Chapter 31 #2
I held his stare for a second longer before slowly pushing myself to my feet.
The jacket slipped lower on my shoulders as I stood, and his eyes followed the movement instantly.
I took hold of the lapels and shrugged it off, letting it slide down my arms until it fell soundlessly to the floor between us.
The room changed.
The space seemed to shrink, the air turning heavy now that there was nothing left between us but skin, history, and every aching thing we had spent years refusing to name.
Vienna’s eyes dragged over me with an expression that looked almost painful. It wasn’t casual hunger. It wasn’t just want. It was recognition and reverence and rage and love, all twisted together until I could no longer tell where one ended and the next began.
“We only have tonight,” I said quietly.
His face hardened instantly. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means exactly what I said.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer, his voice lower now, rougher. “No, you don’t get to walk in here, wearing my fucking jacket, naked beneath it like some kind of fever dream, and then tell me we only have tonight like you’re doing me a fucking favour.”
“It’s not a favour,” I snapped, sharper than I intended, because the truth of that lodged somewhere painful inside me. “It’s all I have. You once said you were waiting for me to choose you. And I said I was waiting for you to be an option for me to choose.”
“I remember,” he said, a slight tick in his cheek.
“I’m choosing you now, Luke. In the only way I’m able to do.”
Silence fell between us, thick and breathing and full of everything neither of us wanted to say first. Then he reached out, slow enough that I could have pulled away if I wanted to, and gripped my jaw in one hand.
Not hard, but firmly enough that I felt the message in it. His thumb brushed once over my cheek.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t come in here and give me scraps, Gabriella. Don’t fucking do that to me.”
“It’s not scraps,” I whispered, even though some part of me knew that was exactly what it was.
He looked furious. Hurt. Beautiful. Broken.
And suddenly I wasn’t as sure of myself as I had been when I came in here.
Maybe I had misjudged this. Maybe I had come here thinking I could take one thing for myself without fully understanding what it would cost him to be treated like a temporary escape.
But before I could say anything else, before I could retreat into apology or excuse, he leaned down until his forehead nearly touched mine.
“You think I can survive another goodbye from you?” he asked, and his voice sounded wrecked enough to splinter something deep inside my chest. “You think I can touch you again and go back to pretending you’re not mine?”
My throat tightened painfully. I lifted my hands slowly, pressing them to his chest, feeling the hard thud of his heart beneath my palms.
“Then don’t pretend,” I whispered. “I am yours, Luke. I’ve always been yours.
I was yours when we first met at that park.
I was yours when you made my sides split from laughing in assemblies.
I was yours through every night we spent apart, and the moments we managed to steal together.
I never stopped being yours. I was just claimed by someone else for a while. ”
That was all it took.
He kissed me like he had been starving for years, like there had never been anyone else, like he was furious with me for making him want this so badly and helpless to stop himself from taking it anyway.
The force of it sent me stumbling backwards until the backs of my thighs hit the desk, and then his hands were everywhere—my waist, my jaw, my throat, my hips—holding, taking, grounding, claiming.
His mouth was all heat and teeth and grief and fury, and I gave it back just as desperately because there was no point pretending I wasn’t every bit as far gone.
“Put my cut back on,” he murmured against my lips. “I want to fuck you just once where I can really let myself believe you’re mine.”
I decided not to respond. I simply pulled away and retrieved the jacket from the floor and slipped it back over my shoulders, shoving my arms into it.
Vienna let out a groan that was almost desperate, and then spun me around by my hips, and pulled me back against his chest. “Remember what I told you over the phone?” he whispered against my skin, pulling my hair away from my neck.
“Remember when I told you I think of you every night? This is what I’m imagining, Gabriella. This is what I fucking see.”
“Do I live up to expectations?” I breathed, tilting my head to the side, resting against his shoulder, giving him better access to my neck.
“You exceed each and every one of them.”
His hands crept around to the front of the jacket, slipping between the folds, his breath hissing against my skin as he traced my bare stomach. I arched into him, needing to feel his touch with a want that bordered on desperation.
“What do you want, Gabriella?” He moved us as he spoke, guiding us toward the bed.
“I want you,” I replied without a second of hesitation.
My knees hit the mattress, and he gently pushed me forward, nudging my legs apart.
“Put your hands on the bed,” he demanded.
I did as he asked, positioning myself so my hands were flat on the bed, my legs spread, and my ass up in the air.
I waited with bated breath for his next instructions. But instead, he dropped to his knees and pushed his head between my legs, wasting not a second as he used his fingers to spread my pussy open, his mouth clamping down on my clit.
I let out a yelp of surprise, and then a moan of utter relief mixed with pleasure as he lapped at me with his tongue, circling my clit. He kept me held open and brought his other hand up to push two fingers inside me.
I brought one knee onto the bed, opening myself even further, and rocked against his face as he curled his fingers, finding that one sensitive spot that drove me mad.
“Fuck, Luke,” I moaned, riding his face without a shred of humiliation, with utter, complete abandonment.
He pumped his fingers in and out of me, the sound of my arousal clear for everyone to hear. But there was no shame to be found. Instead, he murmured his appreciation each and every time, his lips vibrating against my clit.
I moved one hand from the bed and gripped his hair, sinking down onto his face harder. He moved one of his own hands and grasped my ass, pushing against me, encouraging my movements.
He tapped my other leg, and I brought my knee up to his shoulder, making it so I was crouched over his face, giving him unlimited access to my pussy.
With both my legs bracketing his head, and him leaning back on the bed, I found a rhythm that drove me wild, bucking against his face as though my life depended on it.
His hands were holding my ass, encouraging me to take what I needed, to fuck his face without a care for his needs, and my fingers were gripping his hair so tight my knuckles turned white.
But still he didn’t stop. Still he continued lapping at my clit like a man starved. His tongue swirled, his lips sucked, and his teeth grazed, all of which drove me mad, drove me to distraction.
My legs began to shake around his head, and he chuckled darkly, his fingers digging into my ass he rocked me faster. I was lost to him, lost to the sensation, unable to do anything other than take advantage of what he was offering.
“Luke,” I moaned again, feeling that delicious pleasure in the pit of my stomach. “Oh, God, Luke, I’m so close.”
There was nothing dignified in the way I cried out. I moaned, gasped, and screamed, all of it feeling too much, and yet not enough.
And then it hit me. Stars flashed behind my eyes, my head tipped back, and I moaned his name over and over, rocking against his face as though my life depended on it.
And he relished every moment, wringing every last bit of my orgasm out of me, not satisfied until my entire body was jerking and shaking, my clit beyond sensitive to his actions.
I climbed off the bed, almost shaken by the force of what I had just felt, and looked down at Vienna, who was grinning like a madman, the evidence of my orgasm still fresh on his face and beard.
“Now that is every biker's fantasy come to fucking life,” he said, reaching out for me and pulling me down onto his lap.
I straddled him, my legs still trembling, the jacket hanging open between us. His hands found my waist immediately, and I could feel how hard he was beneath his jeans.
“You’re still dressed,” I murmured, my fingers going to the buttons of his shirt. “Let’s do something about that.”
He caught my wrists gently. “Look at me.”
I did. And the expression on his face made my chest constrict painfully.
“I need you to be sure,” he said quietly. “Because once I have you like this, once I’m inside you wearing my cut, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to let you walk away after.”
The honesty in it gutted me. He wasn’t playing games. He wasn’t trying to manipulate or control me. He was simply telling me the truth—that this would break him in ways neither of us could take back.
I leaned forward until my forehead touched his, my hands sliding up to frame his face. “I’m sure,” I whispered. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Something cracked open in his expression then. Relief, pain, and want all bleeding together until I couldn't tell where one ended, and the other began. Then his mouth found mine again, softer this time but no less desperate, and his hands moved to his belt.
The sound of the buckle coming undone sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I helped him with his jeans, lifting slightly so he could shove them down his hips, and then there was nothing between us anymore. Just skin and history and years of wanting.