Chapter 19
Jo-Leigh
A literal week goes by where we don’t leave Swag’s room.
Okay, let’s be honest. We don’t leave his bed.
It’s a blur of heat and tangled sheets, whispered taunts, and the kind of claiming I swore I’d never allow. Every time I think I’ve caught my breath, he drags me under again until I forget the world exists outside these four walls.
But the world hasn’t forgotten us.
I know it the second I hear voices downstairs one afternoon. Loud. Angry. I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest as the muffled roar of men arguing filters through the floorboards.
Swag’s standing by the window, shirtless, tattooed, and radiating the kind of power that makes my stomach clench.
He doesn’t even glance at me when he growls, “Stay here.”
I swallow. “Swag?—”
“Bee.” His tone slices through me, sharp and final. “I said stay.”
The door shuts behind him, leaving me in silence except for the pounding of my own heart.
I creep halfway down the stairs despite his warning, just enough to peek into the common room below.
Pretty Boy is there, jaw tight, pacing like he’s ready to throw fists.
Talon leans against the wall, arms crossed.
And then I see one of Ricky Langston’s buddies, some Baton Rouge cop, standing dead center in the middle of the room like he owns it.
“Boseman,” the officer says, voice flat, “Langston doesn’t like unanswered questions. You’re keeping a girl that belongs in protective custody. That’s gonna be a problem.”
My chest locks up. They’re talking about me.
Swag doesn’t flinch, doesn’t breathe, just tilts his head like a predator sizing up prey.
“Jo-Leigh isn’t yours to touch. Tell Langston if he wants her, he’s gonna have to come through me.”
That’s when Talon mutters under his breath, “This shit’s gonna blow up fast.”
By the time Swag comes back upstairs, there’s a storm in his eyes, but his jaw is locked tight, like he’s holding it together by sheer will. He slams the door and presses his back against it.
“You heard,” he says flatly.
I nod, throat tight. “Ricky’s not going to stop, is he?”
“No,” he says, crossing the room in three strides. His hands grip my face, tilting my chin up until I can’t look anywhere but at him. “Which is why, little bee, this thing between us? It isn’t just heat anymore. It’s protection. It’s survival.”
His lips slam over mine in a claiming kiss. It’s rough. Demanding. Possessive in a way that steals the air right from my lungs. My fingers clutch at his arms without thinking, holding on like I need him just to stay upright.
When he finally pulls back, my chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. “Maybe I should leave,” I whisper, though my voice lacks conviction.
His jaw ticks, and his gaze darkens, molten and sharp all at once.
“No,” he says, his voice low, dangerous. “You don’t get to run from me, bee. Not after everything.”
“Swag, this is a lot. You, the clubhouse, quitting my job, Ricky, all of it?—”
He steps forward, close enough that his heat wraps around me, trapping me between him and the wall.
“Yeah, it’s a lot. And it’s gonna get worse before it gets better. But you leaving?” His thumb brushes along my jaw. “That’s not on the table.”
Something inside me twists that’s equal parts fear and want.
I whisper, “And if I stay?”
His lips curl into something dark, dangerous, and wickedly sure. “Then you let me protect what’s mine.”
His eyes never leave mine as he steps closer, the air thick between us. The sharp edge in his voice makes my breath catch, heat curling low in my belly despite myself.
“Get on the bed.”
I blink at him, trying to steady my voice. “What?”
“You heard me, little bee.” His grip on my wrist tightens. It’s not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me exactly who’s in control. “On the bed.”
My heart pounds so hard I swear he can hear it. Every instinct scream at me to push back, to fight for some kind of control, but my body betrays me. Heat slides through my veins, tangled with nerves and want, and I move. Slow, cautious, like every step toward the bed is a line I can’t uncross.
I sit on the edge, my hands twisting in my lap.
Swag doesn’t look away. He’s a storm contained, sharp jaw tight, shoulders tense beneath his cut. He takes his time crossing the room, each step deliberate, and by the time he stops in front of me, I’m breathless.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Now lie back.”
My lips part, but no protest comes out. The dangerous, steady weight of his gaze pins me where I am, and somehow, my body moves before my brain catches up. I lean back on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath me.
Swag braces one hand on the mattress beside my hip, leaning over me, his shadow falling across my face. His other hand comes up to brush my jaw, a contrast of gentle and unyielding all at once.
“You like pushing me, bee,” he says softly, though there’s no mistaking the warning beneath his words. “But you need to understand something.” His thumb presses just beneath my bottom lip, holding me in place. “When you push, I push back. And I don’t play fair.”
The tension between us crackles, sharp and heavy, and I know he’s giving me one last chance to walk away. I don’t.
My lungs feel tight, each breath shallow as he studies me like he’s mapping every flicker of defiance, every shaky edge of want.
“You think this is a game, little bee?” His voice is low, rough silk that scrapes along my skin. “You think you can tease me, push me, and then walk away untouched?”
I swallow, but my throat is dry. “Maybe I do.”
His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. “Then you haven’t been paying attention.”
The next moment, his hand slides from my jaw to my throat. His body cages mine as he presses me back into the mattress, his knee braced between my thighs. My pulse thrums wildly beneath his palm, and his gaze drops to my parted lips.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, “how close I am to breaking you, Jo-Leigh.”
A shiver racks my body, but I manage a whisper. “Then do it.”
He freezes, just for a beat. That sharp, deliberate pause tells me I’ve stepped straight into dangerous territory. Then his grin turns feral.
“You want me to claim you, bee?” His thumb brushes my bottom lip again. “Say it.”
Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, every inch of me buzzing with anticipation. I want to deny him. I want to fight. But the word slips out anyway.
“Yes.”
That’s all he needs.
Swag dips his head, his breath hot against my ear as his hand slides down, settling on my hip. “Good girl.”
The praise sends a shock straight through me, my body arching before I can stop it.
His fingers toy with the waistband of my jeans, teasing, testing, dragging the moment out until the tension coils tight enough to snap. I grab at his arm, nails digging in. “Swag?—”
“Shh.” His voice is pure command, low and certain. “I’ll take what I want when I want it. You’ll give it to me, too. You know why?”
I shake my head, breathless.
“Because you’re mine.”
The words slam into me, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. And I know, without question, that the balance has tipped. There’s no winning against him. There’s only giving in or walking away. So I give in.
Swag doesn’t just look at me. He sees me. All the fear, the doubt, the desire I’ve tried so hard to smother. His touch doesn’t ask. It takes. And I want to be taken.
He kneels over me, one hand wrapped around my wrists, holding them above my head, while the other slides up under the hem of my shirt, dragging it up my body slowly, torturously.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
My lips part, but the words stick in my throat.
He leans in, presses his mouth to the hollow beneath my jaw. “Say it, little bee. I’ll stop if you don’t.”
God, I hate how much I need him. How much I’ve always needed this.
“I’m yours.”
“That’s right.” His mouth claims mine again, hungrier now, devouring me like I’m his salvation and damnation wrapped in one trembling body.
His grip shifts, holding both my wrists with one large hand, pinning me completely. His free hand trails between my breasts, down my stomach, until he slips beneath my panties, and then?—
“Fuck,” he growls, like he wasn’t ready for how wet I already am. “You’re ready for me. Aren’t you, baby?”
I nod frantically. “Please.”
He kisses me again, but this time there’s no sweetness.
Just possession. He moves fast, rough in a way that makes my heart stutter, pulling my panties down and tossing them aside.
Then his belt clinks, his jeans shoved low enough to free him, and the feel of him hot and heavy against my thigh sends my brain short-circuiting.
“No turning back.”
“Don’t want to,” I whisper.
And then he pushes inside me in one slow, deep thrust.
I cry out partly in shock and partly in pleasure so intense I can’t separate it from pain. He groans above me.
“Mine,” he breathes. “All mine.”
He pulls back, then thrusts again — deeper, harder. I gasp and cling to him, moaning into his mouth as he takes me again and again. Each stroke is a claim. A promise. A brand. When I come, it’s not just my body that shatters. It’s everything. My pride. My fear. My resistance.
And when he follows, growling my name into the crook of my neck, I know something inside both of us has changed.
This isn't just sex.
It’s devotion, wrapped in fire and chaos.