Page 39 of Crowbar

“Let me see,” he said.

Rolling my eyes, I shifted so he could examine the sling. His fingers were gentle as they checked the fabric and made sure nothing was cutting into my shoulder. Warmth radiated from his palm through the material and into my skin.

“Feels okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Not lying to me?”

“Maybe a little.”

A low sound rumbled in his chest. His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb stroking along my cheekbone. The touch was deliberate, possessive. Like he knew exactly how badly I needed to be handled. Maybe I would break. Maybe I already had.

“You’re mine now,” he said. The words weren’t gentle. They were a brand, hot and final, settling in my bones.

My throat went tight. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His breath was warm against my lips. “My wolf claimed you. That means you’re pack. Means you’re protected. Means nobody touches you without going through me first.”

The words hit like a key turning in a rusted lock. Something inside me groaned open—something I’d boarded up so long ago I’d stopped hearing it rattle. Ken had never kept me safe. He’d just kept me. Crowbar wasn’t offering ownership. He was offering a shield.

“I’m yours,” I breathed.

“Fuck yes, you are.” His mouth crashed into mine, not gentle. His tongue pushed past my lips, claiming space, tasting like dark coffee and the sharp bite of wintergreen gum. I could feel the scrape of his stubble, the heat of him, the way his body leaned into mine like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.

I grabbed a fistful of his shirt with my good hand and yanked him closer. Needed the weight of him, the solid press of muscle and bone. Needed to feel the truth of it: Ken was gone. This was real. This was mine.

Crowbar’s hand found the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. Not rough, but not gentle either—just holding me in place while his mouth worked over mine, slow and thorough, like he was memorizing the shape of me. His other hand slid down to my hip, thumb digging into the dip just above my waistband, and I arched into the touch without thinking.

Heat flared low in my gut, spreading through my veins like wildfire. My pulse hammered in my throat, my wrists, between my legs. The mix of adrenaline and want left me dizzy, my skin too tight, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts against his lips.

I broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, my lungs burning. “Fuck me. Right now.”

Crowbar’s pupils blew wide. “Yeah?” His voice was gravel, raw. “You sure?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” I yanked at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the fabric. The sling made me clumsy, but I didn’t care—just needed him naked. Now.

He didn’t make me ask twice. One sharp tug and the cotton was over his head, gone. Tattoos coiled across his collarbones, down his biceps—black ink like shadows on skin. I wanted to lick every line, but later. Right now, I needed him pressed against me, needed to feel the heat of him, the weight, the proof that I was still here, still breathing, still his.

Crowbar’s hands went to my shirt, peeling it up slow. “Arm stays still.”

I rolled my eyes. “I know.”

“Say it.”

“I solemnly swear not to move my arm.”

His thumb brushed my nipple, just once, and I jerked. “Good boy.”

My cock throbbed, leaking against my zipper. Crowbar’s gaze dropped, dark and hungry. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He did. Hard. His tongue shoved into my mouth, claiming, and I bit down on his lip just to hear him groan. Then he was lifting me, settling me over his thighs, careful of my shoulder. I rocked down, grinding against the thick ridge in his jeans, and fire shot up my spine.

“More,” I gasped against his mouth. “Need more.”

“Easy,” Crowbar growled against my mouth, his breath warm. “We’ve got all night.”