His jacket hit the floor.
Lucy reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it up and over his head.
Byron's body was a masterpiece of violence — hard muscle wrapped around old scars and ink, his arms thick, veins running up his forearms, his chest broad enough to shield her from anything.
A dangerous, living weapon. And he was looking at her like she was the only thing he'd ever fight for.
Byron reached for her tactical top, his hands slow, almost reverent.
He peeled it away, baring her flushed skin, her breasts exposed and heavy, her nipples already peaked with anticipation.
His grey eyes darkened "Fuck, Lucy," he whispered, almost broken.
He traced her skin with trembling fingers, barely touching, almost worshipping.
Lucy whimpered, arching into his hands.
Byron let out a soft, pained groan as he leaned down, his mouth capturing one tight nipple, sucking gently, licking and biting just enough to make her squirm.
"You're going to kill me," he growled against her breast.
He kissed down her stomach, fingers sliding under her pants, dragging them down along with her panties, exposing her completely.
Lucy flushed under the intensity of his gaze.
Byron knelt between her thighs, hands spreading her open.
"So fucking perfect," he murmured.
He dipped his head and flicked his tongue against her clit.
Lucy gasped, clutching at the sheets, arching off the bed.
He licked her slowly, lazily, savoring every shudder, every moan that spilled from her lips.
When she was writhing, trembling on the edge, he pulled back.
She whimpered, reaching for him.
"Byron, please—"
He smirked darkly.
Finally, Byron stood, kicking off his boots and stripping the rest of the way.
Lucy’s mouth went dry.
He was thick and hard, heavy against his stomach, the sight of him made her ache in places she didn’t know could ache.
He crawled back over her, caging her body with his.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
Lucy nodded, trembling.
"I've never been surer of anything."
Byron started rubbing the thick head of his cock against her wet, throbbing pussy.