Chapter 19 Bones
BONES
The guest suite at the clubhouse looks exactly the same as it did in December.
Same queen bed with the MC-branded comforter. Same dresser. Same window overlooking the parking lot where my bike sits next to a dozen others.
Same room where I first had Emma. Where everything changed.
I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, Emma next to me in the only position she can sleep in right now—flat on her back with her leg cradled in a bunch of pillows.
Early morning light filters through the blinds, painting stripes across the wall.
It’s barely six AM but I’ve been awake for hours—couldn’t sleep with my brain spinning through everything I found last night.
Carolina Properties Group. Shell company. Three layers deep before you hit anything real. But I found it. Found the connection to Summit Development that they thought they’d buried.
My laptop is still open on the dresser, screen dark but ready. Files downloaded, trails mapped, evidence compiled. It’s all there, just waiting to be presented to Stone and the others.
I feel whole again. Useful. Like I’m finally contributing in the way I’m supposed to.
For over six months I’ve been swinging a hammer, building houses, doing honest work. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But this—tracking digital footprints, unraveling shell companies, finding the threads no one else can see—this is who I am. This is what I’m built for.
Emma shifts against me, her hand sliding across my chest. “You’re awake.”
“I am. Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t.” She props herself up on her elbows, wincing slightly as she adjusts her booted leg. I quickly move to help her. “Did you sleep at all?”
“A few hours.” I stuff a bunch of pillows behind her head so she’s sitting a little now.
“Liar.” She pokes my ribs. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.” She looks around the room, a smile tugging at her lips. “This room looks familiar.”
“Should. We christened it pretty thoroughly last time you were here.”
Her laugh is soft, still sleep-rough. “I remember. Pretty sure the whole clubhouse remembers.”
“Yeah, well.” I relax next to her, careful of her ankle. “You weren’t exactly quiet.”
“Neither were you.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
She traces patterns on my chest, her fingers following the lines of my tattoos. The swan over my heart. The feathers scattered across my ribs.
“I’m kind of mad,” she says after a moment.
“About?”
“About this stupid boot getting in the way of us doing all of that again.” She gestures at her surgical boot. “We could have had fun, Bones. Lots of dirty fun.”
Heat coils low in my gut. “What kind of fun?”
“Well, first I’d want you to do that thing again with your mouth. The one you figured out on accident, but then wouldn’t stop.” I grin, running the backs of my fingers up her thigh.
“Swan—”
“I know, I know. I’m healing. Doctor’s orders. Six weeks in the boot minimum.” She sighs dramatically. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not frustrated about it.”
I slide my hand back down her side, over her hip. “I could still take care of you, you know. Don’t need two working ankles for what I have in mind.”
Her breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I roll slightly so I’m facing her, my hand slipping under the hem of her sleep shirt. “Just because you’re injured doesn’t mean you don’t get to feel good.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll deal with it in the shower later.”
“Or—” She bites her lip, that look in her eyes that means she’s about to suggest something that’ll make me lose my mind. “You could deal with it right here. Right now. And I’ll watch.”
Jesus Christ.
“Swan—”
“Come on.” Her hand trails down my chest, over my stomach, stopping just above the waistband of my boxers. “I’m injured, not dead. And I really, really want to watch you.”
The image alone almost does me in. Emma, propped up in bed, watching me get myself off. Those gray eyes tracking every movement, that flush spreading across her cheeks.
I can’t say no to that look, not when it’s got me hardening just thinking about it.
My hand pauses on her thigh, and I search her face for any sign she’s joking, but those eyes are dead serious, hungry in a way that mirrors the ache building in me.
“All right,” I murmur. “But only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself. No straining that ankle trying to help.”
She nods eagerly, shifting the pillows behind her to get a better view, her shirt riding up just enough to tease. I push back the covers, and shove my boxers down, exposing myself in the dim light. Then I wrap my fingers around my length.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” she breathes before I’ve even started to stroke.
I pause and look up at her. “You’re the gorgeous one.”
“Shut up and touch yourself.”
I give my cock a slow stroke from base to tip. Emma’s eyes track the movement, her teeth digging into her bottom lip.
“This what you want?” I ask, voice thick.
“Exactly like that. Don’t stop.”
I don’t. I stroke myself slowly at first, building the sensation, my other hand hooked behind my head so I don’t do something stupid and haul her on top of me.
Emma watches every movement, her chest rising and falling faster now.
Her gaze locks on my hand, and I pick up the pace, thumb circling the head on each upstroke, chasing that building heat.
Sweat beads on my skin, the room feeling smaller, hotter, with every ragged breath she takes mirroring my own.
“Talk to me, swan,” I rasp, needing her voice to push me further. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking about how much I want to touch you,” she whispers, her fingers twitching against the sheets like she’s fighting the urge.
“You are touching me. Your eyes on me—that’s enough.”
“Is it?”
“Fuck yes.” I speed up my strokes, my hips flexing into my fist. “The way you’re looking at me right now—like you want to eat me alive—”
“I do.”
“Swan—”
“I want to taste you. Want to feel you in my mouth, hitting the back of my throat—”
“Jesus—” My rhythm stutters, pleasure building fast and hot.
“Want to make you lose control,” she continues, her voice dropping lower. “Want to feel you come, hot and hard, all over my tongue. Want to swallow you down.”
That’s all it takes—her words wrap around me tighter than my fist, and I groan low, hips bucking up into my grip as the tension snaps.
Release hits hard, spilling over my hand and stomach in hot pulses, my vision blurring for a second while I ride it out.
When I finally come down, chest heaving, I glance at her, and damn, that satisfied smile on her face is worth every bit of the tease.
“That,” Emma says, sounding satisfied, “was better than coffee.”
I bark out a laugh, grabbing tissues from the nightstand to clean up. “High praise.”
Once I’m cleaned up, I lean over and kiss her, slow and deep and full of everything I feel for her. She melts into it, her hands coming up to frame my face.
“Now,” I murmur against her lips, my hand sliding between her legs, “my turn to watch you fall apart.”
Her breath hitches. “Bones—”
“Fair’s fair, swan.”