Page 54 of Iron Roses

I feel his hand slipping under her waistband. I feel the warm, thick pressure of his fingers sliding between soaked folds. I feel the stretch as he pushes two fingers inside her—inside me—and my body clenches hard, heat blooming deep and sharp between my legs.

I watch him reach up with his free hand and undo her top, tugging the fabric apart until her breasts spill out, nipples flushed and tight in the open air. He groans like the sight ruins him.

And then his mouth is on her breast.

He sucks deep, lips closing over her nipple, tongue flicking, teeth dragging just enough to make her shudder.

I shudder.

The pull of his mouth, the wet suction, the flick of his tongue—I feel it. I feel it in the tips of my breasts, aching, raw. My nipples harden instantly, breath caught in my chest as his mouth worships her body like he did mine.

I watch him thrust his fingers harder into her. Her head knocks back against the wall with a gasp, and I feel the stretch in my core, the tightness, the hot rush of slickness that coats his hand.

Her eyes flutter open—and for a heartbeat, she looks straight at me.

I try to step back, but I have no feet.

I try to close my eyes, but I am the eyes, wide and fixed on the way he grips her thighs, on the way he pumps his fingers into her like he knows every edge of her pleasure. Every time her mouth parts, a soundless moan on her lips, my own lips twitch. Every time he kisses the slope of her breast, I swear I feel his mouth on mine—hot, wet, consuming.

Because every kiss he places on her skin, every moan he draws out of her mouth, every curl of his fingers inside her.

Air floods in, sharp and cold, and I realize I’m back—not watching, not floating, but inside myself. Inside this trembling, aching body, pinned to the wall, his fingers buried in me again, just like before. But this time it’s worse. Or better. Or both.

Because I can still feel everything.

The ghost of her and the rawness of me. The echo and the truth.

His fingers are moving faster, curling deep inside me. My hips lift, grinding into his palm, chasing it. My clit pulses with every stroke, nerves lit up, wet slick pooling down my thighs.

I don’t speak. I can’t.

But my mouth is open. Gasping.

He knows I’m close. He can feel the way I clench around him—tight, desperate. His thumb finds my clit, circling, pressing.

The pressure builds in my belly like fire winding tight around my spine. My toes curl inside my shoes, my legs start to give, but he holds me in place, one hand on my throat again, the other still fucking me with brutal precision.

It builds.

And builds.

Until it breaks.

I come with a cry I can’t control, my head snapping back, my body arching into him, around him, because of him. My pussy clamps around his fingers so hard it aches, waves of pleasure crashing through me—sharp, wet, devastating.

My vision whites out. My breath stutters.

I shudder through it—held still by his body, his hands, the force of my own orgasm wrecking me against the wall.

And through the haze, I swear I see her again.

Behind my eyes.

Smiling. Satisfied.

Like the climax was hers too.

Chapter Eleven – Cassian

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