Chapter 6 - Knuckles
What the fuck am I doing?
Reading to a woman. Actually sitting here reading a thriller out loud like I'm some kind of fucking bedtime story narrator. This is insane.
But she asked. And I apparently can't say no to her.
I left her room. Did the right thing. Put distance between us like I was supposed to. But she came after me. Knocked on my door. Asked to stay. Whatever happens now isn't my fault. I tried. I fucking tried.
But Jesus Christ, how am I supposed to resist this?
My voice keeps going, reading words I'm not even processing, while my brain is completely short-circuited by the sight of her on my bed. She's curled up on the edge, legs tucked under her, wearing nothing but that t-shirt that's too big and rides up every time she shifts position.
No bra. I can see her nipples through the thin fabric, hard and obvious, and it's taking every ounce of control I have not to stare.
My cock has been hard since she showed up at my door. Painfully hard. Throbbing in my jeans every time she moves, every time that t-shirt shifts and I catch a glimpse of more skin.
Does she know what she's doing to me? Is she aware of how her chest moves when she breathes, how her tits jiggle slightly when she shifts position? How every small movement makes me want to throw this book across the room and find out if she tastes as good as she looks?
Or is she completely oblivious? Just sitting there listening to me read, eyes closed, completely innocent of the effect she's having?
Because it sure as fuck seems like she has no idea.
She's just being herself. Listening. Resting. Her eyes closed, face peaceful for the first time since she walked into the casino wearing that wedding dress.
She's even more beautiful like this. Without the fear. Without the tension. Just existing in my space like she belongs here.
I read another paragraph, then another, my voice on autopilot while my mind races with thoughts I shouldn't be having.
I want to touch her. Want to slide my hand up that t-shirt and find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.
Want to cup those tits in my hands, feel their weight, hear what sound she makes when I squeeze them.
Want to push her back on this bed and pull those panties down, those see-through lace panties I saw earlier that are burned into my brain, and bury my face between her thighs until she forgets every bad thing that's ever happened to her.
Want to make her scream my name. Want to feel her come apart under my hands, my mouth, my cock. Want things I have absolutely no business wanting from a woman who came here running for her life.
I force myself to keep reading, to keep my voice steady, to not let her see how completely fucked I am right now.
She shifts again and the t-shirt rides up higher. I catch a glimpse of her thigh, smooth and curved, and nearly lose my place in the book.
I read three more pages before I notice her breathing has changed. Deeper. Slower. More relaxed. I stop reading and watch her for a moment. Her eyes are still closed, her face peaceful.
"You falling asleep?" I ask quietly.
Her eyes open immediately. "No. Not at all. Just... closing my eyes helps me focus on your voice."
"You sure? I can take you back to your room if you need to rest. No one will bother you there."
"I'm not sleepy. I'm still full of adrenaline." She sits up slightly, and the movement makes her tits bounce. I look away before I do something stupid like stare. "Closing my eyes just helps me concentrate. Your voice is... soothing."
Soothing. Right. That's what I'm going for while I'm sitting here rock-hard and thinking about all the ways I want to fuck her.
"Okay," I say. "Just checking."
She settles back down and closes her eyes again. I pick up the book and try to find where I left off, but my concentration is shot to hell.
This is a problem. A big fucking problem that's only going to get worse.
"This is gonna be a bigger problem tomorrow," I say, setting the book down.
Her eyes open. She sits up fully this time, pulling her knees to her chest in a way that should make her less appealing but somehow doesn't.
"Because you have to talk to your president?" she asks.
"Yeah. Pope. Tough as fuck but fair."
"Will he kick me out?"
"No. I don't think so. But he'll have rules. Strict ones."
"Like what?"
"Like no contact with your ex or your family. At all. No calls, no texts, no messages through friends. Nothing that could lead them here."
"I already blocked them."
"That's good. But if they come looking, if they show up, if they make noise, it becomes a problem for the club. And if they get the cops involved, that's an even bigger problem. We don't need that kind of attention."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. "I've been thinking about it. About cutting them off for good."
"Your family?"
"Yeah. I trusted them. Told them what was happening and they chose him over me. They chose his comfort, his reputation, his feelings over my safety. What kind of family does that?"
"A shitty one."
"I let them do it. Let them tell me I was overreacting, that I was being dramatic, that I just needed to try harder.
For two years, I let them make me feel like I was the problem.
" Her voice is getting stronger, angrier.
"So maybe saying goodbye forever is the right choice.
Maybe they don't deserve to be in my life. "
I stand up, needing to move, and sit next to her on the bed. Not too close. Just close enough that she knows I'm listening.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't move away. If anything, she leans slightly closer, her face turned toward me like she's trying to hear every word.
"Cutting them off now makes sense," I tell her. "They proved they can't be trusted. They proved they'd rather protect an abuser than protect you. So yeah, cut them off. But forever is a long time. They're still your family."
"Family doesn't do what they did."
"You're right. They don't." I pause, choosing my words. "But as someone who never had a family, who spent his entire childhood being shuffled between foster homes and never getting chosen, I wonder how much it would take to cut one off if I ever had one."
Her expression softens. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be complaining about my family to someone who—"
"Don't apologize. Your shit is valid regardless of my shit.
I'm just saying... I don't know. I've spent my whole life wishing I had people who were supposed to care about me.
And you have them, they're just doing a shit job of it.
Maybe one day they'll wake up and realize what they did.
Maybe they won't. But that's their problem, not yours. "
"You have a family now, though. The club."
"Yeah. I do. Best family I could ask for, honestly. They chose me when nobody else did. Been my brothers for years now."
"Is that how it works? Family made instead of born?"
"For me, yeah. Only kind I've ever known. Only kind I trust."
She smiles, and it's the first real smile I've seen from her. "Maybe I need one of those too. Someone who never leaves, no matter what."
And fuck, I know I should stop myself. Know I should shut this down before it goes somewhere I can't take back.
Everyone will be pissed. The club has rules about this shit: don't get involved with women under protection, don't mix business with pleasure, don't fuck up a good thing by thinking with your dick.
But I look at her sitting there, bruised and broken but still fighting, still hoping, still trying to find something solid to hold onto, and I can't help myself.
"I could be that person," I hear myself say.
Her eyes go wide. "What?"
"I could be that person. Someone who doesn't leave."
"Ryan, you don't even know me."
"I know enough."
"What if you regret it? What if you realize I'm not who you think I am? What if I'm too much or not enough or—"
"I'm willing to risk it."
She stares at me like I just spoke a foreign language. "You're crazy."
"Probably."
"I might be too. Because I don't want to say no. I don't want to stop you."
"Then don't," I say.
And I kiss her.
Her lips are soft, plump, perfect under mine. She makes a small sound, surprise or relief or both, and opens for me.
I cup her face with one hand, feeling how soft her cheek is, how she leans into my palm like she's starved for gentle touch. And fuck, she probably is. When was the last time someone touched her without violence attached?
The kiss deepens. She tastes like salt from her tears and something sweet I can't name. Her hands come up to grip my shoulders, nails digging in slightly, holding on like I'm the only solid thing in her world.
I should slow down. Should make sure she really wants this and isn't just reaching for the first safe thing she's found.
But she's kissing me back like she's drowning and I'm air. Like she needs this as much as I do.
I lay her back on the bed slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop this. She doesn't. Just lets me settle her against the pillows, her dark hair spreading out around her head like a halo.
My arm brushes against her chest and holy fuck, her tits are even softer than I imagined. Full and heavy, pressing against me through that thin t-shirt.
I want to tear it off. Want to see what I've been imagining for the last hour. Want to cup them in my hands, feel their weight, suck her nipples until she's writhing underneath me.
Want to work my way down her body and bury my face between her thighs. Want to taste her, make her come on my tongue, watch her try not to moan while I devour her pussy.
Want to hear her say my name in that breathy voice people only use when they're getting exactly what they need.
I break the kiss and look down at her. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark with arousal, her chest heaving.
"Tell me to stop," I say roughly. "Tell me this is too much and I'll walk away right now."
"Don't stop." Her voice is barely a whisper. "Please don't stop."
"Savannah—"