Page 53 of Iron Roses

We stay like that—breathing the same breath, time suspended. When he finally leans in, it’s not sudden.

It’s inevitable.

His lips meet mine with reverence. The kiss is soft, then deeper, but never rushed. His mouth parts against mine. His fingers slide into my hair, anchoring me gently, drawing me into the ache.

My hands find the edges of his ribs, the dip of his back. Every part of me presses into him like I’m trying to memorize him.

Tears slip between us.

Mine. His. I don’t know anymore.

He breaks the kiss for only a breath—his forehead pressing to mine, eyes closed, chests heaving in tandem. Then he kisses me again.

It’s like every memory she left inside me is now living in this moment, passing between our mouths. And I let it.

His mouth is on mine and everything else disappears.

The kiss is deep—hot, wet, consuming. His tongue slides past my lips with no hesitation, no permission asked. I give it anyway. My head tips back. My chest presses into him. I’m already breathless, already shaking, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

Not properly.

He walks me backward without breaking the kiss. One step. Another. His hands are on my hips, firm, directing. My back hits the wall and the sound is quiet—just plaster and breath—but my heart pounds like it echoes.

He pins my wrists above my head in one swift motion. His body presses into mine, thigh between my legs, cock hard against my hip. His mouth never leaves mine. He kisses me like he wants to swallow every sound I haven’t made yet. Like he knows they’re coming.

I whimper into his mouth when his hand slides from my wrist to my throat. His fingers wrap around it—not tight, just firm. Possessive. His thumb presses against the hollow where my pulse jumps like it wants to confess everything.

His mouth moves lower. Over my jaw, my throat, down to my collarbone. He bites there—gentle, then not.

And then his hand moves.

Down.

Slipping beneath the fabric of my underwear like he owns the space already. I gasp against his cheek, hips bucking into his palm without thinking. He’s warm. Rough. His fingers slide straight through the slick heat gathered between my thighs, and I moan—high, involuntary, too loud in the still air.

He groans low in his chest, like the sound turns something in him loose.

Two fingers slide between my folds spreading me open, finding the throb of my clit and circling it until my knees threaten to give out. I brace my weight on his body. He holds my throat still while his fingers sink lower, slipping inside me, stretching me, curling just enough to make me see stars behind my eyelids.

I bite my lip hard, but I can’t stop the sounds. They keep rising—small, breathless, desperate.

He fucks me with his fingers against the wall, mouth devouring mine again, my hands still pinned, my body helpless under his.

The room is heat and breath and skin and everything I’ve tried to hold back unraveling.

The light in the room bends strangely. And I’m not in my body anymore.

I’m watching.

I’m across the room, still, silent, breath caught in my throat as I stare at him.

But it isn’t me he’s touching.

It’s her. My sister

Pinned to the wall in my place, wrists locked above her head, hair falling in damp strands across her face. Her head is tilted back, her throat exposed to his mouth as he kisses her like he’s starving for it. I can see the tremble in her thighs, the way her lips part when he growls low against her skin.

And I feel it.

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