Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
camryn
Morning light filters through the curtains. Storm's arm is draped heavily across my waist, his breathing deep and even against my neck. I can feel the steady thump of his heart against my back, a rhythm that's become oddly comforting in such a short time.
Last night changed everything. Not just physically, though my body bears the pleasant ache of rediscovery, of being thoroughly loved after years of self-imposed celibacy.
But emotionally, the barriers I've maintained since Eric, the walls I built to protect myself and Emily, have crumbled beneath Storm's determined gentleness.
He wants us. Permanently. A family.
The thought sends a flutter of both excitement and anxiety through my chest. It's everything I never knew I wanted, presented in a package I never would have chosen for myself.
A biker called Storm, a man of violence and loyalty in equal measure, a man who could kill without remorse to protect what's his.
And somehow, amazingly, that now includes Emily and me.
Storm stirs behind me, his arm tightening briefly around my waist before relaxing. "You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
I smile despite myself. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, then to my neck, making me shiver. "What's going on in that beautiful brain of yours this morning?"
I roll over to face him, taking in the sight of him in the morning light, dark hair rumpled, stubble shadowing his jaw, blue eyes still soft with sleep. It strikes me again how different he looks in these private moments; how the hardness that he presents to the world melts away when it's just us.
"Just processing," I admit. "Everything we talked about last night, everything it means. It's a lot to take in."
He nods, a flash of concern crossing his features. "Having second thoughts?"
"No," I say quickly, realizing how my words must have sounded. "Not second thoughts. Just... thinking about the logistics, I guess. How we make this work in the real world."
His expression softens with relief. "The real world can wait," he says, pulling me closer. "At least for another hour or two."
I laugh as he nuzzles my neck, his stubble pleasantly rough against my skin. "Emily will be back soon," I remind him, even as I tilt my head to give him better access.
"Mmm," he acknowledges, trailing kisses down my throat to my collarbone. "Then we should make the most of our time, shouldn't we?"
All thoughts of planning fly from my mind the moment his hand slides up my thigh, his fingers, warm and sure, slipping beneath the hem of my robe.
I’m already wet for him, just the sight of him in the morning, sleep-rough and shirtless, did that to me.
He knows it too. His fingers brush over me, and I shudder, hips lifting into his touch like it’s instinct.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my neck, voice low, still thick with sleep. “You’re soaked, baby.”
I don’t even try to answer. My head falls back against the pillows, eyes slipping shut as he circles his fingers over my clit, slow and patient—the same way he was last night. Storm isn’t rushed. He learns my body with the same focus he gives everything else, thorough, deliberate, obsessed.
Last night was… God, it was more than sex. It was worship. He took his time, memorizing every sound I made, every spot that made me clench around him, cry out for him. He was relentless in the best way.
This morning? It’s softer, and somehow hotter for it.
He takes his time again, kissing my shoulder as his fingers work me, sliding down to tease my entrance, spreading me open. He watches me the entire time, eyes dark and heavy with want. I can’t look away from him.
“Gonna make you come again,” he says, mouth brushing my cheek. “But I need to feel you around my fingers first.”
One finger slips inside me, then another, thick and slow. My hips roll, chasing the stretch, the pressure, the rhythm. He crooks his fingers just right, thumb circling, and it hits fast, hot, tight, a flood building at the base of my spine.
“Oh God, Storm—”
“Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”
And I do. I break open around him, trembling, crying out, nails digging into his arm as the orgasm crashes over me. He kisses me through it, murmuring how perfect I am, how good I feel, how much he loves making me fall apart.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even let me catch my breath before he slides down, his mouth replacing his fingers, licking me with long, slow strokes that make my thighs shake.
I whimper, still sensitive, but he doesn’t back off. He groans against me like I’m his favorite thing in the world.
And he’s right back to driving me toward that edge. Again.
When he pushes me over a second time, it’s messier, deeper. I gasp his name, legs wrapped around his shoulders, grinding into his face shamelessly because I can’t help it, can’t think. I can only feel.
He finally comes up for air, face flushed, lips wet, and crawls over me, kissing his way up my body until he’s hovering above me, chest to chest. I wrap my legs around his waist, arms pulling him in.
“You ready?” he asks, cock hard and heavy against my thigh.
“God, yes,” I breathe. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He slides in slow, the tip of him stretching me open, until he bottoms out with a guttural moan.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants against my mouth. “You feel like heaven.”
We stay still for a moment, soaking in it; how right it feels, how full I am, how connected we are. Then he starts to move, using long, deep strokes that have me gasping into his shoulder, fingers curling into his back.
There’s no rush. No frantic pace. Just the slow, steady rhythm of two people who know they’re not going anywhere. Each thrust is deliberate, each kiss like a promise. He rocks into me, filling me over and over until I’m clinging to him, nails digging in, breath coming in short, high gasps.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against my ear. “Every fucking inch. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whimper, “I know I’m yours.”
He kisses me hard, hips driving deeper, pace quickening just enough to push us both higher.
When I come, it hits with a cry muffled against his neck, my whole body tightening around him. That’s all it takes for him to follow with a growl, slamming into me with one last thrust, cock pulsing inside the condom as he spills everything he has.
We collapse together, tangled, sweaty, spent. He rolls to the side and pulls me with him, arms wrapping around me tight.
Silence settles over us, the kind that feels full, not empty. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the slowing beat of his heart, his hand stroking lazy circles on my back.
And just like that, the thoughts creep back in. Not in a bad way, just soft, curious, hopeful.
What now? What happens next?
Because it’s not just sex. Not with him. It never was.
Wrapped in his arms, still sore and sated and floating, I know I’ll be thinking about that question all day. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the future can wait a little while longer.
"We should go to my house today," I say, my fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "Emily will want her things and I need to check on everything, make sure it's still secure."
He tenses slightly beneath my hand. "I'll come with you."
"Of course," I agree. "I wasn't suggesting otherwise."
He relaxes, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Just making sure. Even with Cantlay backing off and Eric... taken care of, I'm not taking any chances."
I nod against his chest, not wanting to dwell on exactly what ‘taken care of’ means. Some details are better left unspoken.
"We should also talk to Emily," I say. "About us, about what's happening. She deserves to know."
"Agreed," Storm says. "How do you want to handle it?"
The question is so normal, so domestic, a parent asking for input on how to approach a difficult conversation with a child. It strikes me again how naturally Storm has slipped into this role; how easily he's adapting to the complications of a relationship that includes a seven-year-old.
"Simply, I think," I say after a moment's thought. "Emily is perceptive. She's probably already figured out that something's changed between us. We just need to confirm it, make it official in her mind."
"And what, exactly, are we making official?" Storm asks, his voice carefully neutral. "What do you want to tell her about us?"
I push myself up on my elbow to look at him, understanding the real question he's asking. "That you're my boyfriend," I say, the word feeling strangely inadequate for what Storm has become to me. "That we care about each other, and that means you'll be in our lives more permanently now."
He nods, but there's something in his expression, a hint of reservation, of something left unsaid.
"What?" I prompt. "Is there something else you think we should tell her?"
He hesitates, then sighs. "Boyfriend feels like a high school term, doesn't it? Not quite capturing what this is."
I smile, understanding his point. "What would you prefer? Partner? Significant other?"
"In the MC world," he says slowly, "when a brother commits to a woman, she becomes his old lady. It's more than just dating, more than just a relationship. It's a commitment, a promise of protection, of loyalty."
"Your old lady," I repeat, testing the term. "It sounds very... possessive."
"It is," he admits without apology. "But it goes both ways. The brother belongs to his old lady just as much as she belongs to him. It's a partnership, equal but different."
I consider this, thinking of Effie's words from yesterday about what being an old lady means in the MC world. "And is that what you want me to be? Your old lady?"
His eyes hold mine, serious and intent. "I want you to be mine," he says simply. "Whatever you want to call it."