Chapter 6 Shane #2
"I will," I warn her, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. "If you stay close, I’ll break you, Bianca. I’ll consume you. There won’t be anything left for your art or your city life. You’ll just be a mark on my skin and a ghost in this house."
"I'm not asking to leave," she breathes. "So stop trying to scare me away. It's insulting. I've dealt with Philadelphia debt collectors; you're just a big man with a lot of leather and even more feelings."
The banter is a shield, but her eyes tell a different story. They’re dark with the same hunger that’s eating me alive. And for the third time, my control snaps.
I yank her toward me. She gasps as she collides with my chest, a solid wall of muscle and heat.
I wrap my other arm around her waist, locking her against me, cementing her hips to mine.
I can feel her pussy already fucking soaked through her leggings, the sticky cream of her arousal branding my thighs with a heat that rivals the fire.
"You’re in deep now," I mutter, staring down at her mouth. "The exit closed the second you let me mark you. Now, there is no looking back. You’re mine, Bianca. I’ll burn this whole valley to the ground before I let you walk away from me."
"I wouldn't know how to leave even if you threw me out," she whispers, her eyes fluttering shut as she leans into the heat of my chest. "I can't breathe when I'm not here. And I definitely can't breathe when you're looking at me like you want to eat me for dinner."
I groan, a low, guttural sound of defeat, and bury my face in the crook of her neck. I inhale deeply, dragging the scent of her into my lungs, trying to replace the smell of the club, the violence, and the Costas with her.
"Shane," she whimpers, hands coming up to grip my biceps. Her touch burns through my black t-shirt.
"Quiet," I order against her skin. I press a hard, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive cord of her neck, feeling her pulse hammer against my lips. It races. Good. It should race for me.
I map my hands over her back, my palms heavy with the memory of her bare skin against the rug.
I already know every inch of her topography—exactly how her pussy felt clamping around my cock last night—but through the coarse wool of her sweater, the friction is a new kind of torture.
She’s still that dangerous, velvet soft that makes my jagged edges ache, her pussy is already dripping through her leggings, weeping for the friction of my cock as she yields to my touch with the practiced surrender of a woman who knows she’s my property.
I walk us backward until the back of my legs hit the sofa.
I sit heavily, pulling her down with me.
I settle her in my lap, her legs straddling my waist. The position is lethal.
Her pussy settles against the thick, aching ridge of my cock straining against the denim of my jeans.
The pressure is instantaneous, the heat of her soaked center branding my thighs through the fabric.
I grit my teeth to keep from roaring and burying myself in her right here.
She gasps, eyes flying open, realizing exactly what she sits on. She rocks her hips, just a fraction of an inch, and I nearly lose it.
"Don't move," I grate out, hands gripping her hips to hold her still. "Just... sit. Feel what you do to me."
"I feel it," she whispers, her hands sliding up to my shoulders. "It's hard to miss, Shane. It's like sitting on a loaded gun."
"It's a lot more dangerous than a gun, Sunshine." I need this. I need the weight of her. I need to feel her anchored to me. It’s the only thing that makes the spinning in my head from the church meeting stop.
She rests her forehead against mine, breathing ragged. "Shane... what are we doing? You said rules. You said boundaries."
"I don't know," I admit, the most terrifying thing I’ve said in years. "I’m just... breathing. For the first time in ten years, I’m just breathing."
I slide one hand up her spine, tangling my fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck. I force her to look at me. Up close, her eyes are endless. I could drown in them and never ask for air.
"Tell me to stop," I say, giving her one last chance. "Tell me to let you get up, go to your room, and lock the door. Tell me you want a 'standard helper' instead of a man who wants to mark every inch of you."
She searches my face, looking past the scars, past the scowl, past the reaper patch on my heart. "No. I like the 'standard' just fine, but I think I prefer the monster."
The word breaks the dam.
I crash my mouth onto hers. This isn't gentle.
I kiss her like a starving man finally sitting down to a feast. I devour her, tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her sweetness, demanding everything she has.
She moans, a vibration that rewires my nervous system, and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer.
I shift my hips, pressing upward, letting her feel the steel of my want through the denim. She bucks against me, her drenched heat soaking into my jeans as she grinds her pussy against my cock.
"Fuck," I curse, tearing my mouth away to trail hot, wet kisses along her jawline. "You feel so good. So soft. I want to rip this sweater off and see if you’re still purple from where I gripped you last night."
"Maybe I am," she teased, her voice a wrecked honey. "Maybe you should check."
My hand slides under the hem of her sweater, and her skin is hot to the touch. Her stomach quivers under my palm. I map the warmth of her, moving my hand up to palm the heat of her ribcage, just beneath the curve of her breast. She arches her back, pressing into my touch, offering herself to me.
"Please," she whispers.
"Mine," I growl against her ear, biting the lobe gently. "You understand? You’re in my house, in my lap, with my hands on you. You belong to me, Bianca. Every artist in Philly can forget your name, because you’re mine now."
"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, Shane."
Her submission unleashes something feral in me.
I want to mark her. I want to leave deep, dark bruises on those tits and thighs so the rest of the world knows she’s my fucking property.
I want to tear these clothes off, spread her wide, and bury my cock so deep in her soaked pussy that she forgets how to breathe.
I want to pound into her until I’m cumming hilt-deep, filling her until she’s dripping with my seed.
But I stop.
I stop because her hand comes up and cups my face. Her thumb traces the scar running down my cheek—the one I got in a knife fight three years ago. The one most women flinch at. She traces it like it’s precious art. Like I’m something worth keeping.
Tenderness douses the fire with a bucket of ice water.
It doesn't kill the heat, but it changes it.
It makes it heavy. Real. I pull back just an inch, breathing hard, our foreheads resting together again.
My hand remains under her shirt, thumb stroking the underside of her breast, feeling the thrum of her pulse.
"You have no idea how dangerous I am," I whisper, the confession scraping my throat. "The things I’ve done to keep this mountain. The things I’ll have to do to keep you."
"I see you," she says, voice steady now. "I see the man who’s afraid to be happy because he thinks the world will take it away again. But I’m not Rina, Shane. I’m not going anywhere."
"I can't let you go," I tell her. It’s a warning. "Even if it gets bad. Even if the club... even if the Costas come to the door. I’m not letting you go. I’ll burn the valley before I let them touch you."
"I'm not going anywhere," she promises.
We sit there for a long time as the fire dies down to embers.
The storm rages outside, whipping the trees, burying the mountain in snow.
But in here, with her weight on my lap and her pulse syncing with mine, the noise in my head finally goes quiet.
I shift my hand, rubbing soothing circles on her back.
She relaxes against me, head on my shoulder.
"Shane?"
"Yeah."
"You need to sleep. You look like you haven't closed your eyes since the Reagan administration."
"Can't." Insomnia is my oldest friend. It keeps me sharp.
"You can," she insists. She shifts, pulling back to look at me. "Come upstairs. Not... not for that. I know you're tired, and I know your head is full of club business. Just sleep. I’ll sit with you."
I should say no. I have rules. The bedroom is off-limits. My bed is a solitary confinement cell. But the thought of her leaving, of going back to the cold empty room alone, tightens my chest again.
"You stay," I say, voice devoid of room for argument. "In my bed. You stay with me. If I wake up and you're gone, I'm going to be a problem."
Her breath hitches. "Okay. I can handle you being a problem."
I stand up, lifting her with me. She wraps her legs around my waist effortlessly, light as a feather. I carry her up the stairs, past Maddie’s room, to the end of the hall. My room is stark. Grey sheets, black furniture, no decorations. A monk’s cell.
I set her down on the edge of the mattress.
I don't turn on the light. The moonlight reflecting off the snow outside provides enough illumination.
I strip off my t-shirt, tossing it into the corner.
Her eyes track the movement, roaming over the ink on my chest, the scars on my ribs.
She reaches out, fingers ghosting over the patch tattoo over my heart—the reaper.
"Does it hurt?" she asks softly.
"Everything hurts," I answer honestly. "Until now."
I kick off my jeans, leaving me in my boxer briefs. I don't care about modesty. She’s seen every inch of me on that rug. But tonight feels different. Tonight, I’m stripping off the SAA armor and standing here as just a man. A tired, desperate man.
She hesitates, then reaches for the hem of her sweater.
"Leave it," I say hoarsely. "Keep it on."
If she gets naked, I won’t be able to stop my cock from impaling her again, ramming into her pussy until we’re both drowning in her juices. I need the intimacy more than the friction right now—a revelation that terrifies me. I need to know she’s there when the nightmares start.
She dips her chin and crawls under the heavy duvet. I slide in beside her. I wrap an arm around her waist and haul her flush against me. I pull her leg over my hip, tangling our limbs together. I tuck her head under my chin.
She fits. God help me, she fits perfectly. Like she was the missing piece of the puzzle I didn’t even know I was building. Her hand rests flat on my bare chest, right over my heart.
"Goodnight, Shane," she whispers.
"Night, Bianca."
I listen to her breathing even out. I focus on the warmth radiating from her body, seeping into my cold bones. For the first time in months, the vigilance in my brain starts to dim. The urge to scan the perimeter fades. The monster curls up at her feet and closes its eyes.
She’s mine. The club can’t have this part of me. The Costas can’t touch this. I tighten my hold on her, possessive even on the edge of sleep.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs without pain.
I can finally breathe.