Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Amanda
I've never been a tease. Never had the courage.
When you've spent three years living in fear, making yourself small, invisible, the last thing you do is draw attention.
But tonight is different. Tonight, I stand in front of the mirror and barely recognize myself.
The woman staring back wears a tight black crop top that shows a strip of midriff, a skirt that barely covers the essentials, and confidence that's entirely new.
A week with Ryker has transformed me. His possessiveness, his protection, his worship of my body—it's like being reborn.
Tonight, I want to see what happens when I push him.
When I make him lose that famous control.
When I make his primitive side come out to play.
"You ready?" Ryker's voice calls from the living room of his apartment—our apartment now, really, since I haven't been back to mine in days.
"Almost," I call back, applying one final swipe of lipstick. Deeper red than I'd normally wear. Bolder. Like me.
When I step into the living room, the reaction is everything I hoped for.
Ryker freezes mid-movement, keys dangling forgotten from his fingers.
His eyes darken instantly, stormy gray turning to midnight.
His jaw clenches visibly as his gaze travels from my face down my body, lingering on the strip of exposed skin at my waist, the length of leg my short skirt reveals.
"No." One word, flat and final.
I cock my hip, newfound confidence surging. "No what?"
"You're not wearing that to work." He stalks toward me, emanating dangerous energy that should frighten me but only makes heat pool low in my belly.
"I am." I stand my ground even as he towers over me. "It's perfectly appropriate for a bartender."
His hand reaches out, fingers skimming the bare skin at my waist. Just that light touch sends electricity racing through me. "You want every drunk asshole in that bar imagining what's under this tiny excuse for a skirt?"
"No," I reply, holding his gaze. "Just you."
Something flashes in his eyes—possessiveness mixed with grudging admiration for my boldness. He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "You're playing with fire, princess."
I turn my head slightly, let my lips graze his jaw. "Maybe I want to get burned."
He groans, his massive hands gripping my hips. For a moment I think he'll take me right there, bend me over the couch like he did last week. But he releases me with visible effort.
"We're going to be late," he growls before he stomps out of the door muttering about how he’s going to have to kill every motherfucker at the bar tonight.
The drive to The Dive Bar is charged with tension. Ryker's hand rests on my thigh, fingers occasionally slipping under the hem of my skirt, never quite reaching where I want them. By the time we arrive, I'm squirming in my seat.
Inside, Mike raises his eyebrows at my outfit but says nothing. Probably afraid of Ryker, who's taken to hanging around the bar every night I work, even when he's not on shift. No one questions it. No one dares.
I slip behind the bar, immediately falling into the rhythm of Friday night service. Pour, mix, serve, smile. But I'm hyperaware of Ryker's eyes tracking my every movement from his post near the door. Each time I bend to grab a bottle or reach up for a glass, I feel his gaze burning into me.
Two hours in, the bar is packed. I'm busy, but not too busy to notice the man who's been nursing the same beer for forty-five minutes, eyes following me constantly. He's good-looking in a polished way—designer clothes, perfect hair, manicured nails. Not my type at all, but persistent.
"Another?" I ask when he finally drains his glass.
"Please." His smile is practiced, confident. "And maybe your number?"
I shake my head, already turning to grab his beer. "Sorry, I'm taken."
"I don't see a ring." He leans closer across the bar. "Come on, one drink after your shift. What's the harm?"
"Not interested," I reply firmly, sliding his beer toward him.
He catches my wrist before I can pull away. Not roughly, but presumptuous. "Don't be like that. I'm a nice guy."
Before I can respond, a shadow falls over us. The man's hand vanishes from my wrist as if burned.
"Problem?" Ryker's voice is deceptively calm, but I know better. I've learned to read the tension in his shoulders, the dangerous stillness that precedes violence.
"No problem," the man says quickly, recognizing the threat. "Just being friendly."
"She's not interested in friendly." Ryker's hand finds the small of my back, proprietary and unmistakable.
The man raises his hands in surrender, backing away. "Got it. My mistake."
I expect Ryker to return to his post, but instead, his hand tightens on my waist. He leans down, lips brushing my ear. "Storage room. Now."
Heat floods my body at his commanding tone. I glance at Mike, who's handling the other end of the bar. "I can't just—"
"Now, Amanda." The way he says my name—part growl, part plea—makes resistance impossible.
"I need to grab some limes," I tell Mike as I pass him. He nods, none the wiser.
The storage room is small and dimly lit, stacked with boxes of liquor and bar supplies. The door has barely closed behind me when Ryker is there, spinning me to face him, backing me against the wall.
"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight," he growls, one hand gripping my hip, the other braced beside my head. "Wearing this." He tugs at my crop top. "Bending over the bar. Teasing me."
I should be intimidated by his size, by the raw possession in his eyes. Instead, I'm exhilarated. "Maybe I wanted to see what you'd do."
"This," he snarls, his mouth crashing down on mine. "This is what I do."
The kiss is bruising, consuming. His tongue claims my mouth the way his body has claimed the rest of me—thoroughly, possessively. I melt into him, arms winding around his neck.
In one swift movement, he lifts me, turning to set me on a stack of empty crates. His hands push my skirt up around my waist, revealing the tiny black thong beneath.
"Fucking hell," he groans, fingers hooking in the thin fabric. "You wore this for me?"
"Only you," I gasp as he tears the flimsy material away. "Always you."
He unbuckles his belt, frees himself with desperate urgency. "Spread your legs for Daddy," he commands, his voice dropping to that register that makes me instantly wet.
I comply, letting my thighs fall open. He steps between them, the head of his cock nudging my entrance. "Look at you," he murmurs, suddenly tender despite his urgency. "So fucking perfect. My princess."
Then he's pushing inside, filling me completely in one hard thrust. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out as pleasure-pain radiates through me.
“Driving me crazy seeing all these other motherfuckers looking at you,” he grunts, setting a punishing pace immediately. “Making daddy so jealous. Making him want to kill every man in sight.”
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, pulling me into each thrust. The crates beneath me scrape against the floor with the force of his movements.
"Who does this pussy belong to?" he demands, one hand sliding up to grip my throat lightly.
"You," I gasp, clinging to his shoulders. "Only you, Ryker."
"And who am I?" His thumb brushes my lower lip.
"Daddy," I whimper, the word falling naturally now. "My Daddy."
He groans, thrusting deeper. "That's right, little girl.
And don't you forget it." His pace quickens, becoming almost brutal. "Gonna knock you up right here, princess. Fill you so full of my cum everyone will know who you belong to. You’re going to leave this room with cum dripping down those pretty little legs. Let those motherfuckers see that.”
The filthy words send sparks racing up my spine. My body tightens around him as I get close.
"That man out there," Ryker growls, his thumb finding my clit. "Thought he could touch what's mine. Should've seen what I wanted to do to him."
"Yours," I pant, riding the edge of orgasm. "Only yours."
"Come for me," he commands, circling my clit faster. "Come on Daddy's cock like a good girl."
The orgasm hits me like a freight train. I bury my face against his shoulder to muffle my scream as pleasure shatters me. My inner walls clamp down on him, triggering his own release. He drives in to the hilt with a stifled roar, pulsing inside me, marking me from within.
For long moments afterward, we stay frozen—me perched on the crates, him buried inside me, both of us panting. His forehead drops to mine, a surprising tenderness after such primal claiming.
"You drive me fucking crazy," he murmurs, placing gentle kisses across my face.
I smile, feeling thoroughly claimed, gloriously owned. "That was kind of the point."
He helps me down, steadying me when my legs wobble. With surprising gentleness, he produces a handkerchief from his pocket and cleans between my thighs.
"Your underwear's a casualty," he says with a smirk, pocketing the torn thong.
"Worth it," I reply, smoothing my skirt down.
When we emerge from the storage room, Mike gives us a knowing look but says nothing. The handsy customer is gone. Probably for the best.
As I return to work, I can feel Ryker's release slowly seeping onto my pantyless thighs. Each step is a reminder of who I belong to. Who owns me. Who protects me.
And for the first time in years, I don't feel afraid to take up space in the world. To be seen. Because the most dangerous man in the room has my back.
And my heart.