Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
SAVANNAH
I wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon grease drifting down the hallway.
Sunlight cuts through the half-open blinds across the king bed.
Lucky’s side is empty but the sheets are still warm, all twisted up like he just rolled out.
I stretch slowly, arching my back, feeling the good kind of ache in my muscles.
No more waking up with my heart in my throat, checking if he’s still breathing beside me.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand the second I open my eyes.
Unknown: He’s not right for you.
Unknown: I’d treat you better.
My stomach drops. I don’t even have to look at the number anymore, I already know that it’s the same damn number that’s been texting me for weeks. One or two messages every few days, always short and enough to make my skin crawl. It’s been weeks of this.
Except for those damn messages. They started a week after he got shot.
One week after I sat by his hospital bed watching machines breathe for him, one week after the doctor said he might not make it through the night.
A random text popped up from an unknown number while I was in the waiting room, numb and coffee-stained.
I thought it was nothing, maybe a wrong number, so I ignored it.
Then they kept coming. Every few days. Little comments about what I was wearing, where I'd been, how I looked when I smiled.
Like someone was close enough to see me fall apart and decided to keep poking.
I’ve never answered. I told myself they’d stop if I ignored them.
Told myself Lucky didn’t need to know. I didn’t want to be the reason he pushed too hard too soon.
Now it’s been weeks. And every time I see his face, the guilt twists deeper.
I’ve been lying by omission. Keeping this from him feels like betrayal.
I didn’t want to be the girl who couldn’t handle her own ghosts. I’m assuming Brian’s the one who’s been sending the messages. I can’t deal with or even think about the alternative, that I have a stalker of some variety. That would be fucking insane.
Now I’ve waited so long that telling Lucky feels like I’ve been lying to him. Guilt sits heavy in my chest every time I see his face. I swipe the notification away, set the phone face-down, and try to breathe through my panic.
This is his place. My old rental got too small too fast once he started leaving boots by the door and his cut on the back of the couch every night. He owns this house outright, bought it cash years ago after the military money started stacking up.
His dresser drawers are mine now too. Half my stuff migrated over in the first month after the hospital. Bras in the top left, leggings in the bottom. He never complained. Just cleared space and started hanging my jackets next to his in the closet.
My eyes catch on the box of books on the chair in the corner I still haven’t unpacked.
And just like that, the memory slams into me, clear as yesterday.
Two weeks ago. We were on my couch at the old place, lazy as hell.
His arm around me, my legs over his lap, some dumb action flick droning in the background.
I was scrolling my phone, sipping iced coffee, when his fingers started wandering up my thigh under my shorts. Slow at first, then higher, teasing.
I glance up. “Are you starting something?”
“Maybe.” His voice is low, lazy. “Been thinking.”
I set the phone down. “Sounds dangerous.”
He chuckles, thumb brushing the crease of my thigh. “You should move in with me.”
My stomach flips. The good kind. “Are you asking or telling me?”
“Little of both.” His hand slides to my hip, thumb hooking inside my waistband. “Your lease is up in three months, right?”
“Three. Yeah,” I murmur, watching him closely.
“Close enough.” He looks me dead in the eye.
“The house is paid off. Three bedrooms. Big kitchen you can take over. Garage for your car. Fenced yard for the cats to fuck with me. Plenty of space. And I want you there every morning. Want your toothbrush next to mine. Want your coffee rings on my counters. Want to come home smelling your shampoo instead of just motor oil and smoke. I want you in my bed. Every night. Not your bed. Ours.”
I swallow hard. “You really want my mess in your space full-time?”
He pulls me closer, hand sliding up my back under my shirt, palm flat and warm.
“I want every bit of your mess. The way you laugh too loud at nothing. The way you talk to the cats like they’re gonna answer.
The way you leave half-finished coffee everywhere.
The fights where you yell at me for tracking dirt in.
The nights you climb on top of me at three a.m. because you’re restless.
The mornings you steal my hoodie and strut around in nothing else.
I want you there when I roll in late, reeking like the shop.
I want you in my house. In my life. All the way. No half-ass shit.”
My eyes sting. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot.”
“Every damn day since you put that tattoo on my arm.” He kisses me. “I don’t want to wait three months for your lease to be up. I want you moved in today, but I can wait until next weekend. We’ll pack your shit, rent a truck, bribe the brothers with beer and pizza. Bim bam boom, easy as pie.”
I laugh, shaky. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It is easy.” His hand squeezes my hip. “You belong with me. In my house. In my life. All the way. No half-measures.”
I search his face. Steady. No bullshit. Just Lucky. “Okay,” I whisper.
His brows lift. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I grin so wide my cheeks hurt. “Next weekend. I’ll move in. But you’re getting my spice rack in your cabinets, my candles everywhere, and the cats are probably claiming your pillow.”
He groans like I just handed him the world, yanks me into his lap so I’m straddling him. “Fuck yes.”
He kisses me hard, tongue deep, hand fisting my hair. When we break apart I'm panting.
His grin turns filthy. “You keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna lose my mind.”
I rock my hips once, slow, feeling how hard he is under me. “Good. Lose it.”
He flips us so fast I gasp, pinning me under him on the couch. “You're killing me, you know that? Doctor said no sex yet. No full go until I'm cleared. Two more weeks of this bullshit.”
I groan, half laugh. “Two more weeks? You're gonna explode.”
“Already exploding.” He shoves my shorts and panties down in one rough pull, fingers sliding through my slick folds, teasing my clit before pushing two deep inside. He curls them just right, thumb circling slow and firm. “Move in with me. Say it.”
“I'm moving in with you,” I gasp, hips rocking against his hand. “Next weekend. All my shit. All yours. Forever.”
He growls low, adds a third finger, stretches me until my thighs shake. “Good girl. Now come for me. Let me feel how wet you get when you say you're mine. Can't fuck you yet but I can still make you scream.”
I clench around his fingers, moaning loud enough the neighbors probably hear it.
He doesn't let up, just pumps faster, thumb pressing harder on my clit, free hand shoving my shirt up so he can suck a nipple into his hot mouth.
The combination rips through me. I come hard, crying out, nails digging into his shoulders, whole body locking up while he keeps working me through it until I'm trembling and boneless.
He pulls his fingers free slowly, brings them to his mouth, licks them clean while staring down at me like I'm his favorite meal. “Fuck, you taste good when you're mine. Can't wait to bury my face between your legs.”
I reach for his waistband, pop the button, shove his sweats down just enough to free him. He's rock-hard, tip already leaking. I wrap my hand around him, stroke slowly and firm from base to head.
His breath hisses out. “Baby...”
“Your turn,” I whisper, squeezing tighter. “Let me make you come. Let me feel you lose it knowing I'm moving in next weekend. Doctor didn't say anything about hands.”
He groans, hips jerking into my fist. I pump faster, twist my wrist on the upstroke, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the precum. He drops his forehead to mine, breathing ragged.
“Fuck... just like that. Harder.”
I tighten my grip, stroke quicker, other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. He curses under his breath, hips snapping.
“Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked. “Gonna come all over your hand thinking about you in my house every day.”
“Do it,” I breathe against his mouth. “Come for me, Lucky. Show me how bad you want this.”
He slams his mouth to mine, kisses me all messy and desperate while he thrusts into my fist one last time. He comes hard, hot pulses spilling over my fingers, down my wrist, his whole body shaking as he growls my name against my lips.
We stay like that for a minute, both panting, foreheads pressed together. He finally opens his eyes, looks at the mess on my hand, then at me.
“Bedroom,” he says, voice still rough. “We're not done. I want my mouth on you again before we eat. Doc didn't ban that.”
I grin, wipe my hand on his shirt because why not. “Lead the way.”
He scoops me up, throws me over his shoulder caveman-style, smacks my ass hard enough to sting. “Next weekend,” he says, already heading down the hall. “You're officially mine. No take-backs.”
I laugh, upside down, hair swinging. “No take-backs, biker boy.”
I blink back to the present, the memory so vivid I can still feel his hand fisting my hair. I smile to myself, then swing my legs over the edge of the bed, toes hitting the cool hardwood.
I pad barefoot down the hall. He's at the stove in the kitchen, back to me, gray sweats hanging low on his hips.
The scar on his chest shows when he reaches for the spatula.
Pink, raised, jagged line right where the bullet punched through.
He still winces if he twists too fast or lifts something heavy, but he doesn't bitch. Never has.