Chapter 32: Forged Submission
The drive to the forge had been a special kind of hell. Cash, delighting in his role as tormentor, had kept the remote in his jeans pocket, his thumb casually resting on the controls. He’d increase the intensity to a teeth-rattling frequency every time she tried to form a coherent sentence, reducing her to a stuttering, wet mess in the passenger seat. By the time his black SUV crunched to a halt on the gravel outside the large, corrugated metal building, Elle was trembling, her knuckles white where she gripped the seat.
“Have fun with Stone, Red,” Cash had grinned, leaning over to open her door. “Try not to come on his tools.” A final, vicious pulse from the device made her cry out as she stumbled from the vehicle.
The forge was an assault on the senses after the sterile car interior. The air was thick and hot, heavy with the smell of coal, scorched metal, and old wood. The only light came from the furious orange glow of the forge itself and the few dusty sunbeams cutting through grimy windows, illuminating swirling motes of ash and dust. The rhythmic, deafening clang of hammer on anvil was a physical force, each strike reverberating in her bones.
Ronan stood at the heart of it all, his back to her. He was shirtless, his massive torso sheened with sweat, muscles cording and shifting with each powerful swing of his hammer. The firelight played over the intricate tattoos that snaked across his shoulders and down his spine. He didn’t turn. He finished his work, plunging a glowing, newly-shaped piece of steel into a barrel of water with a violent hiss that sent a plume of steam billowing towards the rafters.
The sudden silence was louder than the hammering.
He turned slowly. Soot streaked his chest and cheekbones. His dark eyes, reflecting the embers of the forge, found her instantly, pinning her in place near the doorway. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He simply dropped the heavy hammer onto a workbench with a definitive thud and started towards her.
Every instinct told her to run. The primal part of her brain recognized the predator in his stillness. But her feet were rooted to the dusty floor. He stopped mere inches from her, his heat a tangible force. The low, persistent buzz between her legs seemed to intensify in his presence, a frantic hummingbird trapped in her core.
His soot-blackened hand came up, not to strike, but to cradle her jaw. His thumb, rough and calloused, stroked over her bottom lip. He leaned in, his voice a low rumble that she felt more than heard. “You’re buzzing.”
She could only nod, her throat tight.
His eyes darkened. In one fluid, brutal motion, he bent, hooked an arm behind her knees, and threw her over his shoulder. The world tilted. The blood rushed to her head. She gasped, her hands flailing against the solid muscle of his lower back as he carried her deeper into the forge, the pulsing device inside her pressing hard against his shoulder with every step.
He didn’t take her to a cot or a clean space. He took her to the anvil. It was a massive, pitted block of steel, still radiating heat from his work. He dumped her onto its solid, unforgiving surface. The cold metal seared through her thin cotton dress, a shocking contrast to the forge’s ambient heat.
“Stay,” he commanded, the single word leaving no room for disobedience.
He pushed the skirt of her dress up to her waist, exposing her to the hot, dusty air. His eyes, black and unreadable, dropped to the junction of her thighs. The little black plastic nub of the toy was visible, nestled in her damp red curls, vibrating with a steady, maddening thrum.
A low sound, almost a growl, escaped him. His hands, gritty with soot and ash, gripped the inside of her thighs, his thumbs pressing into her soft flesh, forcing her legs wider apart. The smell of him—sweat, fire, hard male—filled her lungs.
“He’s been playing with you,” Ronan stated, his voice flat. He leaned forward, his long black hair falling around his face like a curtain, blocking out the rest of the world. “Let’s see what his toy has done.”
Then he buried his face between her legs.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claiming. His tongue, thick and wet and brutally strong, licked a broad, rough stripe from her entrance to her clit, pushing aside the vibrating toy. The sensation was overwhelming—the gritty texture of his skin against her inner thighs, the hot, wet pressure of his mouth, the relentless buzz of the device now muffled by his tongue.
“Oh, god,” she moaned, her back arching off the cold anvil.
He ignored her. He ate her like a starving man. His tongue delved deep inside her, fucking her with slow, penetrating thrusts that mirrored what was to come. He lapped at her juices, groaning as he tasted her. Then his focus shifted to her clit. He sucked the swollen bud into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it with a ruthless, practiced precision that made her scream. The vibrations from the toy mixed with the suction of his mouth, creating a feedback loop of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
“Please… Ronan… I can’t…” she begged, her hands fisting in his hair, unsure if she was trying to pull him away or hold him closer.
He pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. His eyes were wild, the pupils blown wide. “You can. You will.” His voice was guttural. “You don’t come from his machine. You come from me.”
With that, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and tore them away with a sharp rip of fabric. He fumbled with his own jeans, the button fly giving way to free his erection. He was already fully hard, his cock thick and veined, the head flushed a dark, angry red. It looked like a weapon.
He didn’t guide himself into her. He positioned the broad head at her soaking entrance, held her hips in a grip that would leave bruises, and drove into her with a single, brutal thrust.
Elle screamed, a raw, torn sound that was swallowed by the cavernous space. He filled her completely, stretching her, the delicious friction a counterpoint to the internal buzzing. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, each powerful snap of his hips slamming her body against the hard anvil. The metal was unyielding, a solid, cold reality beneath the inferno he was stoking inside her.
“This is what you need,” he grunted, his breath hot against her neck. “Not his little games. This. My cock. My forge. You take it. Take all of it.”
He was fucking the brattiness out of her, the defiance, the last shreds of her control. Each thrust was a hammer blow, reshaping her, tempering her. She was molten under his hands, her nails scratching at the soot-stained skin of his arms. The clang of metal from earlier was now the slap of his flesh against hers, the hiss of steam replaced by their ragged breaths.
The pleasure built, a terrifying wave, fed by the relentless vibration and his deep, pounding strokes. She was fracturing, coming apart on his cock, on his anvil.
“Ronan!” she cried out, a warning, a plea.
He read her body perfectly. As her inner muscles began to clench and flutter around him, he reached between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit and pressing down hard, right on the buzzing toy.
The orgasm detonated. It was a convulsion, a white-hot seizure of pleasure that ripped through her, stealing her breath, her sight, her mind. She bucked and writhed beneath him, her screams echoing off the high ceiling.
He rode out her climax, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more frantic. With a final, deep grind and a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building, he emptied himself inside her, his hot release flooding her depths, a final, primal claim.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing and the crackle of the forge. He stayed buried inside her, his weight a heavy, comforting press. Slowly, he pulled out, the loss of him making her feel hollowed out and used.
He looked down at her, sprawled and wrecked on the anvil, his come already leaking out of her. He gently pulled the buzzing toy from her and tossed it onto the workbench where it continued to vibrate uselessly against the wood.
He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Now you’re ready for the rest of your day.”
He straightened up, fastened his jeans, and turned back to the forge as if nothing had happened. He picked up his hammer and a new piece of cold steel, ready to return to his work. Elle lay on the anvil, utterly spent, the heat of the fire and the memory of his body seared into her skin. The assignment wasn't over. But for now, Ronan had remade her.