Page 21 of Iron and Ivory

In three days I could be dead. Or worse, in jail.

And Savannah won't wait. She won't.

I wouldn't even let her.

But tonight, I let her. I'll let her do anything she wants with me.

Her fingers move to the button of my jeans. It pops. The zipper drops, her hand presses inside, and I grow in her palm. Her other hand pushes my jeans down just enough to get them over my hips and free my cock.

She is kneeling in front of me before I can even process it. Both hands now, firm and easy. Her eyes are meetin' mine, even in the midnight dark.

Her mouth opens around me slow.

No rush. No performance. Just her takin' her time like she's got somethin' to prove and all night to prove it, and my hand finds the back of her head before I even think about it. My fingers spread through her hair, my palm curving to the shape of her skull.

She sinks down.

Fuck.

I exhale through my nose and tip my head back and just—let her.

That's the thing she's figured out about me, ya know. That I'm capable of lettin' her. That I don't always have to be the one takin'. Took her a long time to teach me that and I'll never tell her she taught me anything.

She works me slow, tongue dragging the underside, her lips tight and warm and her pace—her pace is gonna kill me. She's not tryin' to get me there. She's just—bein' there.

With me.

On me.

One hand wrapped around the base and the other flat on my thigh and she's not movin' either one with any urgency, just holdin' on, steady, like she's got an anchor in each palm and I'm the thing she's keepin' from driftin'.

I look down at her.

That's always a mistake.

She's got her eyes up. Meetin' mine. Patient as anything in the barely-there gold light of the outside fairy strings, like she's got nowhere else she'd rather be in this world or the next and she wants me to know it.

Wants me to see it.

Won't let me look away.

I don't look away.

My fingers curl slightly in her hair. Not directing. Just holdin'. Just—here. Present. Both of us present, which is rare for me and she knows it.

She slides down further and I feel the back of her throat and every muscle in my body tightens against the want to move and I hold it, hold it, hold it, grip the silo wall behind me with my free hand 'cause I need something to push against that isn't her.

She pulls back slow.

Does it again.

Same pace. Unhurried. Deliberate.

Torture, ya know. The kind you choose. The kind you'd choose again.

She lets me go slow, lips dragging, and there's a thin wet string between her mouth and me when she pulls back and she's lookin' up and she's smilin' and I don't—I can't⁠—

I smile back.