Page 18 of Iron and Ivory

A rumble of a motorcycle cuts through the silence. Low, but thundering, and unmistakably sexy.

My heart stops. Just skips a whole beat.

He came.

Doesn't he always, Savannah?

Yes. He does.

But I will never take it for granted.

The rumble gets louder, closer. And my whole body breaks out in chills.

He still does this to me.

He still lights me up like the sun.

I don't know what special thing I did in some past life to deserve a love like this, but I've got it. And it's such a precious thing.

The engine stops, he knows I'm here. Cassia is nickering at him like Legion's her long lost friend.

He says something to her, and this touches me in such an honest way, tears well up in my eyes.

And then, there he is. Standing in the cut-out doorway. A shadow and nothin' else. I'm sitting in the dark like a creep.

He says, "You look pretty."

I laugh a little and stand up. "It's darker than midnight in here, Legion. You can barely even see me."

He approaches, then his hands are on my face. His mouth pressing against my mouth, and he's whisperin' to me, "I don't need to see you. You're always pretty."

And then we're kissing.

His mouth is warm and tastes like cigarettes and something else underneath—something that's just him, something I have never been able to name and have stopped trying to.

His hands are still on my face. Both of them. Big and rough and holding me like I'm something he's been thinking about all day, which I know he has because he always has, the same way I've been thinking about him.

The kiss goes slow at first. Almost careful.

And then it doesn't.

His fingers slide into my hair and takes the kiss deeper, and I make a sound I'm not embarrassed about because there's nobody here but him and the silo and the stars and this has always been the one place where the sounds I make are entirely my own.

I get my hands inside his jacket. His leather jacket, the Badlands cut, worn and heavy and warm from the ride. I curl my fingers into the front of it and pull him closer like I'm afraid he'll change his mind, which is a fear I cannot seem to reason myself out of no matter how many times he shows up.

He makes a low sound against my mouth.

"You're cold," he says.

"I'm not."

"Your hands are cold."

"Then warm them up."

He does. He pulls back just enough to take both my hands in his and press them flat against his chest, through his t-shirt, and I can feel his heartbeat. Fast. Not slow and steady like he always pretends he is. Fast, like mine.

That, right there, is worth everything.