Page 22 of Iron and Ivory

Can't help it. I just don't have a defense for that smile. Never did.

God, I love her.

I love her and it's the most dangerous thing I carry.

Her tongue drags slow across the tip of me and my whole spine locks up.

Just—locks.

She does it again. One long, lazy circle. Tastin' me. Testin' me. Like she's figurin' out something she already knows the answer to but wants to go slow gettin' there.

Take her hair. Guide her down. Show her exactly how fast you need it.

I don't.

My hand stays loose in her hair. Palm curved. Not directing.

Savannah licks me again. Just the tip. Just that soft wet drag across the head, and my cock jumps in her hands and she smiles against me, feels that, knows exactly what she's doing.

She knows.

She's always known. Since the first time she put her mouth on me in this exact building she figured out what it does to me when she takes her time, what it costs me to let her, how hard I gotta fight myself to stay still. And she uses it. Not cruel—not close to cruel. Just precise. Like a woman who studied the blueprint and knows every load-bearing wall.

She swipes her tongue under the ridge, slow, and I exhale through my teeth.

What I want—what I actually want—is to pull her up by the hair and bend her over the old grain shelf on the east wall and fuck her from behind until she can't remember what slow even means. I want to hear her say my name the way she said it last week, ragged and broken and like it's the only word she's got left. Want her nails on my back. Want her to beg.

I don't move.

Her lips seal over me again, just the head, and she sucks, barely, soft, just enough pressure to make my vision go narrow, and my hand tightens in her hair without my permission—just slightly, just a fist of her hair and no pull behind it, just my body doin' what my mind keeps tellin' it not to.

She takes the pressure as what it is. Not a command. Just proof.

She hums against me. Satisfied.

Demon.

Stay the fuck still.

I flatten my palm against the wall again, both hands off her now, arms at my sides, givin' her everything, and she rewards me by takin' me a little deeper before pullin' back to the tip, and the combination of that and the fairy light fallin' across her upturned face and her eyes still holdin' mine⁠—

It's too much and not enough.

Both at the same time.

Always both at the same time with her.

Savannah pulls back slow.

Stands up.

Kisses me.

Soft. Just her mouth on mine, one hand flat on my chest, and then she tips her chin up and says it quiet against my lips⁠—

"Are ya dyin' yet?"

Something snaps.