Chapter 23
JOSIE
The clubhouse is quiet when we get back.
Home. When did the clubhouse become home?
Isabel’s waiting in the hallway when we come through the door. She’s in pajamas, hair mussed. Her gaze sweeps over me—the bruises blooming on my face, the raw skin at my wrists, the way I’m holding myself like everything hurts.
Because it does.
“Jesus,” she breathes. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. Way to make a girl feel good.”
We exchange a grin.
“I hope you gave the other guy worse.”
A surprised laugh escapes me—rough and painful against my bruised ribs. “Something like that.”
We’re two women who’ve faced violence. Two women who found refuge in the same place. She surprises me by reaching out and squeezing my hand. It’s brief and fierce, then she drops it and steps back.
“You better go. Your man is about to vibrate out of his skin.”
I glance at Stone, who’s been standing rigid beside me, barely holding it together. She’s right.
“We’ll talk tomorrow?” I ask.
“Tomorrow.” Isabel nods. “Get some rest, Josie.”
Word has spread—I can tell by the way brothers nod at us as we pass, the relief in their eyes, the careful distance they keep. They know what happened. They know what Stone did to get me back.
And they know we need to be alone.
Stone doesn’t speak as he leads me upstairs. Doesn’t speak as he locks the bedroom door behind us. Doesn’t speak as he turns to face me, his expression raw and open in a way I’ve never seen.
“Boone—”
“I almost lost you.” His voice cracks. “Josie, I’ve never been that scared in my life.”
“I know.” I cross to him, taking his face in my hands. My wrist aches where the zip ties dug in. My cheek throbs where Ivan hit me. But none of that matters. “I know. But I’m here. I’m okay. You found me.”
His fingers trace my swollen lip, the bruise darkening around my eye. His jaw tightens with barely contained rage.
“Who did this to you?”
“Ivan. He’s—”
“Dead.” Stone’s voice is flat. Certain. “If Steel didn’t get him, the FBI did. And if neither of them did, I’ll find him myself.”
“He’s dead.” I cover his hand with mine. “I saw him go down in the chaos. It’s over.”
“I put Steel in that position.” He closes his eyes. “I ordered him to take a shot that—”
“That saved my life.” I pull his forehead down to mine. “You saved my life. Both of you. Don’t you dare feel guilty about that.”
“I would have killed them all.” His hands grip my hips, hard enough to bruise. “Every single one of them. Without hesitation. Without regret. Does that scare you?”
I should probably say yes. A normal woman would be terrified, would run from a man capable of that kind of violence.
But I’m not a normal woman. And he’s not a normal man.
“No,” I whisper. “It doesn’t scare me.”
“Josie—”
“I knew what I was signing up for.” I hold his gaze. “I’m not some naive girl who thought dating an MC president would be quiet Sunday brunches. I knew there would be danger. I knew there would be moments like tonight. And I chose you anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re worth it.” I pull him down until our foreheads touch. “All of it. The danger, the fear, the 2am emergencies and the cancelled plans and the constant worry. It’s worth it to be yours.”
Something breaks in him—I can feel it, the last of his walls crumbling.
“I might get annoyed sometimes,” I continue. “When Church runs long or you disappear without warning. I’ll probably roll my eyes and mutter under my breath and give you hell for it later.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“But I’ll get over it. Because this—you, the club, all of it—is home. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He kisses me then—desperate and hungry and raw.
“I need you,” he groans against my mouth. “Right now. I need to feel you, make sure you’re real, make sure you’re still—”
“I’m here.” I pull at his shirt. “I’m real. Take what you need.”
He does.
There’s nothing gentle about it.
He strips me with shaking hands, his mouth following every inch of skin he reveals—pausing at each bruise, each mark they left on me, pressing kisses like he can heal them with his lips alone.
I’m tearing at his clothes just as desperately, needing skin against skin, needing to feel his heartbeat against mine.
“Bed,” I manage between kisses. “Now.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me across the room, laying me down on sheets that smell like us. And then he’s over me, around me, inside me—one long thrust that drives the breath from my lungs.
“God—” He buries his face in my neck. “Josie—”
“Move.” I wrap my legs around him. “Please, Boone, I need—”
He moves.
Hard and fast and desperate, like he’s trying to crawl inside my skin. I cling to him, nails raking down his back, matching his intensity with my own. This isn’t making love. This is claiming. Reassuring. Proving to ourselves that we’re both still here, still alive, still together.
“I love you.” He pants the words against my throat. “I love you so goddamn much.”
“I love you too.” I arch into him. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He drives into me relentlessly, hitting spots that make me see stars, one hand gripping my hip while the other slides between us to find my clit. The pleasure builds and builds until I’m sobbing with it, tears streaming down my face from the intensity.
“Come for me.” His voice is rough, strained. “Let me feel you come, Josie.”
The orgasm crashes through me—sharp and bright and overwhelming. I clench around him, screaming his name, and he follows seconds later with a groan that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
We lie tangled together afterward, both of us shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my hair. “That was—I wasn’t gentle—”
I shift, wincing as my bruised ribs remind me they exist. “I didn’t want gentle.” I press a kiss to his chest, ignoring the stinging protest from my split lip. “I wanted you. All of you. No holding back.”
“You have all of me.” He pulls me closer. “Every broken, violent, possessive part. It’s all yours.”
“Good.” I trace patterns on his skin. “Because I’m keeping it.”
We fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, and for the first time since the alley, I feel safe.