Page 99 of Wicked Fury

“Only what you let me,” she retorts, her bravado returning, wrapped in a new layer of intimacy.

Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I can’t help but lean into her touch, like a man starved of affection finding succor.

“God, Iris,” I rasp out as her fingertips ignite trails of fire on my skin. The night air is alive with the scent of earth and lust that wraps around us in our clandestine haven.

“Fuck,” she breathes back, her lips a whisper away from mine. She arches beneath me, a silent plea for more, and damn if I don’t want to give her everything.

I kiss her like it’s the only language I know, deep and demanding, with a promise of what’s to come. She responds with equal fervor, nails raking down my back in a delicious sting that pulls a growl from my throat.

“More,” she gasps against my mouth, the single word spiraling me deeper into madness. The need to possess her, to claim her as mine, roars through me—a beast uncaged.

But then, in the midst of this, I pull back. I watch as confusion clouds her expression, her body trembling with the aftershocks of denied release.

“Fuck!” The curse falls from her full lips, a mixture of frustration and longing. There’s a wildness in her eyes, a desperation that latches onto my resolve and tears at it with tooth and nail. But I stand firm, even as her needy whines fill the air, that almost shatters my control.

“Lincoln, why?” She’s panting, her chest rising and falling with rapid succession, her gaze locked on mine, searching, pleading.

“Because this—” I gesture between us, my voice heavy with a hunger that’s far from sated, “—is just the beginning, angel.”

All of this is for her. It’s about power, dominion, a tangible assertion of what’s mine. Her surrender is absolute, her body yielding like she’s been waiting for this—waiting for me—to cross this line.

I can’t help the smug curve of my lips as I peel away the last barrier of Iris’ clothes from her skin. My jacket and shirt follow, discarded like an afterthought; my jeans, a surrender. Nothing but flesh and air under a sky that’s too vast to care about what we’re doing under her.

“Come here,” I murmur, voice thick with desire as I lay back on our makeshift bed of clothes. The field is ours. She straddles me, hesitation flickering in those striking eyes, but it’s swallowed by the hunger that I’ve come to know all too well.

“Lincoln...” It’s half-question, half-plea, the kind of tone that shreds the last of my restraint.

“Trust me,” I say, not a command but an invocation, and she lowers herself onto me. There’s a rawness between us, no space for anything less than everything we are. The urgency is a pulse—steady, relentless. Her skin against mine, slick with sweat and moonlight, is the only reality I want.

“God, yes,” she gasps, and I feel power surge through me, the kind that has nothing to do with being a quarterback or any other label the world wants to throw at me. This is primal, this is truth.

I let her be in control, for once, for this moment, and she doesn’t disappoint. The way she fucks me, fervently. Desperation leaking from every pore, every movement as I hold her steady with my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. It’s the only way she won’t tumble off me with the way she’s using my cock solely for her pleasure.

Her tits, goddamn her tits are bouncing and I’m fighting to draw my eyes from them, to watch as her slick cunt devours me. I want to look everywhere at once and I can’t. She looks like a goddamn queen. She is one.

Her rhythm drives us both to the edge, but when she crests, shuddering with release, I choose to hold off. She collapses against me, breathless laughter mingling with my low growls. But it’s a temporary reprieve—I flip us swiftly, my hands guiding her onto her knees.

“Lincoln... what—” Her voice is shaky, uncertain now, but thrumming with excitement.

“Shh,” I soothe, even as my fingers trace the unexplored path between her cheeks. I probe, gentle but insistent, a silent promise of more. “Remember, just feel.”

My fingers dip into her pussy, gathering all her slick from her orgasm and dragging it up and pushing my fingers into her ass. One digit at first, and as soon as she relaxes, I add another until I’m scissoring my fingers, spreading her open so I can fuck her and claim the last hole as mine as well.

And hell if I don’t want to savor every damn second of this. I position myself at her entrance, the heat from her body inviting me into her. The tip of my arousal nudges against her, a silent question to which her hips answer with a tilt—an invitation.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” I groan, pushing into the velvety clasp of her ass, inch by slow inch. The resistance is maddening, exquisite, a slow burn that has sweat beading on my brow. Her breath hitches, a sound so sinfully sweet it’s all I can do not to lose myself right here, right now.

“More,” she demands, head thrown back.

I smirk, but damn if she doesn’t test me.

I oblige, sinking deeper, the tightness engulfing me, pulling me further into where only sensation and Iris exist. My hand finds her hip, grip firm, anchoring her to me.

“Is this what you wanted?” I rasp, the darkness in my tone matching the night around us.

“God, yes,” she moans, her voice a velvet caress against my heightened senses.

“Say it,” I command, a low growl escaping me as I start moving within her, setting a rhythm that draws out the longing, the lust, the pure hedonistic pleasure.

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