Chapter Fifteen
HEAT.
Breath.
Tension.
I’m twisting my fingers into the sheets before I’m even properly awake, my core tight. Aching.
The sensation is electric, a throbbing pulse that seems to resonate through every fiber of my being. I arch into it, a soft breath escaping my lips as my nerves ignite, my sex hot and swollen between my legs.
Is it a dream? A memory of the motel? But then a rough hand slides over my breast, cupping it gently. A thumb brushes over my nipple, making it tighten. I moan softly, the sound catching in my throat as I press back against the hard, warm body behind me. A firm, muscled chest.
I become aware of a slow, throbbing weight pushing between my thighs and arch my back more, tilting my ass up to make room for the thick length that’s rubbing against me, seeking entry.
I don’t know who it is. It’s one of my men, of course, but in this house I’m surrounded by their scents.
It could be any one of their hard bodies pressing up against me.
I smell Ryder, but this was his room, his sheets, his bed.
His smell would be lingering everywhere.
And the not knowing is its own kind of sleepy pleasure.
A hand slides up my thigh, fingers tracing the curve of my hip before dipping under the waistband of my shorts.
They tug the fabric down, exposing my skin inch by inch.
I bite my lip, my pulse quickening as fingers slide into the heat between my legs, a middle finger pressing against my clit.
A soft moan escapes me, my head falling back against a hard shoulder, but I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to.
His fingers part me gently, his touch maddeningly slow, fingertips circling my entrance before dipping inside just enough to tease. I grind my hips backward, but his other hand clamps down on my hip, holding me still.
My breath hitches as his finger pushes deeper, curling inside me, and I clench around him, my juices coating his hand.
Then, without warning, his fingers are gone.
I barely have time to protest before I feel the hot press of his cock against my entrance.
With one deep, slow thrust, he buries himself inside me, stretching me open until I am so full I gasp, my nails digging into the sheets.
I exhale shakily, my body adjusting to his size.
He’s thick, cock pulsing inside me as he holds himself there, his chest pressing against my back.
I can feel his heartbeat against my ribs, his breath hot against my neck.
His hand grips my hip, fingers digging into my skin, and when he finally starts to move, it isn’t gentle.
He thrusts roughly, as gripped with need as I am.
His hips snap forward, driving into me with a force that makes the bed creak and the headboard bang against the wall.
Every thrust sends a jolt through me, my pussy clenching around him.
I’m already close, already on the edge. I can feel my walls closing in on him, my body coiling tight, but he pulls out suddenly as if to deny me. As if he can tell.
I whimper, empty and aching. Five seconds feels like an hour. And then he slams back in with a low growl, this time hitting a spot so deep I see stars.
“Oh god…right there…” My voice breaks as he fucks me harder, his balls slapping against me with every thrust, my pussy fluttering around him as he pounds into me.
His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to expose my throat, his cock swelling inside me, and I know I am about to come—hard.
The orgasm crashes over me like a wave, my back arching as I clench around him in hot pulsing contractions.
I cry out, only to be roughly silenced by the slap of his palm over my mouth.
My whole body shakes as he holds me down, still pounding into me, his breathing rough and raw in my ear.
He doesn’t slow as I tremble beneath him.
Then, with a deep groan, he buries himself and comes, his cock throbbing as he fills me.
His hand digs into my mouth and my cheeks as his whole body goes stiff against mine.
He stays there, pressed deep inside of me, for a long time, until he starts to soften.
After a while, he presses a kiss to my shoulder, his fingers brushing my hair away from my face. The intensity of my orgasm has exhausted me. I close my eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing against my back, and fall asleep with him inside me.
I wake up to sunlight.
The room is bright, the energy in the house slightly more kinetic, like people are awake, and I’m alone in bed.
I roll over and look at the indent in the pillow beside me as if I need the proof.
My body knows exactly what happened here.
There’s cum between my legs, my muscles are loose and heavy, and my thighs ache in a way that’s not pain.
But my brain is slower to catch up, still hovering in the blur between dream and memory.
Whoever it was is gone. No heat along my spine, no slow, sleepy breath at my neck.
A pipe thunks somewhere in the house. Water rushes in the walls. Someone’s in the shower. A low male voice talking and another answering, an indistinguishable exchange.
I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and scrub my hands over my face. The window is a bright square of light, the glass fogged at the bottom where the radiator runs under it. My clothes are a heap on the floor. I put on Jake’s t-shirt and shorts and pad downstairs in bare feet.
Jake’s voice filters up the stairwell first, then Damian’s darker rumble. The coffee maker gurgles and hisses.
Wyatt is at the counter, leaning one hip against it, arms crossed. His blue eyes flick up when he sees me. Even with the stiffness I see in his shoulders, he looks like a wall—so big and strong and wide, like he could hold the whole damn house up.
Damian’s by the back door, one hand on the frame as he looks out over the yard, Jake is at the table, his laptop open in front of him, and Ryder’s at the stove, broad shoulders filling the space between the counters.
“Morning,” I say.
“Hey, sunshine,” says Jake, looking up. “You sleep?”
“Hmm,” I answer obliquely. “I was awake for a bit in the night.”
It could have been any of them.
Ryder is a likely candidate. Wyatt…no, too injured. He’s the only one I can cross out. Jake or Damian? Could be.
But no one takes the bait. There’s no knowing nod, no wink in response.
Jake goes back to his screen and Ryder pours boiling water into a mug, and Wyatt takes a seat at the table.
Damian moves away from the back door and comes into the room, his gaze flicking up over my bare legs. No one gives anything away…
Although, when I look back at Ryder, I catch a dark glance that’s completely loaded.
The hand over my mouth, the way he moved. My body knows who it was but I don’t let myself follow the thought all the way through. I like not knowing.
Not knowing who it was makes it feel like it was all of them.
“What’s the plan for the day?” I ask.
“Recon,” answers Damian. “We’re going to check out the clubhouse.”
A frown twitches across my face. “When?”
Ryder turns around and takes a sip from a steaming mug. “Ten minutes, if Jake ever stops checking the traffic feeds.”
“I’m also monitoring the clubhouse’s wifi for changes,” Jake adds, eyes on the screen. Ryder gives me a shrug.
“I’ll come,” I say quickly, but—
“No,” says Ryder.
I let out a heavy sigh.
I know this is what they do, I know they’re experts in their field…
but the O.D. is the particular hell I unleashed on them.
Ryder’s been shot, Wyatt beaten to within an inch of his life, all because of Billy’s motorcycle club.
Because of me. I can’t shake this need to watch them, as if I could stop something bad from happening again.
“You are not going back on that land,” Ryder says firmly. “Not today. Not ever. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“But what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for you? What if you never come back?”
“Max, honey,” comes Wyatt’s voice, soft and reassuring. “We’re not stepping foot inside today. We’re watching doorways and traffic from a long ways away. We’ve got all four of us there. We’ll be safe.”
“I just feel like I’m sitting at home while you go risk your lives fixing the mess my past made. I can help. I should help. I’m the reason—”
But Wyatt interjects. “You are not the reason for anything the O.D. has done. You are not responsible for their choices. This is us doing something we’re trained for.”
I watch the Civic pull away, all four tall, broad-shouldered men in it looking like clowns packed into a little car, and then try turning on the TV.
I flip through streaming services, trying to land on anything distracting, but TV seems impossible—too distant and unreal. How can I lose myself in something fictional when my reality is so all-consuming?
With the men gone, silence rushes in, one that feels all too familiar to me.
It’s the feeling from Silas’s kennel, when I was locked in all night without knowing if anyone would come for me.
It’s the nights in the clubhouse when Billy told me to stay in my room because he was with another girl for the night.
It’s like being twelve again in some shitty foster house, watching through the window while the “real” family gets in the car to go to the movies.
I last about an hour.
I lock the doors, check the windows twice, put my mug in the sink, open the fridge, stare at the half-carton of eggs and sad-looking ketchup bottle inside, and close it again.
I go through the bedrooms and collect all of our laundry, dumping it on the laundry room floor in one big pile and get a load of whites started. I try the TV again.
Then I put the laundry in the dryer and check the fridge one more time. There really isn’t any food.
My mind is already hunting for something to do, somewhere to go. When I gathered up the laundry, the keys to Damian’s truck fell out of his pockets. And Wyatt had a hundred dollar bill in his.
We need groceries, I rationalize it.
Jake’s house keys are in a bowl by the door. I dress in a pair of his jeans, cuffs rolled up, and another one of his t-shirts. Then I lock the front door behind me and walk to Damian’s truck.
It’s big and black and looks like it could drive through a wall. I slide behind the wheel and sit there for a second. I feel like I’m six feet off the ground.
Then I put the truck in gear and head down to the service road.