Rivals locked in silence as boots climb
The wet heat of her mouth sealed around the thick head of his cock like a brand, tongue swirling filthy and deliberate as she scraped her teeth just enough along the underside to make his hips jerk hard against the rug. Hot, slick, relentless suction—that was all there was for a suspended second. His fingers fisted in her hair on instinct, and she let him hold her there, let him feel exactly how deep she was willing to take him before she pulled back to breathe. Only then did the rest of it crash in: the blackout pressing absolute and total around them, and the distant creak of the owner’s boots already climbing the stairs outside their door.
Ian’s head slammed back into the thin lodge rug, vision sparking uselessly in the dark. Winry Delacroix had her mouth wrapped around his cock. The same mouth that had smiled at him across a hundred auction floors while she stole his lots out from under his gavel. He felt the burn of carpet on his bare ass as she yanked his trousers the rest of the way off, felt the scrape of her nails down his thighs. “Quiet,” she hissed around him, the word vibrating straight up his shaft, and he answered with a bitten-off groan that she immediately muffled by taking him to the root. The wet sounds of her throat working him were obscene in the silence—soft glucks and wet pulls that made his balls draw tight. He could hear the footsteps getting closer, one narrow bed upstairs and nowhere else to go, and she was sucking him like she wanted the whole mountain to hear exactly what kind of hypocrite she was.
Winry’s pulse hammered in her ears, that stupid, superior lift of his eyebrow from lot forty-two flashing hot and vicious behind her eyes—going once, going twice, gone to the gentleman who clearly can’t count—and God, she hated him, hated the smug satisfaction curling through her now at having that mouth shut for once, silenced by nothing but the slick drag of her tongue. She tore at her own blouse, buttons skittering into the dark, shoved her skirt up and knickers aside without ever letting his cock leave the seal of her lips. The air was cold on her bare skin; his hands were scorching when they finally found her, hauling her up by the hair so her mouth left him with a filthy wet pop. She lunged forward, teeth scraping the hinge of his jaw, then lower, biting the thick tendon of his throat hard enough to bruise as she straddled his hips for half a second—just long enough to grind her soaked cunt along the length of him and feel exactly how hard he was for her.
“On your back stays,” she breathed against his skin, voice raw.
Ian flipped them in one powerful roll, pinning her under his weight on the rug, missionary heavy and inescapable. The sudden drop of his body crushed the air from her lungs; she bit down on his shoulder to kill the moan that wanted out. He shoved in hard—no teasing, just the thick stretch of him punching deep on the first thrust until her walls fluttered and clenched around nothing but him. Carpet burned her shoulder blades. His chest dragged sweat-slick across her nipples with every roll of his hips. She locked her ankles at the small of his back and took it, every brutal stroke grinding her clit against the base of him while she sank her teeth deeper into the meat of his shoulder to swallow the sounds trying to claw their way out.
He rose up onto one forearm, breaking the flush drag of his chest off hers just long enough to get the leverage he wanted, and reached down to unhook her ankles from behind his back, forcing her thighs apart before he wedged a knee between them, opening her wider than the lock had allowed. He caught both her wrists in his free hand and pinned her forearms down near the crown of her head, elbows bent close to her face, and used the new angle to sink even deeper until there was nowhere left for her to hide from how much of him she was taking. She turned her face hard into her own bicep, biting down against the muscle there to strangle the sound climbing her throat, and felt him grin against her jaw—the bastard actually grinning, mid-thrust, like he was winning this too. He slowed deliberately, grinding in tight, filthy circles that dragged over every oversensitive inch of her instead of pounding, and she nearly screamed, teeth sinking harder into her own arm to keep it in, hips bucking up to beg for the hard pace back.
“You always did hate not being in control of the pace,” he murmured against her ear, voice wrecked and low, and she answered by clenching around him so hard he cursed and slammed back into the brutal rhythm she wanted, the one that had her jaw dropping open on a silent, shaking cry.
Ian fucked her like he was trying to erase every auction she’d stolen from under him. Tight. Hot. Soaking. Her cunt gripped him on every withdrawal like it didn’t want to let go, the slick glide of him dragging against nerve endings that lit up sharper every time, and the wet slap of skin on skin was too loud, too fucking dangerous. He released her wrists to clamp a hand over her mouth when a broken whimper escaped, felt her tongue lick the center of his palm in filthy defiance. “Take it quiet,” he growled against her ear, the words barely air. “Owner’s right outside and you’re still dripping down my cock like you’ve been waiting all season for this.” She answered by raking nails down his back hard enough to draw blood, hips snapping up to meet every thrust, the two of them finding a rhythm that was half war and half surrender—fast, then grinding, then fast again, each shift wringing a different pitch of muffled sound out of her throat and into his palm. When his hand finally slid away from her mouth to brace against the rug, her teeth found his shoulder instead, latching hard enough to mark. Then his fingers found her jaw, tilting her face up and off his skin until her mouth met his instead, and every filthy praise he wanted to snarl got crushed into the bruising kiss he slammed over her mouth, tongues and teeth and breath all tangled into one shared, stolen thing.
Footsteps paused in the hallway. Both of them froze mid-stroke for one heart-stopping second, cocks and cunts still locked, breaths shuddering against each other’s skin, her whole body gone rigid with the effort of silence. Then the steps moved on—further down the corridor—and Ian drove back in to the hilt, swallowing her punched-out cry with his tongue before it could escape. He could feel how close she was already, the fluttering clutch of her around him, the way her thighs shook against his ribs. He didn’t give her time to finish there.
“Hold on to me,” he rasped against her mouth, and she understood, legs winding tight around his waist, arms locking around his neck, her whole weight gathered into him a half-second before he heaved them both up off the rug. One brutal rise and he was standing with her, still buried to the base, the drag of skin peeling apart and slamming back together as he staggered the two steps toward the armchair by the cold fireplace—her body clenching hard around him on instinct, thighs and arms locked so tight there was no chance of losing the connection even as he found his footing in the dark. He dropped into the chair hard and pulled her down onto his lap, impaling her fully in one drop that forced a silent scream against his neck, her nails biting crescents into his shoulders as she adjusted to the new, brutal depth of the angle.
Winry’s whole body lit up around the punishing bounce he set immediately, no mercy, no easing in. Both hands gripping her hips, he lifted and slammed her down, fucking up into her at a wild, relentless pace that made the old chair creak and groan in protest beneath them, wood complaining like it might give out before either of them did. She buried her face in the sweat-slick join of his shoulder and throat, teeth clamped hard enough to leave a mark that would last a week, every moan choked and swallowed so only wet, desperate pants escaped against his skin. Her clit dragged against his abdomen on every downstroke; the angle was devastating, hitting that swollen spot inside her over and over until white heat started coiling low and vicious, tightening faster than she could brace for.
“Ian—fuck—” she tried, the name broken and muffled into his throat.
He just gripped harder and bounced her faster, the wet filthy sounds of her cunt taking him obscenely loud in the dark, louder than either of them could afford, and neither of them cared anymore.
“Not a sound,” he snarled against her temple, voice wrecked. “You come on me quiet or I stop.”
Lie. He wouldn’t stop.
She shattered first—cunt locking down in hard, rhythmic pulses that milked him mercilessly, body seizing as the climax ripped through her in absolute silence except for the choked, swallowed sob she poured straight into his skin. Her thighs shook violently around his hips. Oversensitive. Too much. And still he didn’t ease. Ian kept driving up into her through the aftershocks, forcing her to take every deep, grinding thrust while her walls fluttered and tried to push him out and pull him deeper at once, the overstimulation sparking sharp and almost unbearable through every nerve she owned. The second wave hit harder, wrecking, hypersensitive nerves lighting up until she was trembling in full-body shudders, silent tears of overload streaking his shoulder, cunt spasming endlessly around the thick cock that refused to stop claiming her—right as the doorknob rattled, hard, once.
Ian followed a heartbeat later, a guttural groan bitten savagely into her hair, hips stuttering as he flooded her in hot pulses, his whole body locking rigid beneath her.
The knob rattled again. A muffled voice called something through the wood—question, or warning, neither of them could tell over the ringing in their own ears.
Winry went stone-still on his lap, cunt still fluttering weakly around him, and slapped a hand over his mouth even though he hadn’t made a sound in three full seconds. “Don’t,” she breathed, eyes wide in the dark, “you dare say something clever right now.”
His answering grin pressed hot against her palm. “Wasn’t going to,” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug all at once. “Was going to point out you’re the one who left her shoe on the stairs.”
She went rigid all over again, a fresh flare of panic snapping through the afterglow, and shoved off his lap so fast he hissed at the sudden loss of her, cool air rushing where she’d been. “You could’ve mentioned that before—”
“And ruin the ending?” Ian was already up, stepping into his trousers and yanking them to his hips before he bent and scooped her blouse off the floor, low laugh rough in his throat as he tossed it at her chest. “Get dressed, Delacroix. You can hate me properly once we’re not about to get thrown out into a blizzard.”
“I already hate you properly,” she snapped, clutching the ruined blouse shut with one hand where the buttons used to be, yanking her skirt down with the other as the door handle jerked a third time. Ian shoved his belt closed and only raised a brow, daring her to prove it.