Chapter 12
CECE
The ride back to Jillian's property feels different than before.
My body is pressed against his, my thighs squeezing his hips tighter than necessary, my hands wandering lower on his stomach than they need to be for safety.
Every curve in the road is an excuse to hold him closer, to feel the hard planes of his body through his clothes.
By the time we pull up to the guesthouse, I'm practically vibrating with anticipation. Brayden cuts the engine. He swings his leg over the bike and helps me off, his hands lingering at my waist.
“Last chance to back out, princess,” he reminds me as he removes my helmet.
I look up at him, feeling the weight of the moment between us.
This is a threshold I can't uncross. In my old life, this would be the moment I'd make the responsible choice—back away, thank him for the ride, and head home to my father's house where I'd lie awake all night wondering what could have been.
But I'm not that woman anymore.
“I'm not backing out. I want this. I want you.”
He takes my hand, leading me toward the door. The anticipation building between us is almost unbearable as he fumbles with his keys. When the door finally swings open, we barely make it inside before his mouth is on mine again, hungry and demanding.
He kicks the door shut behind us, and I'm suddenly pressed against it, his body pinning me in place as his hands roam down my sides.
His cut still hangs from my shoulders, heavy and warm, smelling of leather and him.
I should take it off, but there's something thrilling about wearing it while he devours my mouth.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls against my lips. “Seeing you in my colors...”
I gasp as his calloused fingers trail fire across my ribs, inching higher. “Tell me,” I demand, wanting to hear it.
“Makes me want to mark you as mine,” he finishes, his voice a low rumble against my throat where his lips have started to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses. “Let everyone know you belong to me.”
The possessiveness in his words should frighten me, but instead it sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs. I arch into him.
“Is that what this means?” I ask breathlessly as his teeth graze the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. “Wearing your colors?”
His hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. “To anyone in my world? Yeah. It means you're claimed. Protected.”
“And is that what you want?” I gasp as his fingers finally reach their destination, cupping me through the thin fabric. “To claim me?”
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, his gaze burning with an intensity that steals my breath. “Since the moment I saw you in that coffee shop, tearing that asshole mayor a new one.”
I laugh, the sound quickly transforming into a moan as his thumb brushes over my nipple. “That's what did it for you? Me making a scene?”
“You standing up for yourself,” he corrects. “Not taking shit from anyone. Being the real you instead of who everyone expects you to be.”
No one has ever wanted me for being myself. They've wanted me to be quieter, more obedient, more proper. But, Brayden, he sees me. The real me. The one hidden under all the layers. The woman who has been silently screaming inside of me, begging to be let out.
“Take me to your bed,” I demand.
He doesn't need to be told twice. In one fluid motion, he lifts me, his hands cupping my thighs as my legs wrap around his waist. I cling to his shoulders, marveling at how easily he carries me through the darkened guesthouse.
His mouth never leaves mine as he navigates the short hallway to the bedroom.
When he lowers me onto the bed, I expect urgency, the same hunger that's been building between us since that first ride on his motorcycle. Instead, he pulls back, standing at the edge of the bed looking down at me with an intensity that makes my skin flush.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny.
“Just looking at you. Lying in my bed. Wearing my cut.”
I glance down, realizing I'm still wrapped in his leather vest. The heavy patches gleam in the dim light filtering through the curtains—Heaven's Rejects in bold lettering.
The mirror across the room shows my hair is wild from the wind and his hands, my cheeks flushed with desire, my lips swollen from his kisses. I barely recognize myself.
And I love it.
“Come here,” I demand, reaching for him.
He shakes his head slowly, a smile spreading across his face. “Not yet, princess. First, I want to see you.”
“You are seeing me,” I point out.
“Not all of you.” His hands go to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion that makes my mouth go dry. His torso is a masterpiece of muscle and ink, tattoos spreading across his chest and down his arms in intricate patterns I want to trace with my tongue.
“Your turn,” he says, and it's not a request.
I push his cut off my shoulders, letting it fall to the bed beside me. Then I reach for the hem of his hoodie pulling it over my head with far less grace than he managed. I'm suddenly grateful I wore my good bra today—black lace instead of the practical cotton I usually default to.
Brayden’s eyes deepen as they move over my newly exposed skin. “Fuck,” he breathes, the single word carrying so much awe it sends heat rushing through me.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the edge of my bra where it meets my skin. “So fucking beautiful.”
I've never felt beautiful with Ethan—pretty, maybe, when I was dressed up for his work functions. Attractive in the way a suitable accessory is attractive. But beautiful? Like this? Never.
“You don't have to say that,” I whisper, my hands finding his shoulders, needing to touch him, to ground myself in the reality of this moment.
He looks up at me. “I don't say shit I don't mean, Cece.”
His hands slide up my ribs, around to my back where he finds the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. He pauses, waiting for permission. I nod, unable to form words as anticipation tightens my chest.
The fabric falls away, and I resist the urge to cover myself. Ethan always made me self-conscious about my body—too curvy, not toned enough, never matching the women in the magazines he left around our bathroom. But Brayden’s gaze lands on me as though I’m something extraordinary.
“Christ,” he breathes, his hands hovering just inches from my skin. When his calloused palms finally cup my breasts, I gasp at the contrast between rough skin and gentle touch. His thumbs brush over my nipples, a small moan escaping my lips.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, leaning forward to replace one hand with his mouth. The hot, wet slide of his tongue sends a jolt through me, my fingers tangling in his hair to hold him closer.
My head falls back as he lavishes attention on my breasts, alternating between gentle kisses and hungry nips that have me squirming beneath him. I’ve never felt desire this sharp and insistent, overwhelming every rational thought until all that remains is emotion and urgency.
“Brayden,” I gasp as his teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot. “Please.”
He pulls back, looking up at me with a dark hunger. “Please what, princess? Tell me what you want.”
“I want…” The sentence stumbles, old habits clamping down before I can finish it. Then I meet his eyes, see the way he centers his whole attention on me, and suddenly the truth doesn’t feel so impossible to say. “I want to feel you. All of you.”
A smile—not his usual half-smirk but something genuine and devastating—spreads across his face. “That can be arranged.”
His hands move to the button of my jeans, flicking it open with practiced ease. I lift my hips as he slides them down my legs, taking my underwear with them in one smooth motion. The cool air hits my bare legs, raising goosebumps across my skin.
“Beautiful,” he says again, his eyes drinking me in as I lie before him, completely exposed. His hands run up my calves, over my knees, along my thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake. When his fingers reach the apex of my thighs, I hold my breath, anticipation coiling tight in my belly.
His thumb brushes over me, and my hips buck involuntarily at the contact. A smug smile plays at his lips as he repeats the motion, more deliberately this time.
“So wet already. Is that all for me, princess?”
“Yes,” I gasp as he applies more pressure. “Brayden, please.”
“Please what?” he teases, his fingers tracing maddening circles that have me writhing beneath his touch. “Use your words, Cece. Tell me exactly what you want.”
“Touch me,” I manage.
“I am touching you,” he points out, his wicked smile growing as his fingers continue their torturous path.
“More,” I demand. “I need more.”
His fingers slide inside me, and I gasp at the sudden intrusion, my back arching off the bed. His thumb continues its relentless circles as he works his fingers deeper, curling them in a way that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
“Fuck, princess,” he groans, his free hand gripping my thigh. “Your hungry cunt has a vice grip on my fingers. I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock.”
I’m rambling now, half-formed words slipping out as the moment sweeps me under, everything in me tightening with a rising, breathless urgency I haven’t felt in years.
It’s been so long since anyone has touched my heart, my needs, my longing with this kind of care—if anyone ever has.
His focus is absolute, his attention so complete it feels as though nothing exists beyond the way he’s trying to understand me, to read me, to give me space to feel everything I’ve been denying myself.
“Please,” I beg.
“Not yet,” he argues. “Not until I know you can take me, baby. You’re too fucking tight, and I am not about to hurt you.”
His thumb presses harder against my clit as his fingers work inside me, stretching and preparing me. My hips rise to meet his hand, desperate for more.