Page 68 of Iron Roses

Our mouths move together, messy and aching, tongues tangling, teeth clashing in soft gasps. I taste sweat. His hand strokes down my side—hip to thigh, then back up again—and his touch is no longer rough. It’s reverent. Possessive. His fingers find the slick between my legs, still wet, still dripping, and he doesn’t wait.

He pulls out and slides a finger into me.

Just one.

My body tenses immediately, pussy fluttering around the intrusion, overstimulated and open. I moan into his mouth, hips twitching. He kisses me deeper, breath caught in his throat, and begins to fuck me with that one finger—gentle but steady, the wet sound of it obscene in the silence.

Then he shifts lower.

His mouth leaves mine, trailing hot kisses down my throat, along my collarbone, until he finds my breast. He licks a circle around my nipple, then sucks it deep into his mouth, groaning low as his tongue flicks across the tip. The suction is hot andfirm, and I gasp, hand flying to his hair as he keeps moving his finger inside me.

His mouth worships my breast, teeth grazing, tongue flattening, lips wet and hungry. The heat of him overwhelms me. The feel of his finger inside me—curling just so—the wet glide of it, the intimacy of it after everything we’ve just done—it’s almost too much.

But I don’t pull away.

I arch into it.

I let him take what’s left of me.

And he kisses like he never plans to stop.

*****

Sunlight cuts through the curtains in a crawl, warm across my bare back.

The sheets are soft—clean—and tangled low around my hips. My limbs ache in the most exquisite way. A hum of tenderness in the muscles, a leftover echo of the night. Of how his mouth moved across my body like it was reading scripture. Of how I opened for him, again and again, until I forgot where I ended and he began.

He’s sitting at the foot of the bed.

T-shirt. Jeans. Barefoot.

A small, worn envelope dangles from his fingers.

He lifts it slightly when he notices I’m awake, one brow raised.

I stretch, unabashed, the sheets slipping lower. My breasts bare, skin still flushed from the heat of sleep. I sit up, unhurried, and reach for the envelope.

He watches.

Inside are two passes—bold typography across the top: Carlton vs Richmond. AFL. The kind of match that draws screaming crowds and beer-stained jerseys. Not exactly opera or cocktails—but he’s watching me for my reaction.

I look at the envelope, confused, and then him. He lifts a piece of fabric, a silk mask cut at the eyes, and covers my face.

His lips curve in a smile. I glance at the clock.

1:42 PM.

I exhale a laugh through my nose.

So this is what it feels like to sleep after being wrecked. I don’t even remember closing my eyes.

I slide out of bed, still naked. I can feel his eyes on my back as I cross to the bathroom.

The tub is gleaming, the water drained.

I don’t look at it.

I see it anyway—my thighs wrapped around his waist, his hands pressing me down, his breath on my shoulder, the water sloshing against porcelain.

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