The pleasure builds fast, sharp and jagged.
"I’m close," I gasp, biting his shoulder to stifle a sob.
"Come for me, Ivy," he orders, his voice ragged. "Come on my cock. Show me you’re mine."
He hits that spot deep inside me, angling his hips to grind against my clit.
I shatter.
It’s violent. My vision goes white. My body convulses around him, milking him, pulsing with a rhythm that matches his own.
The sensation breaks him.
He roars my name, driving into me three more times, hard and deep, before pouring himself into me. He holds me there, pressed against the brick wall, trembling as the aftershocks roll through us both.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus.
The sound of our ragged breathing fills the empty loft. The distant wail of a siren reminds us that the city is still out there, hunting us.
Silas lowers his forehead to rest against mine. He is drenched in sweat.
"I’ve got you," he whispers, the mantra he always repeats. "I’ve got you."
He kisses me softly, a stark contrast to the violence of a moment ago. He lowers me slowly until my feet touch the floor, but hekeeps his arm around my waist, supporting me as my knees buckle.
"Are you okay?" he asks, brushing the hair back from my face.
"I’ve never been better," I say honestly.
He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "You’re an adrenaline junkie, Mrs. Vane."
"I learned from the best."
He pulls back to look at me, and his expression shifts. He frowns, his eyes narrowing as he looks at my arm.
"You’re bleeding."
I look down. There is a jagged scratch running down my forearm, oozing blood. I must have scraped it against the door frame when we were running from the vault.
"It’s nothing," I say. "Just a scratch."
"It’s not nothing."
He pulls my clothes back together, buttoning my pants with efficient, caring fingers. Then he scoops me up into his arms again.
"Bathroom," he says. "We need to clean this."
The bathroom in the loft is industrial—exposed pipes, subway tiles, a massive clawfoot tub that looks out of place in the warehouse aesthetic.
Silas sits me on the edge of the closed toilet lid. He rummages through a first aid kit he pulled from under the sink.
He cleans the scratch with antiseptic. It stings, but I don't flinch. After everything else, this pain is barely a whisper.
He applies a butterfly bandage with the precision of a surgeon.
"There," he says, smoothing the adhesive down. "It shouldn't scar. Unless you want it to."
"I have enough scars," I say quietly.
