Page 48 of Fury

“Nice balcony.”

“You not going to check someone’s hiding out there?”

“Look, doll. You were the one that looked like they wanted to cry earlier after that text message. I said I’d check your room and make sure everything’s ok. So, stop being an arse.”

Fury stepped out onto the balcony, the cold air rushing in through the door as he slid it open. I watched him walk to the table, pick up a cigarette butt from the little dish in the middle and drop it down again.

“Didn’t know you smoked?” He asked, moving round the bedroom systematically.

“Sometimes. I had quit, but being here seems to bring out the worst in me.”

Fury turned and grinned at me, his eyes lighting up and the tiniest show of dimples. Then he sat on the side of the bed, sliding open a bedside drawer. Shit. I shot across the room, stumbling on my heels, reaching for him just as he pushed his hand inside.

“Now, then. What do we have here?”

Fury pulled out the silver toy, the thing now buzzing angrily.

“Put it down!” I shouted, grabbing for the vibrator, but missing as he snatched it out of my reach.

“Jesus, Heidi. This bugger is big.” He laughed a deep chuckle, holding it above my head as I found my feet again and jumped for it.

I crashed down on top of him, knocking him backwards onto the bed, climbing up his body as he rolled around under me, his chest heaving and vibrating from the laughs coming from him.

“Fury, please? Give it back.” Heat flooded my cheeks, turning my face red from shame, making me hot.

Fury glanced up at me, his smile fading, his eyes darkening. Dropping the vibrator back into the drawer, he sat up, staring at me just a bit longer. For a moment I recoiled, pulling back, retreating from the darkness now in his eyes. He reached out, grabbing at the lapel of my jacket, his fist twisting and tightening, so that if I’d tried to back away, I couldn’t. And then he pulled me forward, twisting his body out at the same time and now suddenly, in a split second, I was underneath him, his arms either side of my head, the weight of his body over mine pushing me into the mattress.

I should have told him to stop, pushed him away, slapped him. But inside I burned, and that heat seared away any self-control I had. Reaching up, I pushed my fingers into his hair. It was the first time I’d really touched it. The strands were thick and silky smooth, better conditioned than my own. It fell over his face now, draping down past his shoulders. And his eyes were so fucking dark I could be forgiven for thinking they’d suck my soul straight out. I tugged gently, pulling him down towards me with the handful of hair, controlling where his head went, where his lips fell. But they stopped, just a few millimetres from mine, our faces almost together, almost touching. I couldn’t get any closer to his eyes, to the darkness, and the tiny flecks of rich chocolate brown that fought for purchase somewhere in the background.

Then, I lifted my head from the pillow, brushing my lips against his, feeling a little whoosh of his breath dust over my face. Gentle. Delicate. Everything he wasn’t. His tongue teased carefully. Not diving in, but caressing my lips, my mouth. But it wasn’t what I needed. I needed his ferocity, the demands of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth against my lips, the way he nipped at them to force me to open them.

Instead, he lay over the top of me promising but delivering nothing, my insides tensing, desperate for the usual rage. His leg slipped up the inside of mine, the leather rough against my already ruined tights, clicking and pulling. With my free hand I tugged at the zip of the heavy jacket, undoing it and pushing one of his shoulders almost free, the armoured shoulder pad not quite slipping over the bulge of his shoulder cap. Fury stopped, his tongue withdrawing, pulling back, no matter how hard I tried to stop his face from leaving mine.

Untangling my fingers from his hair, he sat up, pulling off the leather bike jacket, dumping it on the floor beside the bed with a loud clunk. And then, without prompting, he pulled the black t-shirt he wore over his head. The man was beautiful underneath. His skin was weathered, like he spent all his time outdoors chopping wood. The muscles of his arms, hard and bulging, but the skin was not smooth on them. Lines criss-crossed, a puckered scar, a slug-like line. Under that shirt, and under those bike leathers, he was so damaged.

Fury’s chest was smoother, apart from the muscles. The skin was less battered, but there were still slight scars. Evidence of a life hard lived, or recklessly so. I stroked over his chest, his skin warm to touch and as gentle as the satin it looked. The marks and blemishes were old, clear, but barely raised in the skin. I ran my fingers over his arms, the skin uneven, even rough in places.

“What happened to you?” I breathed, feeling over the slug-like wound.

Fury covered my hand in his, pushing my fingers harder against him.

“Someone stabbed me.”

“Shit. Was it deep?”

“That one was. Lots of blood, but just my arm. It was the twist of the knife as they pulled it out that hurt.”

“Why did someone stab you?”

“I pissed them off. A long, long time ago.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. Biker war.”

“A biker war?”

“Aye. We have them from time to time.”