Chapter 6 #2
Instead of answering my question, she grips my hand and leads me through a labyrinth of dust-covered shelves, down a set of dimly lit stairs, and through a half-rusted metal door that opens to the basement floor.
There’s another staircase as the door swings open. But the light from the hall doesn’t reach the bottom, and I peer over her head as she idles on the landing, looking for the light.
“Baby, if you wanted to kill me, you could have just asked.”
She ignores me as she continues feeling along the wall. But her eyes haven’t adjusted yet; she keeps missing it by an inch.
I reach across her to flick it on and illuminate what I can only describe as a newfound circle of hell.
“You’re fucking with me, right? Ashbourne, where the fuck are we?”
“The archive,” she says, bouncing down the steps and disappearing between the bookcases.
I follow, barely containing the urge to turn around.
It’s cramped in here. The books are stacked to the ceiling, shoved in every which way, caked in a layer of dust I suspect is older than Highcrest itself.
“You bring guys down here?” I ask.
She spins on me, that little glint of excitement in her eyes.
“Don’t tell me the infamous Elliot Cross is jealous.”
I almost laugh.
“Don’t flatter yourself, princess. I just meant it doesn’t seem very safe.”
She shrugs.
“What’s not safe about it?”
“Are you serious? This place is a fucking mouse trap. There’s only one way in and one way out. The rows are so tight we couldn’t stand side by side even if we wanted to. Look—” I lift my arms. “—I can’t even put my hands on my hips.”
It’s the kind of place I was taught never to start a fight, and my dampener tightens as I replay the image of the empty grove and the signs of struggle etched into the dirt. She needed that space against Grey. In here, she never would have stood a chance.
“Don’t bring anyone else down here,” I say flatly. “Ever.”
Her face sours, and she closes the distance between us as she pokes a finger into my chest.
“Just because everyone thinks you’re my boyfriend doesn’t mean you actually are. And it definitely doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”
Her perfectly polished fingernail presses into my skin as her brows knit together, but I don’t say anything.
I know that look. She’s waiting for me to open my mouth again so she can jump down my throat. Too bad for her, I’ve got enough crazy women in my life not to fall for it.
I take her by the waist, dragging her forward and closing the gap completely.
“Eat your dinner, Ashbourne. I don’t have all night.”
Her teeth grind, but her temper simmers, and she lets out a soft moan as my dick presses into her stomach.
It’s a guttural sound. A desperate noise, I haven’t heard from her in quite a while.
“Oh, you are hungry, aren’t you?”
Her fingers dig into my shoulders as she nods, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, my transgressions momentarily forgotten.
“How hungry?” I ask, slipping my hand under her shirt.
I palm her breast through the thin fabric of her bra, forcing another moan from her mouth.
“Cross…” she whines, and I know she’s starving.
“Lean back, baby.”
She angles her hips in my direction, and I prop her up against the bookcase. I take advantage of her cooperation, leaning in to press a kiss at the base of her throat.
“Just relax,” I whisper. “I’ve got it.”
Her heartbeat thumps beneath my lips, quickening as I slip my hand down her front, past the waistband of her pink sweatpants, and beneath the lacy fabric of her underwear, where I find a smooth swath of warm skin.
She’s shaved.
“That’s new,” I say, running my fingers along her seam and finding her wet.
“You don’t like it?” she asks, breathless.
No, not usually. But Iris has the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. If anyone could convert me, it’s her.
“I’d have to see it to say for certain.”
She smiles, those sultry almond eyes gazing up at me.
“Next time,” she whispers. “If you’re goo—”
Her breath hitches as I slide a finger through her wet heat, her words cut off by a sharp inhale.
“Oh, I’m sorry, baby, were you saying something?”
She opens her mouth, then promptly shuts it as I stroke her.
Once, and she shudders, then again, and she rocks forward into my hand, whimpering as I reach a steady rhythm.
She doesn’t argue as I claim control. At one point, she may have, back in the beginning. But I know my way around now.
Feeding Iris is like walking through fire.
There’s an initial urge to try to stamp it out, to smother it somehow, or make the pain more manageable.
And when that doesn’t work, because trust me, it won’t, the logical reaction is to try and get it over with as quickly as possible.
To rush her, so you can be free of the tender, burning sensation that’s eating you from the inside out.
But I happen to like the way it hurts, and I’ve found it’s best to let her go slow.
Ease her into the fire until she burns up.
“Cross…” She moans as I circle her clit. “Please…I need it.”
“I know, princess, I know.”
I can smell her, and that sweet aroma of milk and honey that wafts from between her legs when she hasn’t fed in a few days. It may be torture for her, but for me, it’s my favorite scent.
It pairs nicely with the warm flavor of her arousal, and even better with the scent of my own. But right now, she’s too needy for all the things I want to do to her. She needs relief, and she needs it quickly.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, pushing inside. “I’m going to take care of it.”
Her hips buck, eager for more, and I thrust into her, hard and slow, like she likes it. All while watching for the moment her body reaches its limit.
I know what I’m looking for.
That little crinkle in her brow as her mouth falls open. Her shallow, staccato breaths as she whispers my name like a sigh of relief. A slight flush to her soft, brown skin as the blood pools between her legs.
I’ve seen it a hundred times, the moment she comes apart in my hands, and I’d like to see it a hundred more.
She arches back into the bookcase, and I brace her with my knee, giving her the leverage she needs to grind into my fingers. Her walls tighten around me, and I know she’s close when her power begins to pull.
The burn starts in my stomach, then spreads to my groin, and my dick feels like it’s going to snap in half as her fingers palm my shaft through my jeans.
I groan, tail wagging.
“Fuck yes, baby. Take it. Take what you need.”
I keep my rhythm steady so she can find her release, but as my mouth moves to her chest and her heart begins to race, her scent turns sour, mixing with the musky fragrance of fear.
“Wait!” she snaps, shoving me. “I can’t…” she cries out. “I-I…”
I can still smell her need, but her face is pinched tight, and her body is suddenly stiff in my hands as I too still.
“Elliot…” My dampener tightens as she whispers my name. “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe,” she says. “I can’t…I feel…”
She repeats the words, her voice shaking as she clings to me, and I pull back slowly, careful to ease out of her gently.
“Okay, it’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s fine, Iris.”
Her eyes shut tight as I do my best to ease her worries, but her breath does not slow.
“Is it me?” I ask, suddenly conscious of how I’m crowding her. “Do you want me to—”
“No. No,” she blurts, clutching at my jacket. “ Please, don’t.”
“Okay.” I nod, brushing her hair out of her face. “Let’s just go then. Yeah? Back upstairs?”
“No, no. I’ll be…okay…”
Her words are broken up by sharp inhales, and I’m already scooping her up.
Fuck this. We’re not sitting in this shoebox of an archive so she can keep hyperventilating.
“Keep your eyes closed,” I direct.
“What?”
There she goes again, always asking ‘what.’
“Iris. Just trust me.”
I rope her arms around my neck and her legs around my hips to carry her back up the two flights of stairs and through the rusted metal door. She doesn’t open her eyes until we reach the main floor, where I find a quiet corner away from watchful eyes and try to cool her with my tail.
“You okay?” I ask once her muddled scent returns to its usual soft, spiced sugar.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
She’s no longer heaving as she breathes, so I take that as a good sign, but her cheeks are still flushed, and I’m beginning to doubt those words.
I should’ve known better. I saw the look in her eye that night at the grove. That’s not something you can wash away in a day. Hells, I haven’t been able to wash it away in twenty-two years.
“Crescent House from now on,” I say, once I’m certain she’s alright. “Understood?”
She looks at me, her midnight eyes swimming with a pain she’s desperately trying to hide.
Were I anyone else, she might succeed. But pain is my specialty, and I know very well what it looks like.
I hover beside her for a long while, standing a little too close, but I can’t bring myself to move.
Selfishly, watching her catch her breath is easing the dampener off my throat, and if I leave now, it might kill me, because the only thing I can think of as I stand here watching her inhale and exhale slowly is that Oliver St. Grey is lucky he’s dead.
If he weren’t, I’d kill him myself.