Chapter 6 Chase
CHASE
Sunlight slices through the gaps in the heavy blackout curtains, dust motes dancing in the beams like suspended gold. I refuse to look at the window. My gaze remains locked on the woman tangled in my sheets.
Cassandra.
Pressure builds behind my ribs, a tightness unrelated to her arm draped over my sternum or her leg hooked possessively over my hip.
Logan calls it the Thunderbolt. That instant, gut-punch realization that the universe has shifted on its axis.
Gravity no longer pulls me down to the earth; it pulls me toward her.
I lie perfectly still. Numbness creeps into my left shoulder where her head rests.
I would let the limb rot off before risking the end of this stillness.
Morning light transforms her. The sharp, high-powered attorney who marched into Town Hall ready to eviscerate my family’s business has vanished.
In her place lies a soft, disheveled creature with lips swollen and bruised from the way I devoured her, her neck marked with my brand, and her pussy likely still aching from the sheer mass of my cock stretching her wide until dawn.
My eyes trace the curve of her shoulder, the pale expanse of skin marred by the faint, reddish abrasion of my beard stubble.
Heat flares in my gut, heavy and molten.
I did that. I marked her. The environmental lawyer intent on shutting down the Peak Wilderness Outfitters expansion currently bears the brand of the club’s Enforcer.
Irony usually makes me laugh. Today, it leaves me terrifyingly sober.
We designed this as a game. A strategy. Fake it ‘til you make it. We planned to pretend for the zoning commission, proving the scary bikers and respectable legal counsel could coexist. A simple play for public opinion.
Last night shattered the strategy. I claimed her.
Cassandra shifts, a soft murmur vibrating against my skin as she burrows deeper into my side. Her hand flexes on my chest, fingers curling into the hair there, nails scraping lightly against my skin. Electricity jolts straight to my groin.
"Chase," she whispers, voice thick with sleep. Her tone holds no question, only the heavy weight of acknowledgment.
"I’m here," I rumble. "Got you."
She stiffens. Her muscles tense against me.
I hate that rigidity. I need to smooth it away until she turns boneless and pliable again, melting into me like she did three hours ago.
She lifts her head, squinting against the stray sunbeam.
Hazel eyes blink rapidly, foggy with sleep.
Then, the memories land. I see them hit—the table, the praise, her screams. A flush rises from her neck, staining her cheeks a guilty pink.
"Oh God," she breathes, dropping her forehead back onto my shoulder. "What time is it?"
"Early," I say. My hand moves of its own accord to stroke the length of her spine beneath the sheet. Her skin feels impossibly soft against my calloused palm. "Does it matter?"
"Yes." Her voice comes muffled against my skin.
She pushes herself up, the sheet pooling at her waist, exposing the creamy curve of her breasts.
My breath hits a snag. Magnificent. Lush, real, and absolutely devastating.
"I have a briefing at ten. I have to go over the environmental impact reports. "
"The reports you’re using to bury my club?" I ask. No bite sharpens my tone. Hostility fails to manifest when her nipples harden in the cool mountain air and she looks at me with that potent mix of desire and terror.
She flinches, pulling the sheet up to cover herself. The action strikes me harder than a fist. I want no barriers.
"Chase, this… last night," she starts. Her lawyer brain kicks into gear, categorizing and mitigating damage. "We agreed this was fake. A performance."
I reach out, wrapping my hand around her wrist. My grip is firm, unbreakable. I tug her forward until she leans over me again, her hair creating a curtain around us, shutting out the room.
"Does this feel fake, Counselor?" My voice drops to the deep growl she responds to. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the hazel. "When I was inside you last night, when you begged me not to stop… did that count as a performance for the zoning board? I saw no council members in the bedroom."
She swallows hard. Her pulse flutters frantically against my thumb. "That’s not fair. You know the chemistry is real. That doesn't mean the situation is simple."
"Complicated is just a word people use when they’re scared." I release her wrist to cup her jaw. I run my thumb over her bottom lip, dragging it down. "The simple truth involves you being mine now."
Her breath hitches. "I’m not yours, Chase. I’m the opposing counsel."
"You’re the woman in my bed," I correct her. "The woman who tastes like my cum. The woman who responds to my brand like it’s the only truth she’s ever heard."
She shudders, eyes squeezing shut. A whimper escapes her throat. "Stop."
"Make me."
She opens her eyes. The fire there seals my fate. Not weak. Terrified, yes, but fierce. The Thunderbolt didn't just find a warm body; I found a match.
"I need a shower," she says, grasping for control. "I need to think."
"Good idea." I throw the covers off. I stand naked, offering no apology for it. Her gaze drops to my cock, heavy and semi-hard, before snapping back up to my face. "We’ll save water."
"Chase, I meant—"
I scoop her up out of the bed, ignoring her squeak of protest. She feels curvy and solid, substantial in my arms. An anchor. Something worth holding onto.
"Put me down," she orders, though her arms wrap around my neck instinctively.
"Eventually," I promise, carrying her toward the ensuite.
I kick the bathroom door open, the air slightly cooler until I reach over and crank the heavy brass handle.
The pipes groan for a second before the spray hits the floor of the stall, quickly turning the room into a misty sanctuary.
I don't set her down until we are both stepping into the steam.
The glass stall favors efficiency over luxury. Intimate. Forced proximity. Hot water beats down as I press her against the tile. Water sluices over her curves, washing my drying seed and the musky scent of her pussy from her thighs, but it does nothing to erase the feeling of being occupied by me.
I haven't touched her sexually since we stepped in. I’m washing her. I squeeze a dollop of soap onto a sponge, the lather thick and plain, a stark contrast to the expensive, lingering scent of her skin. I turn her around, pressing her chest against the cool glass, and start at her shoulders.
"Chase," she sighs, forehead resting against the wall. Tremors run through her frame.
"Relax, baby," I murmur, lips right at her ear. "Let me take care of you."
I work the coarse sponge down her spine, the friction making her skin flush a deep, delicious pink.
I circle the dimples at the base of her back before dragging the lather over the lush curve of her ass, my fingers digging into the meat of her thighs to keep her pinned against the glass while I clean her.
Domestic.
Tender.
The realization that I want to do this every morning terrifies me.
I want to wash the world off her every night.
I serve as the Enforcer. My job entails violence and protection.
I don’t wash backs. I don’t handle things gently.
But with her? Squeezing too hard feels like it would crush the best thing I've ever found.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks, voice small over the sound of the spray.
"Because you’re tired. And because I want to."
I rinse her off. Water cascades down her back, taking the suds with it.
I turn her to face me. Her hair plasters to her skull, dark strands framing a face scrubbed clean of everything but raw emotion.
She looks up at me, water dripping from her eyelashes.
The air leaves the room. She places her small hand flat on my chest, right over my heart.
She has to feel it hammering. It beats hard enough to bruise.
"This is dangerous," she whispers. "If the town finds out this isn’t fake… if my firm finds out I’m sleeping with the opposition… I could lose my license. You could lose the permit."
"Fuck the permit." The words tear out of me before I can check them.
Her eyes widen. "You don't mean that. The club is your life. I've read the files, Chase. The Gunnars are this mountain."
"The club is my blood," I agree, stepping closer until our wet bodies seal together from chest to knee. "But the club can survive a zoning dispute. I’m not sure I can survive letting you walk out of here thinking this is just a game."
She stares at me, searching my face for the lie. She won’t find it. I stand stripped bare.
"It can't be real." Her voice shakes. She tries to convince herself, not me. "We're enemies. I'm the lawyer trying to stop you."
"Then stop me." I lean down, brushing my lips against hers, tasting water and hesitation. "File an injunction against this kiss. Object to the way I want to own you. Go ahead, Counselor. Make your case."
She offers no argument. She makes a small, broken sound and rises on her tiptoes, sealing her mouth over mine.
Not the hungry, devouring kiss of last night.
Slow. Deep. A desperate tangle of tongues and breath tasting of surrender.
I wrap my arms around her, lifting her effortlessly until her legs wrap around my waist, pinning her against the glass.
I don’t enter her. I just hold her there, kissing her until the hot water runs cold, until my lungs burn for air I refuse to take if it’s not shared with her.
We break apart, gasping.
"I have to get to town," she whispers, forehead resting against mine.
"I know." Every instinct in my DNA screams to lock the door and keep her here until the spring thaw. "I’ll take you."