Page 153 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

Fuck slow and gentle.“A goddamn fantasy.” I flip her around, soaking in her shocked squeals. “My perfect pet.” Unzip her dress and ruck it, her bra, and panties down her body in a single desperate sweep. “My filthy slut. My good girl.” Flatten her perky tits to the bed. And grit out, “My motherfucking queen. Mine.”

She glances over her shoulder. “Yours, Wells. Make me yours.”

Heeding her pleas, I glide into her pretty, wet cunt with a fervor. I clip the leash onto the studded collar beneath her hair—it’s more of a visual than anything else—and piston my hips, one hand tugging her possessively, the other swirling and smacking her clit in rhythm. She moans, crying for me to pump harder as our eyes lock in the mirror, entranced by the symphony of our tandem euphoria and the beauty of our mutual unraveling.

It’s the epitome of who we are, who we’ll be as leaders, as a couple. Ivy may be mine, on my leash, handing me control, but there’s no mistaking who holds all the power.

It’s always been her.

IVY

Abouquet of aromas—chocolate and caramel, fish and sulfur—pervades the chilly gust of wind as my stiletto heel probes the icy sidewalk for anchorage. Cities have a way of assailing, leaving their mark so there’s no concealing who they’ve claimed.

Like a domineering man.

Once-slushy snow, refrozen in jagged peaks, fringes the path scraped clean for us. Crystallized ice sparkles atop the muck. Glistening filth. Bile rises to the back of my throat, burning and bitter, at the sight. Snow will never be the same.

Snow is carnage and blood.

Winter is death and mothballs.

Black leather gloves and too many lilies.

Goodbyes.

One of the many reasons New Orleans was my choice for a new beginning. No snow.

Maybe in the humid sunshine, the black hole will lose its power.

Gage winks at me as he flanks the elbow Wells isn’t linked to. The guys taunted and cheered as we left the bedroom on the plane, which infuriated Wells, goading him into a slew of hissing expletives. No doubt he’ll be soundproofing the plane’s suite soon. The knowledge that they heard or suspected our collectiveunleashingshould embarrass me, I suppose, but those jeers are woven with a genuine happiness that bundles me up, blocking the chill.

And I can’t find it in me to be ruffled by the moments I am wholly riveted in the present.

There’s too much shame in lost time.

Liam zigzags around us, opening the huge, peaked wooden door to the old cathedral while Ty cages me from behind, a hand on the small of my back. In the inky night, you’d think the dingy antique-white would shine. Pearlized. It doesn’t. It’s just an ancient, forgotten house of prayer, transformed into a meeting ground for supreme, clandestine puppeteers.

And execution chambers.

The thump of my pulse whirs in my ears.

We should light a candle. Make amends to the spirits.

Other than the click-clack of our shoes, tapping like a beratement from Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” the steps to the ceremonial space elude me.

The black hole begs to pull me under.

Nev-er-more. Nev-er-more.

Stone and wood and mortar. Steeples piercing the night sky.

Altars and secrets.

We enter the sanctuary, a room resolved to upend its allegiance, paying homage to devilry. There was a time that would have slayed me—to serve my soul to wickedness.

But even blankets of white are dotted in crimson and gloom.

I can be the light—not quite as brilliant as the sun, but a glow in the night.

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