Page 30 of Carry on Wayward Son

It wasn’t a nice kiss. It wasn’t sweet or slow. It was a desperate, claiming sort of kiss, fueled by a need to imprint myself on this woman. To make her mine. To drown in the taste of her until we both forgot where I ended and she began.

Exactly as she had on the mats, Layla gave as good as she got, mouth opening under mine with a little whimper that drove me wild. I pressed my hips into hers, needing her to feel what she did to me.

Koa, who’d come in right behind us, erupted with a growl.

I froze.

Layla broke the kiss, gasping, turning her face toward him. “Ami. Ami. Allonge-toi.”

The dog gave me one long evaluative look, decided I wasn’t a threat to her life, and folded himself down with an air of profound reluctance.

I put my mouth to her throat. “I want to be so much more than friends.”

“Thank God,” she said.

I reached out blindly and managed to slap the door shut. I had enough presence of mind to lock it behind us, then I took her mouth again, drinking in the little noises she made like a dying man discovering water.

Her hands were already under my shirt, nails scraping over my abs like she wanted to mark me. I hissed against her mouth and yanked the fabric over my head, breaking the kiss only long enough to toss it aside. She made a sound—half growl, half whimper—and her teeth sank into my bottom lip before soothing it with her tongue.

Fuck.

I walked her backward, my thigh between hers, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric of her leggings. The hallway was too damn narrow. Every step was a collision—hips, hands, mouths—until we crashed into the bedroom doorway. The bed was right there, but I couldn’t wait. I spun her, pressed her front against the wall, and ground against her ass while my hands found the hem of her tank.

She arched back into me, a breathy “yes” escaping her as I dragged the fabric up and over her head. The tattoos I’d glimpsed earlier sprawled across her shoulders and down her arms—inked vines, delicate but fierce, wrapping around scars that told stories I wanted to learn. But it was the image inked into her back that stopped my breath.

It was a butterfly. But not like any butterfly I’d ever seen.

It wasn’t delicate. Not really.

It was iron—wrought from fire and hammered into shape, wings spread wide across her shoulder blades, the body forged from what looked like a damn sword. The edges of the wings were sharp, almost jagged, like they’d been cut from metal rather than drawn. And the colors—deep blues and purples, the kind you see in a flame’s hottest parts. It was beautiful and brutal all at once, just like her.

“Off.”

Her voice was rough, demanding, and I didn’t need to be told twice. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her leggings and yanked, dragging them down her hips along with her underwear. Somewhere between the front door and now, she’d lost her shoes. I didn’t remember that happening. Didn’t care.

I wanted to slow down. Wanted to trace every line of ink on her skin with my tongue, wanted to memorize the way her muscles flexed under my hands, the way her breath hitched when I⁠—

“Jace.”

She said my name like a warning, and fuck if that didn’t make me harder. There’d be time for slow later. Right now, she was burning, and I was the only one who could put out the fire.

I spun her around, lifted her like she weighed nothing, and tossed her onto the bed. She landed with a gasp, but before she could even fully process it, I was on my knees, dragging her to the edge of the mattress, and my mouth was on her.

No warning. No teasing. Only heat and pressure and the flat of my tongue working her like I was a man starving and she was my last meal on earth.

Her hands flew to my hair, fingers twisting, pulling—yes—and her thighs locked around my head like she was afraid I’d stop. Not a chance in hell.

I learned her fast. The way her hips lifted when I circled my tongue just there. The way her breath stuttered when I sucked hard and eased off. The way her nails dug into my scalp when I slid two fingers inside her and curled them exactly right.

She was loud. Unapologetic. And fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing I’d ever heard.

I watched her face the whole time—her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open on a silent scream, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip hard enough to leave marks. Her skin flushed, her chest heaving, and when I added a third finger, stretching her, her back arched off the bed like she was trying to fly out of her own skin.

“Fuck—fuck⁠—”

The orgasm hit her like a wave, her whole body tightening before she shattered, her cry raw and broken. I didn’t let up, riding her through it, drawing it out until her thighs were trembling and she was pushing at my shoulders, oversensitive, done.

I eased back enough to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, slower, against the tattoo on her hip—a cluster of stars, sharp and bright. She was still panting, her chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon, but then her hands were in my hair again, yanking.