Page 86 of Tracking Snow

My thighs clench in response as I moan.

"And how dare you call that piece of string panties," he says.

My standing leg starts to shake.

The heel of my boot scrapes the floorboard and I lock my hip to stop it, thigh muscle burning, jaw aching from how hard I'm biting down on every sound, slick running down the inside of my thigh where the fishnets are torn.

My whole body is strung tight on the choice between staying silent and staying upright, and he hums against me, taking his time, collecting every tremor.

"Four." It comes out strangled. "Up. Now."

He climbs my body, mouth slick. His jeans hit the floor and then he turns me, walking me two steps and bending me over the back of a pew. The old wood takes my weight with a groan while the microphone hums on stories below us.

His hands brace on the pew, either side of mine. Smoke threads from under his palms.

"Say it again," he whispers against the nape of my neck.

"Say what?"

"You know what."

My face goes hot in a way that has nothing to do with him. "You're my boyfriend."

He drives into me on the word.

My breath punches out, and his hand is there to catch it, palm sealing over my mouth before the cry clears my throat.

There's nothing slow about his rhythm. There's nothing careful about it. He's greedy, fast, deep, pulling me onto him with a grip that will leave prints, and the pressure of every swallowed sound builds up behind my sternum until my ribs ache from the holding.

"You feel that, baby?" His voice scrapes against my ear. "I've wanted you so bad I've almost burned us all from the inside out. I'd watch you pour drinks and think about exactly this, you bent over, soaked, taking all of me."

And it is quite a lot. I'm amazed how one dick can feel so different depending on who's in charge. But his near scalding hot girth has me quaking and drenched.

Sweat drips off him onto my spine, hot enough that I flinch and arch into it at the same time. The pew creaks. His hands sear down into the wood with the smell of struck matches and scorched varnish.

He's not trying to be gentle. He's trying to break me.

I don't think I can be broken but fae damn if I don't want him to try.

I plant my hands, arch, and shove back into him beat for beat, matching his rhythm down to the breath, his own greed returned with interest, and Four chokes on air, his pace stumbling, one hand leaving the pew to clamp my hip, five glorious, searing points where he touches me.

"Snow," he warns.

I look over my shoulder at him.

His eyes are glowing red. Actually glowing, lit from inside, sweat cutting lines down his chest, and the sight of what I do to him hits harder than anything his body is doing.

"Harder," I tell the fire. "I can take it."

The sound he makes should never be allowed in a church as he gives me everything.

My arms shake. My boots slide on the boards. His arm wraps my waist and hauls me up, my spine flush to his scalding chest, his mouth at my shoulder, the burn in me building coil over coil until I am one held breath from breaking and screaming this dead church down.

A door bangs, and voices come pouring out onto the street right under our open window. I hear snippets about the casserole dishes and goodnights and somebody's car alarm chirping.

Four goes still inside me, buried deep, and claps one hot hand over my mouth.

"Shh," he breathes into my ear, and then, because he is a menace, he keeps moving. Slow now. Silent. Grinding deep while forty voices fill the street, his palm smelling of smoke, his voice barely air. "That's a lot of people down there, baby. They all hate a bad mage like me. If they found us, they'd string me up for what I'm doing to you. An innocent little human."