounds of her slick cunt envelop me and mix with the guttural sounds that escape both of our throats.

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