Page 118 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

Breathless and shaky, I lunge for the first ledge I can reach, heaving myself up the spider climbing wall, limbs quivering with equal measures of arousal and determination. The two-minute head start offers false confidence. I breeze through the course until the cargo net, when I realize he’s gaining on me. With limbs twice the length of mine, his stride is massive.

“Fuck me,” I hiss, glancing behind me as my chest tightens, blood drumming in my ears, heat pooling between my legs.

“That’s the spirit, Little Storm, readying yourself to be impaled on my dick.” His wolfish grin, the glint in his eyes, and the sparkle of his teeth could make Lucifer shudder, simply because of his relentless tenacity.

A tremulous moan rumbles in my throat. If it wasn’t for my pesky pride, I’d surrender right here. The real prize is getting caught. In my tantalized haze, my foot slips through one of the holes, and I lose more precious seconds. So, when I finally slither my way onto the high tower, it’s unsurprising that he flips me over, clamping my wrists in his hand. His power over me is a clutching of sweet freedom. I’m elated to help him celebrate his win.

“Mine,” he growls in a savage claiming.

Biting my lip with an exhilarated hunger, I agree, “Yours.”

“That’s my good girl.” He folds the waistband of my pants, shimmying them down my hips with a victorious grin.

It’s not quite forty-five degrees, our breaths puffing out in a smoky white, but my skin is so feverish with need, the damp, frosty air is delicious on my exposed heat.

I glance around. Awareness that we’re in the middle of the yard on the highest point while the sun illuminates us bathes me in a titillating humiliation. Pearls of sweat dot my hairline and breasts and spine with a rousing panic. “Here? Why here?”

“The guys have been instructed to stay inside,” he informs me, circling my clit with a euphoric rhythm, as if that is the sole reason this is an odd place to be fucking.

“Wells—”

“Here, Ives, because I want you to remember there is no height I won’t climb for you, no distance I won’t travel, no depth I won’t dive.” His voice is thick with emotion as his fingers plunge into me. “So wet for me,” he praises.

And his kiss is lyrical, as though he’s penning me a ballad, telling me I’m his and, together, we’ll be okay. The chase, the height, the lesson—so poetically Wells. My tongue dances with his to the tune of his promises, his passion, and his love, which burrow deeper into my soul.

“I’m going to fuck your pretty pussy up here, Little Storm. And then I’m going to haul you down there, carry you back to the house, and fuck your ass, so you remember there isn’t a part of you that isn’t mine.”

I whimper, bucking against his fingers, set ablaze at the image of how he’ll own me in a new way today.

His hand rises to my throat, tightening the way I love. The breath of his chuckle heats and chills me at once, and his lips tickle mine as they speak. “That’s my filthy slut. So goddamn greedy. You’ll have my cum filling every hole today.”

He peels my panties and his joggers down, just enough, and in a blurry sweep, he thrusts inside me. I gasp and whimper, drunk on his possessiveness and the fullness of him stretching me.

It’s as though we’re making love in the clouds, floating and free. Yes, it’s the wild and territorial seizing I crave from Wells, but his passion, with the sky engulfing us and the brisk air lapping at my sopping core, is a fairy tale. A rescuing.

A butterfly’s kiss.

Our orgasms detonate in unison, guttural cries singing from the high tower.

And a while after we find our footing on solid ground, he makes good on another promise in the warmth of his office, bending me over his desk as pens and papers skitter across the wood. He inserts a remote-controlled vibrator into my pussy, commanding it to tease my clit and center while lubing me up, and pushes his way into an area I never imagined giving away. But Wells colors the experience as both an erotic takeover and a tender act of love. His brand of dominance molds to even the most hidden parts of me.

“Relax and let me in,” he whispers, the demand as smooth as velvet. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so perfect, baby. Such a good girl taking my cock.”

He grunts in tandem with my pants and moans as the glorious fullness morphs from discomfort to a spark to a jolt of surging frisson. I’m full. So fucking full.

“Jesus, I love you, Ives.”

With those words and my parroted declaration, we grip each other for a shattering that renders me more whole than I’ve ever been.

Thememory swirls on the crisp breeze, making me heady. I drop my bag on the straw-like dead grass from the tower, selecting the black spray paint first. After testing it, I mark the outline of the piece I have in my mind, taking my time to keep the lines precise and tight. Clean but flowy.

The area is so vast without the massive workout structure, and I utilize it all. Several spray cans later, I’m delighted with my masterpiece and grateful the season is late in delivering snow this year.

Dragging a trowel, I dig a shallow trench on either side of the lines and trace it all with the fluid. Content with that, I jog back to the house—a jaunt I’ve made a hundred times.

My AirPods are in, imparting more recent classics than what Wells prefers. “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles blares in my ears like a therapeutic soundtrack as I sprinkle gasoline and gunpowder over each of the rooms, dousing my memories and theirsin a lustral two-step. My guys wanted to sell our home and pretend our time together didn’t happen.

This is far more cathartic.

---