Page 49 of Controlled Burn
He licked her again, then slid two thick fingers inside, filling her deep, curling until she gasped and shuddered. His stubble scraped her inner thighs, marking her, branding her as his.
She came, raw and shaking, her body bucking against his mouth. He didn’t let go. Didn’t stop. He wanted every last quake, every broken sound.
Only then did he rise—chest heaving, sweat glistening along every carved muscle, his undershirt bunched high over abs and that perfect V cutting down, down, down. He shoved his pants down with rough hands, cock already hard, flushed and straining, glistening at the tip.
“You think that’s all I want?” His voice was pure sin.
He grabbed her by the hips, dragging her down the smooth metal until her ass was at the edge, until he was lined up, his cock hot and blunt against her slick entrance. Any second, someone could open that door. She didn’t care. That was the scariest part.
He watched her face as he pushed inside—one deep, brutal thrust.
She cried out, biting his shoulder, holding on for dear life as he filled her, stretched her, ruined her. He fucked her hard—harder than she’d ever been fucked—each snap of his hips slamming her into the rattling dryer, each thrust a dare, a promise, a punishment.
“You feel what you do to me?” he ground out. “You feel how fucking crazy you make me?”
Her nails clawed his back, legs locked around his waist, sweat and heat and the scent of burning washing over them. She came again, helpless, his name a strangled sob on her lips.
He broke for her, hips stuttering, cock throbbing as he emptied inside her, forehead dropping to hers, breaths crashing together.
For a long time, neither of them moved—just the low hum of the dryer and the wild rush of blood in her ears.
“We crossed the line,” he whispered, voice broken.
She nodded, touching his jaw. “We burned it to the fucking ground.”
He smiled—wrecked, hungry, still hard inside her. “And I’d do it again.”
Outside, the world was quiet. But in here, the fire was still burning.
Maddox
He didn’t move for a long time. Didn’t trust himself to speak, or even breathe too loud. Talia was still pressed close—her thighs trembling, her face buried in his shoulder, her scent all over his skin. The taste of her lingered in his mouth, sharp as whiskey, addictive as oxygen.
He should have felt guilt. Regret. Some last spark of self-preservation. Instead, he felt only need—fierce, gnawing, insatiable. She was everywhere: under his nails, clinging to his tongue, ghosting along the bite mark she’d left on his shoulder.
He didn’t want to leave her. Didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to be anywhere in the world except here, inside her, until the building burned down around them and forced him out.
His fingers drifted down her spine, memorizing every curve, every damp line of sweat. He pressed his lips to her forehead, breathing her in, grounding himself.
They had crossed every line. He knew there would be fallout—reputations, careers, maybe even lives blown apart. But hedidn’t care. Not in this moment. Not with her body wound around his like a promise he never meant to keep.
God help him, he would do it again. He would do it a thousand times.
And he knew—so would she.
Talia
She couldn’t remember how long she stayed wrapped around him, the dryer’s hum vibrating through her bones, his skin slick with sweat and heat. Her body felt broken open, nerves sizzling with the echo of every thrust, every rough kiss, every filthy word he’d whispered against her skin. She was wrecked—ruined—and still, it wasn’t enough.
She wanted more. She wanted him again. She wanted to crawl inside his skin and stay there until the world outside burned away.
It wasn’t just lust anymore. It was need—a dangerous, desperate kind of hunger that scraped at her ribs and pulsed low in her belly. Every inch of her still felt his hands. Every heartbeat was a reminder that she would let him do it again, even if it cost her everything.
His scent clung to her—smoke, sweat, aftershave, the sharp salt of sex. She buried her face in his shoulder, breathing him in, memorizing the shape of his mouth against her throat, the way his muscles jumped beneath her hands.
She should have been afraid. She should have been ashamed. But all she felt was alive. More alive than she’d ever been. More his than she could ever admit.
And as his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her close, she knew she’d crossed a line she could never uncross.
