Page 45 of Iron and Ivory

"Yeah." Another grind. Slower. Wetter. I can hear it now—the obscene slick sound of her pussy workin' my cock—and it's louder than the candles, louder than the night outside, louder than everything. "Nobody's ever been this deep. Just you."

My cock throbs inside her. Physically throbs. And she feels it because her eyes go wide for half a second before that smile comes back.

"You like hearin' that," she says. Not a question.

"You have no fuckin' idea." I pull her hair tighter, just enough to keep her throat exposed, and press my mouth against her collarbone. Tongue, then teeth, then tongue again. She shivers from scalp to thighs and I feel it everywhere she's touchin' me. "Tell me more."

She cups my face with both hands, thumbs on my cheekbones, and makes me look at her. Her hips don't stop movin'. That slow, deliberate grind that keeps my cock deep and my sanity shallow.

"I think about this constantly," she says. "At breakfast. In the shower. On Cassia. I think about exactly how you feel inside me and I get so wet I have to cross my legs and pretend I'm fine."

"Savannah—"

"I touch myself thinkin' about you." Her voice drops low, almost conspiratorial, like she's tellin' me a secret even though it's just us in this room. "I put my fingers inside myself and pretend they're yours and it's never enough. It's never deep enough. Never thick enough."

My hips buck up into her involuntarily and she gasps, nails scrapin' down my chest. I do it again—harder—and the slap of skin echoes through the trailer.

"Do that again," she breathes. "Please, Legion." She's beggin' now. "Do it again…"

CHAPTER 10

Legion Kane feels like salvation.

The kind that splits you open before it saves you.

The kind that arrives not with a hymn but with the low, mean growl of a blacked-out Harley rolling up a dust road at dusk.

The kind that doesn't kneel at an altar—it is the altar, and you have been quietly, foolishly, irreversibly offering yourself up to it since you were fifteen years old.

And tonight, I want to live in that salvation.

I want to experience every burning second.

His hips snap up and the sound our bodies make is obscene—wet skin on wet skin, thighs crashing together hard enough to sting—and I gasp so loud it doesn't even sound like me. My nails drag down his chest, catching on the ridged scar tissue where the brand used to be, and he hisses through his teeth but his eyes go black. Not angry. Hungry. The kind of hungry that makes him dangerous in every room except this one.

He does it again. Harder. Driving up into me so deep my vision whites at the edges and my fingers curl into his skin like I'm trying to hold on to something that keeps trying to throw me.

"Do that again," I beg. My voice is wrecked already and we've barely started. "Please, Legion. Do it again…"

He grips my hips with both hands—thumbs pressing into the hollows above my hip bones hard enough to leave marks I'll trace tomorrow in the shower—and slams up into me so hard my teeth click together. I cry out and he watches my face like he's memorizing what it looks like when I break apart, like this is research, like this is scripture, like he needs to know every angle my mouth makes when I'm too full of him to think straight.

"Harder," I whisper.

"Say it louder."

"Harder."

His jaw tightens and he plants his feet flat on the floor and gives me exactly what I asked for—brutal, relentless thrusts that bounce me in his lap, my tits in his face, his mouth catching a nipple and biting down just hard enough to make me scream. Not the pretty kind. The kind that tears out of your chest and leaves you hoarse.

"That's my girl." His voice is a low, ruined thing against my breast. "Take all of it. Every fucking inch."

I'm trying. God, I'm trying. My thighs are burning and shaking and I can't find a rhythm because he keeps breaking it—slamming into me at a different angle every few strokes, like he's searching for the spot that makes me lose language entirely. He finds it. He always finds it. And when he does, my spine arches so hard my head tips back and all I can see is the ceiling of this trailer, this beautiful nothing trailer that smells like Chinese food and lavender candles and him.

"Look at me." His hand comes up and catches my jaw, pulling my face back down. "Eyes on me when I'm inside you, Savannah."

I force my eyes open. His pupils are blown wide, sweat beading at his temples, the tendons in his neck straining. He looks like war. He looks like the only church I've ever believed in.

"Tell me how it feels."