Page 65 of Knife Thrower

23

COLE

Icrush my mouth against hers again, unable to get enough.

The confession rewires my brain. I love you. The words echo in my skull, drowning out the howl of the wind whipping through the steel lattice of the Ferris wheel. Sloane Archer loves me. The woman who treats flying steel like a mild inconvenience, the woman who carved a monster to pieces without batting an eye, just handed me the keys to the fortress she spent most of her life building.

I devour her mouth. My tongue sweeps past her lips, claiming the heat inside, and she meets my frantic rhythm, her hands tangling in my hair, dragging my face closer.

The colder night air bites at my forearms. The metal gondola sways, heavy and groaning on its hinges eighty feet above the earth, but the chill means absolutely nothing. My blood runs like gasoline.

I pull back, gasping for oxygen. My chest heaves against hers.

“Time to face the consequences of stranding us here, Archer. I’m going to ruin you.”

I drop my hands to the waistband of her dark denim jeans. The bench leaves zero room for elaborate maneuvering, but necessity breeds innovation. I pop the metal button of her pants, the sound sharp over the rushing wind. Then I drag the zipper down.

She lifts her hips off the cold seat, and I shove the denim down her thighs, dragging her cotton underwear with the fabric. She kicks off her combat boots, freeing one leg, then the other, abandoning the clothes in a pile near the door.

Now she’s wearing only the black fishnet sweater. The moonlight filters through the gaps in the woven string, painting diamonds of pale skin across her torso. The cool air hits her bare thighs.

I reach for my own zipper, and I free my cock, the heavy, rigid length springing out, weeping a thick drop of pre-cum.

“Turn around.”

Sloane blinks, her hands resting on my shoulders.

“Face the sky.” I grip her hips, my long fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her waist. “Look at the stars. Look at the kingdom you rule, Archer.”

A hot flush blooms across her cheeks. She shifts her weight, lifting her knees over my thighs. She turns her back to me, and her spine lines up perfectly with my sternum. She grips the thick, cold steel of the safety bar locked across our laps, anchoring herself. Then she lowers herself down.

The blunt head of my cock finds her slick entrance, and she takes me in one long, agonizing, fluid slide. The tight, scalding walls of her pussy stretch to accommodate my size, swallowing me to the hilt.

A jagged moan tears from her throat, snatched instantly by the wind.

I drop my head back against the metal. The friction scrambles my brain. My cock throbs deep inside her heat, the contrast between the cold air on our skin and the absolute inferno where our bodies connect threatening to snap my control in half.

I wrap my left arm tight around her waist, clamping her flush against my torso. I feel the frantic, violent thud of her heart hammering against my own ribs.

“You feel incredible.” I bury my face in the crook of her neck, my teeth scraping the sensitive skin just below her ear. “You feel so fucking perfect.”

Sloane throws her head back against my shoulder. Her blonde hair whips across my face, smelling of cedar and vanilla. She thrusts her hips up, utilizing the leverage of the safety bar, and drives herself back down.

The gondola rocks violently. The steel cables groan in protest.

I meet her rhythm. I plant my boots flat against the floor grating, driving my hips up to match her downward plunge. The wet slap of our bodies colliding echoes in the metal bucket.

“I love you,” I grind out. The words tear from my lungs, harsh and raw. “I fucking love you, Sloane.”

She gasps and rolls her hips, grinding herself down on me.

I drop my right hand and trail my fingers down the smooth plane of her stomach, slipping beneath the edge of the fishnet sweater, and finding the tight, thrumming bundle of nerves of her clit.

I press down.

Sloane screams my name.

The sound shatters the quiet of the sky. I drag my thumb in a firm, relentless circle, coating the sensitive flesh in her own wetness. I apply exactly the right amount of pressure, coordinating the stroke with the brutal, upward thrust of my cock.