Page 79 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

Good God, this man. He makes me feel so treasured. I melt against him, not caring about the sting of the pelting raindrops against my cheeks, or the clothes sticking to me like a second skin, or the crisp smell of the earth invading my nostrils. He’s all that matters.

I whisk my fingers over his wet stubble. “You really are crazy—you know that? I’ll have lots of moments with them because you’ve made me a part of your family, but I’m still yours.”

He punches the code into the garage, moving us inside as his mouth stays tethered to mine. “We’ve already established that you make me crazy. And, yes, all mine.” He hauls the door shut behind us and yanks off my T-shirt and sports bra. “Turn around.”

When I do as he said, he reaches around and tweaks my nipples, causing me to rise on my tiptoes with a whimper, before he pulls my wrists behind my back to cuff them. My heart thrashes wildly. I’m instantly nervous and excited and so unbelievably turned on.

We’ve established the safe word—meatloaf. My pick, due to the song “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).” Wells found it both amusing and appropriate. I haven’t needed to use ityet. He seems to strike the ideal balance of dominance for me, primal and demanding yet somehow tender and attentive.

He tugs on the cuffs, and despite the velvety lining, they pinch, and my back straightens to attention.

He bites the shell of my ear with a growl. “Pick your favorite car, Ivanna.”

Blood flow thumps like a drum in my ears. “That’s such a big decision. I’m not sure. I mean, the Bugatti Chiron is a clear contender simply because there’s only a few hundred in existence, and I’ve never seen one in person, but the classics—”

“I’m not patient enough to wait through your internal debate.” He laughs—the roar ricocheting off the walls and steel to encircle me in warmth.

I’m suddenly thrown over his shoulder, hanging upside down and bound as he carries me across the garage to the Bugatti. And while I don’t understand what the hell we’re doing, dangling half naked in front of a three-million-dollar car feels downright scandalous.

Panic sets in, pulling me out of the moment. “Wells, I need to shower. I was on the course and running.” I took one before our early dinner and didn’t really work up a sweat before the downpour, but still.

He twists me and lays my upper half face down on the car, ignoring what I said and peeling my shoes, yoga pants, and panties off. “I need to fuck you, Ivanna. Then, we’ll shower.”

Before I can protest, his hand glides over my pussy, and I already anticipate the praise coming.

“You’re fucking drenched. Sopping. Jesus, you’re so beautiful, glistening for me.” He thrusts two fingers into me, and I gasp.

“I want to hear you,” he rasps. “Hear you pant while I finger-fuck you, moan when I slam my cock into this sweet cunt, and scream when you come with my name on your lips.”

His dirty talk, his fingers inside me, his complete control over me—I’m lost.

My breaths are uneven and craggy, but I force out one more objection. “Not on the car, Wells. God, what if I scratch it?”

He ignores me again, unzips his pants, and thrusts into me with a grunt. “This moment with you is worth a hundred of these, Little Storm. It’s worth every car in this garage a hundred times over.Everymoment with you is.”

His sweetness does not match the raw, feral unhinging of this scene, and yet it is perfectly Wells. He reaches in front of me, circling my clit while he slams into me, as he promised, the whole car swaying with each pump. My wet breasts, stomach, and cheek are melded to the hood like a slide in summertime, jostling with the shift of the Bugatti, as if we were one. The strands of my wet ponytail swish across it like an erotic car wash.

I moan, his touch and domination, the roughness and obscenity of the moment edging me closer. “Oh God, Wells.”

“That’s it. Let me hear you, Ives. My greedy girl. Who owns you?”

“You do,” I purr.

He drives into me, his hand never slowing the decadent massage on my clit, the other pulling on my sopping strands until my scalp tingles. “Ido,” he confirms. “Good girl. My pretty little slut.”

That should not undo me the way it does. “Fuck.I’m so close.”

“You do not come until I tell you to,” he orders. “Understand?”

That has the exact opposite effect as it should. It takes all my effort to hold on to what is palpably intent on ripping through me. “Please, Wells. I can’t.”

“You’re so goddamn perfect. Every inch of you.” He punctuates each sentiment with a more vigorous thrust while I teeter on the ridge of utter rhapsody. “Needy and begging for my cock.”

More.

“So gorgeous.”

Harder.

---