Page 133 of Iron Roses

His fingers slide against my wrist and pull gently. I shift, and he draws me closer until I’m tucked against his side. His mouth brushes the curve of my neck.

For the past two years, he’s been like this.

He remembers how I take my coffee. He makes sure my car is warmed before I step outside. He speaks only when he knows it matters. He taught me how to carry power without apology—and never asked me to perform softness to make others comfortable.

He earned my love, just like he said he would.

His hand slips behind my neck, fingers brushing the edge of my jaw. He kisses me until the only thing I can feel is the pull of him—in a way that draws heat out of my chest and leaves it in my throat.

His arm slides under my knees. He lifts me easily, and I don’t protest.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and tuck in close. His breath skims across my temple. His chest rises and falls beneath me, and everything else—the creak of the floorboards, the way my hair shifts across his arm, the press of my hand against his back, our clothes falling away—feels secondary.

My skin is still warm from the last touch of his mouth, but when he wraps his arms around me and guides me down onto the sheets, everything burns all over again.

He doesn’t push me flat. He pulls me sideways into his body—chest to back, thigh sliding between mine, his arm curled tight around my middle. We fit like this. Like we were carved to meet in this shape.

His hand slides over my hip, steady, fingers curling just beneath the dip of my stomach. He tilts me slightly forward, just enough, and I feel him press against me—thick, hot, his cock nudging the soaked heat between my thighs.

Then he whispers my name.

He pushes in.

The stretch steals my breath—his cock sliding deep, inch by inch, until he’s seated fully inside me. His chest flush against my back. His breath thick against my shoulder.

My mouth falls open. I exhale a soft moan, reaching back to grip his thigh, needing to anchor myself as he starts to move.

He thrusts in long, steady strokes.

I feel every inch of him drag along my walls, every press deep, every grind of his hips against my ass.

And all the while—he kisses me.

Not just my shoulder, but the side of my neck, the back of my ear, the curve of my spine. Soft endless kisses. His lips press to every inch he can reach, like he’s trying to soothe something raw in both of us.

I whimper as he shifts his angle, hitting deeper, slower.

My hand slides down to where we’re joined, feeling the place where his body becomes mine. I circle my clit softly, just enough to match the rhythm of his thrusts, and my breath starts to shake.

He buries his face in my neck.

His hips rock into me again, deep and smooth, and the sound that slips from my throat is more a sob than a moan.

I groan—soft at first.

My hand between my legs keeps circling my clit, tighter, in time with every stroke of his cock inside me. My body tenses—tighter, hotter—every nerve winding into something electric and dangerous.

I groan again, louder this time, hips grinding back against him, greedy for it. For him.

My thighs are trembling. My breath is ragged. He kisses my neck again, and that’s what does it.

The tension snaps.

I come—hard, clenched around him, spasming from the inside out. My cunt grips his cock like it doesn’t want to let go, wetness spilling out between us as I cry out and melt into his chest, shaking, moaning his name like a plea.

He slows—lets me ride it out—then pulls out of me, thick and slick and twitching. I’m still gasping, boneless, eyes fluttering.

But when I turn to look at him—

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