Page 98 of Wicked Fury

“Damn right,” I say, but the traffic light ahead flashes to red, forcing me to slow down. The sudden deceleration pushes her flush against me, and I catch the scent of her mixed with the exhaust of the ride—it’s intoxicating.

We stop, and I steal a glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror. The light turns green, and I twist the throttle, eager to leave the prying eyes far behind.

“Let’s see what you really got, Blackwood,” she challenges, her tone laced with double entendre.

I smirk. She wants to play? Fine. I veer off the main road, taking us toward the outskirts where darkness swallows the land whole. Here, the only witnesses are the stars, too distant to cast judgment on the things we’re about to commit.

“Better hold on tight,” I say, my voice a low rumble against the night’s canvas.

“Lincoln!” Iris shouts, the wind stealing her words even as I catch the urgency.

“What?” I holler back, not turning because all it takes is one glance and I’ll be lost.

“Go faster!”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. The throttle twists under my palm, and the bike roars its assent.

The engine purrs beneath us, a growling beast that’s been tamed—barely. I pull over; the road crunching under the weight of the bike, a signal that playtime is over—or maybe it’s just getting started.

“Easy there, angel,” I warn, amusement lacing my tone like whiskey in coffee, smooth with an underlying bite.

Iris dismounts with the grace of a feline predator, a smirk playing on her lips that promises she’s anything but tame. She whips off her helmet and tosses it to me, a challenge sparkling in her emerald eyes. Instinctively, I catch it, my fingers brushing against the cool surface.

“Try to keep up,” she taunts, already taking steps away from the bike, her hips swaying in a rhythm that echoes the pulsing desire coursing through me.

“Damn you, Iris,” I mutter under my breath, torn between irritation at her audacity and intrigue at her boldness. Her invitation is clear as day, and my competitive streak roars to life, refusing to be outdone by this woman who knows just how to push my buttons.

With a rev of the engine, I turn the bike off, and I’m after her, the chase igniting within me. She darts ahead, laughter trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. She’s quick, but I’m relentless. I keep a safe distance, not wanting to end this too soon.

“Can’t catch me, Blackwood!” Her voice is a melody carried on the wind, enticing and provocative, stoking the flames of my desire to a searing blaze. I watch as she tosses her jacket off into the field and as I pass by I drop mine so the his and hers leather mingles together, safe until we come back for it.

“Watch me,” I growl back, the edge of my smirk sharp enough to cut through the thick tension that hangs between us like a promise.

The grass is a cool whisper against my heated skin as I finally close the gap, my arms snaking around Iris’ waist with predatory ease. She bucks in my hold, her body a live wire of energy and defiance. But it’s no use; with a swift movement, I’ve got her pinned beneath me, the soft earth our only witness.

“Gotcha.” The word is a husky triumph against her ear, my breath hot on her neck.

She writhes, her back arching, pressing the length of her against me, and damn if the sensation doesn’t shoot straight to my groin. My senses are dialed up to eleven—the scent of her hair, the feel of her curves melding into mine, and the sound of our ragged breathing syncopating with the night’s rhythm.

“Lincoln,” she gasps out, her voice full of challenge and surrender.

“Shh,” I command, though my voice trembles with barely restrained need. “Just feel.”

Her hands roam over my back, nails grazing my skin through the fabric of my t-shirt, sending shivers down my spine. There’s a hunger in her touch that matches the beast within me, yearning to break free.

Then, suddenly, there’s a shift—a flicker of something more.

“Lincoln?” Her call is a feather on the breeze, laced with uncertainty.

“Still here,” I murmur, though my face remains obscured by my helmet, a barrier of enigma between us.

“Show me you,” she whispers, reaching up. Her fingers tremble slightly as they find the clasp of my helmet. I could stop her, but I don’t. I’m frozen, caught between the thrill of being seen and the fear of what she’ll find.

The helmet lifts, and the moonlight bathes my cheeks. My lips part, words teetering on the edge of existence, but none come. There’s no need for them, not when every inch of me is pressed to every inch of her.

“When they call the devil handsome, they’re definitely talking about you,” she says again, this time her voice is a siren’s call, pulling me under with the tide of my own feelings.

“Fuck, Iris,” I swear, the intensity of my want etched into every syllable. “What are you doing to me?”

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