Page 45 of Iron Roses

I reach for her shirt.

She lets me.

I strip her, reverent. First her top—pulled over her head, baring her collarbone, her ribs, the soft swell of her breasts. She’s flushed from emotion, skin rising and falling with every uneven breath.

My fingers graze the birthmark again and she shudders.

I unbutton her jeans next, each press of my fingers conscious. She lifts her hips as I slide them down, inch by inch, exposing the long line of her legs, the curve of her thighs, the small scar on her knee. Every detail is a memory I’m only just making—and yet, it feels like a memory returning.

She doesn’t cover herself.

She watches me.

I stand back.

And begin to undress.

My hands go to the hem of my shirt, pulling it off in one motion. Her eyes follow every movement, wide and unblinking. She sees the scars, the tight pull of muscle from too many fights I never walked away from.

My pants come off next. I’m hard already, the ache tight and full, and I don’t hide it.

I let her see everything.

She reminds me of her.

In the way she breathes through pain. In the way she doesn’t flinch from me.

I step toward her, naked, and the space between us shrinks to nothing. The backs of her thighs are pressed to the bed. My hand comes up, not to take, not yet—but to cup her jaw, my thumb brushing the edge of her mouth.

Her eyes flutter shut.

And I kiss her again.

She lies back, her thighs parting as she lowers herself onto the bed, chest rising with every unsteady breath. Her green eyes stay locked on mine, even as she leans back on her elbows, even as her knees draw up and fall open for me. I watch the soft, sexy arch of her back as her hips shift, adjusting to the mattress.

Her skin is flushed, mouth wet, parted. The birthmark on her neck is visible again. My throat tightens.

I kneel between her thighs, my hands grazing up from her knees, over the warm skin of her inner thighs, until I can feel the heat coming off her cunt. She’s soaked—slick and hot—her folds soft and glistening, flushed with blood and want.

I stroke myself once, twice, watching her watch me. My cock is thick, aching, flushed dark at the tip, slick from the need she’s drawn out of me. I run it through her folds, letting it slide over her clit, letting her feel it.

She exhales sharply, almost a gasp. Her head tips back for a second. Her thighs tense.

I line myself up.

The head of my cock stretches her open, and the first sound she makes is a soft, choked breath. Her brows pull together, her lips part wider, and her chest heaves once, then again.

She’s so tight. So wet. I feel every flutter of her walls as I sink in inch by inch.

My jaw clenches.

The heat of her, the wet grip, the way her body pulls at me. I have to stop halfway in, panting, forehead falling forward to touch hers. I can feel her breath on my lips, short and stuttering, her legs hooked around my waist now, drawing me in closer.

Another thrust.

She gasps, high in her throat—barely a sound, more vibration than voice—and her hips lift toward mine. Her nails scrape lightly over my ribs, gripping.

I bottom out, cock fully buried in her, and we both freeze.

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