Page 143 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

She slumps against me with a whimper. That brittle facade she’s been wearing shatters into a flimsy and feeble humanness. It’s whatmakes Ivy so unstoppable, so awe-inspiringly formidable. She recognizes value in life, her own and others, and crusades for it. That’s why she lured me to chase her—to prove my humanity, to convince herself of the authenticity of our marriage in the face of duplicity. It’s why she risked her life for a woman she believes betrayed her—because it didn’t erase the love, sacrifice, or worth that same woman had bestowed upon her. And it’s why she’s grieving the deaths of these monsters—because there’s no room left for their redemption.

Her fingers crawl up my chest, trembling as they pluck something out of my hair. She leers at it, turning it over, much like she inspects her Skittles. So innocent and childlike, bleary eyes brimming with both torment and wonder.

“The guy you shot,” she says. It’s not phrased like a question, more like an astonished observation, but I confirm her suspicions anyway.

“Yes.” My hands return to her hair, sudsing the shampoo. “We need to get ourselves clean. Can you help me?”

She nods, wordlessly cupping her hand for me to squirt a dollop of shampoo into it. Slathering it between her palms, she massages her fingers into my hair, nails scraping along my scalp, picking out the bits of gore and flesh as I do the same for her until the remnants of our kills swirl into the drain.

Dragging her against me as the water drips down her splotchy face, I cradle her chin. “Your trial—you passed. It’s all over. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “We don’t do that. You showed up for me, saved my parents, and I see it all in your eyes. Like you said, it’s over.”

My lips brush against hers with the contrite apology she won’t let me voice. She opens for me, her tongue tangling with mine in a desperate plea.

“I love you so much,” I rasp into her fervid mouth. “So goddamn much, Little Storm.”

“I love you too, Chief,” she whispers, and my cock twitches against her stomach at her gravelly use of my title.

Turning off the water, I wrap her delicately in a towel and carry her out to the bed. She grimaces while I warily comb through her hair, flinching from the pain every now and then.

I sift through her bag and find some comfortable clothes, but when I remove her towel, she seizes my wrist.

“Fuck me,” she begs.

My knuckles sweep over her cheek, relishing the silky heat of her skin. “You’re hurt, Ivanna. You need to go to the hospital.”

Her heavy sapphires stare up at me from beneath the fringe of her dark lashes. “I need my husband more, Wells. I need you to take it away—the nightmares, his blown-off face, the terror and emptiness and loneliness.Please.Remind me what I’m fighting for. Remind me of us.”

Fucking hell, the power this woman has over me is terrifying.It’s not even sexual—my concern for her has drowned my libido a bit. But I can’t deny her anything. Not when she’s pleading like that.

I whisk her sticky, damp hair off her forehead. “I’ll make you come now, and after you’re thoroughly examined and the doctor assures me you’re fit for any and all exploits, I’ll fuck you.” Planting a kiss on her button nose, I add, “Slow and gentle though. I’ll make love to my wife.”

My girl prefers it rough, but it might be a stint before I can tie her up and rail her.

She nods in agreement, stretching out on the comforter, so I lie on the bed and draw the nipple of her uninjured breast into my mouth, scraping my teeth over the pebbled pink beauty while gliding my fingers through her folds. She isn’t wet, but that’s to be expected. I circle my finger over her clit. Her eyes are chained to mine in a deferral of time, reality, and circumstance so we can simply live in one another’s arms without the shrouding of death for this transient spell.

After a few moments, she’s drenched, thighs spread wide in avid invitation.

“Such a greedy girl. This pretty pussy is sopping for me. Whose are you, Ivanna?”

She hums. “Yours.”

Christ, I’ve waited so long to hear that again.

“Mine,” I agree.

My cock stiffens with the claiming, jabbing at her hip bone as I continue massaging her clit. Her bruised, battered, and pliant body awakens. Writhing. Moaning. The urge to taste her grows to a ravenous craving, so I slither down to the ground, plant myself between her thighs, and wield my tongue and fingers to bring her home.

“Come for me, baby,” I order.

She falls apart, panting my name and shattering before me in the most stunning bow of ecstasy I’ve ever witnessed.

“That’s my good girl,” I praise, lapping up her climax with a growl. “Such a good fucking girl. So goddamn sweet.”

She whimpers, afterglow highlighting her rosy complexion, eyes swirling with both bliss and hunger as I crawl back up and slide my fingers, glistening and coated with her arousal, into her mouth.

She sucks feverishly, her feral blues rollicking between mine. “I want your cum, Chief. Dripping out of me or in my mouth. I need to taste you.”

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