Page 93 of Honeyfires

"Stevens on the roof of the brush truck." She smiled, small and warm. "His good frisbee."

My mouth twitched. "It had flames on it."

"Of course it did." She moved closer, her other hand finding my jaw—the jaw thing, the thing she knew about, the thing she touched when I was nervous. "And Miller at the end of the table for three hours, saying almost nothing, being completely present." She pressed her forehead to mine. "And Jackson eating seventeen cookies and telling his wife it was a high-stress week."

"It was a Tuesday."

"It was a Tuesday," she agreed. "That's your crew, Petra. That's the family you built without meaning to. Two people with bad behavior at a barbecue don't get to take that from you." She pulled back to look at me. "They especially don't get to take this afternoon from me. I won a cornhole tournament against firefighters who practically play cornhole full-time. I'm not giving that up."

I stared at her. "You are—you're incredible. You know that?"

"Library science," she said. "We catalog what's worth keeping."

I kissed her because there was nowhere better to put all of it, and she kissed me back, and some of the residue of the evening began, slowly, to lift.

When we finally broke apart, she looked up at me with darkened eyes.

"Show me," she said.

"Show you what?"

"How tonight ends. Not—" She shook her head. "Not whatever they were saying. Show me how we see this evening." Her hands moved to my collar. "Something good. Something ours. Show me who I belong to, Petra."

The anger and need crashed together, overwhelming everything else. I grabbed her hips, pulling her against me hard enough to make her gasp. "You sure about that?"

"Yes." Her hands fisted in my shirt. "I want all of it. Your anger, your need, everything. Show me."

I kissed her roughly, all teeth and desperation, backing her toward the bedroom. We left a trail of clothes, her dress, my shirt, everything shed in our wake until we crashed through the bedroom door with nothing between us.

"Wait," I said, breathing hard. "I need—give me a second."

She watched with darkened eyes as I retrieved the harness from the drawer, as I stepped into it with shaking hands, adjusting the straps. The purple dildo stood proud from my hips, and Vera's breath caught at the sight.

"On the bed," I commanded. "On your back."

She obeyed, spreading herself out like an offering, and the sight of her, flushed and wanting and mine, made something primal roar to life in my chest.

I crawled over her, caging her body with mine, one hand wrapping around her throat. Not squeezing, just holding, claiming. "You're mine."

"Yes," she breathed, and I realized what had turned her on. She wanted me to be possessive, to show her she was mine, that I'd fight for her inside of the bedroom and out of it.

"Say it."

"I'm yours, Petra. Only yours."

I thrust into her without preamble, watching her back arch, hearing her cry out. I didn't start slow or gentle. I fucked her hard and almost selfish, one hand still at her throat, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks.

"This what you wanted?" I growled. "Wanted me to show you?"

"Yes—god, yes—"

I changed the angle, drove deeper, watched pleasure and need chase across her face. "No one else gets to look at you like that. No one else gets to think about you like that. You're mine."

"Yours," she gasped, her nails raking down my back. "Only yours—oh, fuck—"

I felt her start to tense around the dildo, felt her thighs trembling on either side of my hips.

“Come for me,” I rasped, pounding into her. “Come on my strap, baby."