Chapter 13
Archer
The morning after Roman’s discharge is quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes my skin crawl because it’s too still, too easy to hear my own thoughts, and when it comes to Lottie, that’s dangerous.
She moves around the kitchen with the familiar precision that’s become her armor, humming softly to herself as she rinses mugs and stacks dishes.
I watch her from the doorway, arms crossed over my chest, every inch of me wired.
There were times when I longed to hear her voice. Wondering what she would sound like, I close my eyes, listening to the way her voice rasps as she sings a few lyrics before going back to humming her tune.
“Are you dancing tonight?” I ask, interrupting her. The words feel clumsy… heavy.
She glances at me over her shoulder, a slow, deliberate look that’s part warning, part amusement. “Yes.”
The shadows she carries into the club every time she steps on stage, the eyes that follow her like predators, the stakes no one outside this bubble understands.
I hate it. Hate it with every nerve ending in my body. But I understand it too. It’s her power. Her control. Her survival wrapped into a routine, a performance, something she has complete control over.
I step closer, voice low, nearly a growl. “I’m coming with you.”
Her eyebrows lift, a flicker of that sly smile that always keeps me on edge. “Fine,” she replies, but her eyes gleam. “But no dragging me off the stage. I need this.”
I smirk, even though my gut tightens.
By the time it’s her shift, the club is alive with the usual chaos.
Bass that rattles my chest, the tang of alcohol and sweat in the air, neon lights painting everything in a red color.
The kind of chaos I hate with every fiber of my being, but I follow because she’s here.
Because I can’t be away from her, knowing there’s a threat out there.
Oscar’s here, working security, calm, but his eyes barely leave the door she’s getting changed behind. He throws me a quick look. “I’ve got her from the floor side. You don’t need to intervene unless she’s in real danger.”
I nod once, though the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease, and then she steps onto the stage.
Even in this hellhole of flashing lights and leering eyes, she’s magnetic. She’s not just moving; she’s commanding. Every step, every flick of her hair, every curve she throws into a turn—it’s deliberate.
Calculated. Beautiful. Dangerous.
I can feel my jaw tightening, my chest constricting, because this is hers, but it’s also a room filled with men who don’t belong anywhere near her.
I hate them. I hate every man whose eyes linger too long, every flicker of cash thrown her way like she’s a commodity. But I’m caught.
Helpless. Enthralled. Obsessed.
She’s fire, and I can’t stop staring.
Her gaze doesn’t meet mine. She’s performing for the audience, but I know her.
I’ve seen the control she keeps behind those eyes.
The little quirk of her jaw when she’s tired, the subtle tightening of her hips that tells me she’s exhausted and still standing.
She’s mine, even if they think they own a moment of her.
The song ends, the crowd cheers, and she disappears backstage. I move immediately, following the curve of her path, ignoring the disapproving stares from the floor and even Oscar’s narrowed eyes.
I find her in the changing room. Her robe hangs loose, clinging to the damp heat of her skin. Sweat glints along her collarbone, and she’s beautiful in a way that’s infuriating because it’s hers and no one else’s.
Before she can say a word, I have her by the wrist, pulling her toward the storage room. The door slams shut behind us, the click of the lock loud in the otherwise quiet room.
Her eyes widen. “Archer—”
“I can’t watch it anymore,” I growl, pressing her against the wall, heat radiating off my body. “I can’t watch them look at you, think they own you. They don’t. Not now. Not ever. No one—”
Her lips press against mine before I can finish, cutting me off. She’s hot and soft, challenging and inviting all at once, and I can feel every nerve in me straining. I crush my mouth to hers, deep, demanding, possessive.
“I’ll buy you your own place,” I murmur against her skin, dragging my hands down her waist. “A club that’s yours.
Nobody gets to look at you unless you want them to.
I’ll burn every other place to the ground if I have to.
Hell… I’ll buy them all then shut it all down.
You won’t have to perform for anyone ever again. ”
Her breath hitches, and my fingers find the tie of her robe, tugging at it until silk slides away, leaving her bare to me. I’m barely aware of the heat rising in my body, the sharp ache of need, the tight coil of possessiveness that I can’t release anywhere else but here, on her.
“You don’t have to do this anymore,” I whisper, my lips brushing over her collarbone, down the slope of her shoulder.
“Not if you don’t want to. I’ll give you everything.
All of it. Your own dance studio to expel the demons.
Hell, a stage in the middle of campus where everyone can see you.
Whatever you need, Lottie… just say the word. ”
Her hands grip my shirt, pulling me down to her, and the desperation in her touch matches mine. She doesn’t want to be saved… not fully. She wants me. She needs me, raw and unfiltered, and the knowledge drives me to the edge of reason.
I growl low in my throat, dragging my mouth to hers again, tongue teasing, teeth brushing, claiming. My hands move with intent, tearing at her clothing until it falls in a heap around us. Silk, lace, nothing left to hide. I’m consuming her with my eyes, my hands, my lips, my need.
“Say it,” I murmur, my forehead pressed to hers, voice rough with want and possessiveness. “Say you’re mine. All of it. Every damn part.”
She smiles, a wicked, defiant little curve of her lips, and shakes her head. “I am,” she breathes. “You already have me, Archer. Every part.”
Something in me snaps. I drag her into the small space of the storage room, pushing her against the shelves, walls, and crates. Every movement is deliberate, possessive, claiming. My mouth finds hers again, rough, biting, claiming. Her nails dig into my shoulders, marking me, and I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Her moans are low and intoxicating, echoing off the walls. Every gasp, every shiver, every tremor under my touch drives me higher, hotter, hungrier. I’m not gentle. I’m not patient. I’m possessive, I’m demanding, and she answers me like she was made for it.
My body cages hers. The thin sequined pasties she wore scrape against my shirt.
“I watched them look at you,” I growl, my voice low and thick.
“I watched every fucking one of them stare at what’s mine.
” My hand finds the curve of her waist, possessive and firm.
“It drives me insane, Lottie. It fucking tears me up inside.”
A slow, knowing smile touches her lips. “I know.” Her own hands come up, sliding under my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders.
That was the core of us. Her past had built these walls, and this stage was her way of controlling them. And me? I was the lucky bastard she let inside the fortress, the one who got to see the woman behind the persona, even as I have to fight the burning jealousy of sharing her with strangers.
My mouth crashes down on hers. It’s not a gentle kiss.
It’s a claiming. A release of all the pent-up, possessive energy that had been coiling in my gut for hours.
She tastes of cherry gloss, a flavor I’d fucking drown in if she let me.
Her tongue meets mine with equal fire, a silent battle for dominance we both know I’ll win.
I break the kiss, my breathing ragged. “I need to feel you. All of you. Right the fuck now.”
My fingers, clumsy with need, find the clasp of her tiny sequined bottoms. With a sharp snap, the flimsy material gives way, and I shove it down her thighs.
She steps out of it, kicking the garment into a shadowy corner.
I fumble with my own belt, my cock straining painfully against my zipper, a hard, desperate ache that demands immediate relief.
I don’t wait. I spin her around, bending her forward over a stack of cardboard boxes. The new position arches her back, presenting her perfect, round ass to me. I run my hands over the glorious curves, squeezing the firm flesh, spreading her open for me.
Fuck, she’s so beautiful.
So ready. The sight of her, glistening and wet just for me, sends a jolt of pure lust straight through me.
“You see this?” I murmur, dragging the thick head of my cock through her slick folds.
She shudders, a sharp gasp echoing in the small room.
“This is all mine. This wet, hot fucking tightness is for me.” I press just the tip inside, a shallow, teasing invasion that makes her whimper and push back against me. “Tell me who this belongs to, Lottie.”
“You, Archer,” she moans, her voice muffled against the box. “Fuck, it’s all yours. Please…”
It’s all the permission I need. I drive into her in one long, brutal stroke, burying myself to the hilt.
She cries out, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure that was better than any music.
I held myself there for a second, buried deep, feeling her inner muscles clench and flutter around me, a pulsing, velvety fist gripping my cock.
“God, Lottie,” I grunt, my forehead falling against her back. “The way you fucking take me.”
I begin to move, setting a punishing pace from the very start.
There’s no gentle build-up. This is about reclaiming, about fucking the sight of every other man’s eyes off her skin.
Each thrust is hard and deep, my hips slamming against her ass with a wet, rhythmic smack that echoes off the concrete walls.
I reached around her hip, my fingers finding her clit. It’s swollen and hard, a little nub of pure sensation. I press my thumb against it, circling it in time with my thrusts.
“You feel that?” I rasp in her ear, my breath hot on her neck.
“You feel my cock buried deep inside your perfect little pussy while I make you come on it?” Her only answer is a broken sob of pleasure, her body beginning to tremble.
“I want to feel you come all over me, baby. I want to feel your tight cunt milk my fucking dick until I can’t think straight. ”
Her sounds became higher, more desperate.
I know her body, every twitch and gasp. I feel the tension coiling in her, a spring about to snap.
I fuck her harder, driving into her with a singular focus, my world narrowing to the feel of her pussy, the sound of her pleasure, the smell of her sweat mixing with mine.
“I’m going to come,” she screams, her voice cracking as her orgasm rips through her. Her inner muscles clench around me in violent, rhythmic pulses, a silken, suffocating grip that drags a guttural roar from my own throat, not caring who can hear.
The intense pressure is too much. My own control shatters. I piston into her one last, final time, grinding my hips deep against her as I come. A white-hot lightning bolt of pleasure seizes me, and I empty myself into her with a broken groan, my vision spotting at the edges.
We stay like that for a long moment, braced against the boxes, both of us panting, dripping with sweat, utterly spent. The air was thick with the smell of sex. I slowly, reluctantly, pull out of her, the loss of connection feeling like a physical ache.
I turn her around to face me. Her makeup is smudged, her hair a mess. She’d never looked more fucking beautiful. I lean in, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss that tastes of salt and us.
“I love you,” I breathe against her mouth, the words feeling inadequate for the storm of emotion inside me.
She smiles, a tired, sated, real smile. “I know.” Her hands come up, framing my face. “Take me home, Archer.”