Chapter 37
Becki
Royal’s breath is still shaking against my lips when he jerks back like he’s been burned. The mattress dips beneath his weight, his muscles locked, jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grind.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he growls.
I do anyway. Like he’s the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting under my feet. Like he’s the only person who didn’t treat me like a walking sermon. Like I remember every inch of him pressed to me, and I want it back.
His eyes flick over my face, and something snaps inside him.
Not control.
Restraint.
He drags a hand down his face, breath ragged, voice destroyed.
“I told you. I can’t do this halfway.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
It hits him like a slap.
He grabs my ankle and drags me back down the bed in one smooth, punishing pull. My breath staggers. The blanket bunches under me. His body, still fully clothed, cages my naked one again, but this time there’s no hesitation, just feral, hungry heat rolling off him in waves.
“You don’t know what I want from you,” he rasps.
“I know exactly what you want.”
His hand fists in my hair.
“Say it,” he snarls.
“I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes into mine, not a kiss, an invasion. Teeth scraping. Breath stealing. Fury and need braided together so tightly I can’t pick apart which one is winning. His thigh wedges between mine, forcing them open as my hips buck up into him without shame. My clit scrapes denim, delicious.
“Becki,” his voice breaks, gravel and sin, “I can’t stop if you keep, fuck, keep doing that.”
“Then don’t stop.”
Something filthy and reverent flashes across his face.
He grips both my wrists in one hand and slams them above my head, pinning me to the headboard. The mattress squeals. My pulse goes wild against his palm. He leans down, lips ghosting my neck, not touching, just hovering.
“Last warning,” he mutters against my skin. “If I taste you, I ain’t walking away from this bed until dawn.”
My breath shudders out.
“Then taste me.”
He shivers, a full-body quake like he’s fighting himself and losing.
His hand trails down my arm, slow and devastating, until it hits my hip. His thumb brushes the exposed skin above my clit.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, biting his tongue ring. “How hard I’m trying not to…”
He stops talking. I’m imagining that ring finally on my clit.
Letting my wrists go, he grabs my thigh, sliding up his hand, moving like he owns every inch of me. His fingers drag through my wet folds, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the tremble running through my muscles.
And I gasp, my entire form jackknifing.
He groans, low, guttural, obscene, like he’s the one being touched. His forehead drops to my collarbone as he breathes out a curse that sounds like a prayer.
“Fuck… you’re going to kill me.”
His hand presses harder, his fingers grinding slow, brutal circles into the spot he knows will drive me insane. His thumb drags against the inside of my thigh while the heel of his palm presses up, forcing my legs wider, forcing heat to flood through my whole body.
The pressure is perfect and punishing, enough to make my breath shatter.
I choke on a moan, my fingers clawing at the sheets as my hips lift into his hand like I’m offering myself up on instinct.
He growls at the sight, gripping my thigh tighter as if he’s claiming the invitation I’m too horny to put into words.
And heat spikes through me so fast I’m dizzy. My legs fall open without me meaning to. Wider. Inviting.
He swears again.
“Fuck. Don’t do that. Don’t, fuck, don’t offer yourself like that unless you want me to fuck you.”
“I do,” I whisper. “Fuck me.”
Royal’s breathing becomes a snarl. “It means no more Kings. Legend ordered me not to fuck you.”
“What?”
“Maybe he doesn’t mean it. But he told me to keep my dick out of you. Said it was an order. You know what that means in my world. Figure that means out of your mouth too.”
As I chew his words, he shifts his weight pressing his body lower, covering me, trapping me beneath him with the force of his heat and hunger.
His thigh pushes between mine again, but this time his cock caged in his jeans grinds into me, slow and relentless, dragging the rough denim against the soft, soaked flesh, cut open for him.
The friction detonates something inside me as I ponder his words. The reason he’s been teasing instead of taking. My doubts about him almost completely disappear.
My nails dig into his back, pulling him down harder, needing him closer.
He groans into my neck, hot breath spilling down my skin while his hips rock into me, matching the frantic rhythm of my pulse.
His cock feels huge. Solid. Unstoppable.
Every roll of his body slams want through me like a heartbeat.
And holy God, the sound that leaves my throat is nothing human.
His free hand, warm palm comes up my stomach, rough and calloused, mapping the curve of my waist, the soft skin beneath my ribs. When he cups my breast, squeezing with a possessive growl, my back bows clean off the bed.
His mouth falls open at the sight, hunger dragging across his features as he lowers his head and sucks the skin just above my nipple, his tongue ring catching on the peak in a cold shock that rips a curse from my lips.
Then he sucks on the ring spearing my flesh, twirling the metal with his own.
My nails dig harder into him because I can’t hold onto anything else.
He drags his mouth down my sternum, stops just above where I want him most, breathing hot against my skin.
“If I put my mouth on your pussy,” he rasps. “You won’t walk tomorrow.”
I grab his hair and yank his face up to mine.
“Royal. Please.”
That’s the moment he breaks.
Fully.
Completely.
The impatient sound that vibrates coming from him goes straight through my core. He pulls away, the cool air hits me first, then the heat of his breath.
He looks down me, at my pussy, like he’s making an introduction.
“I’ve never seen anything so perfect or so damn dangerous.”
His thumbs spread me open, my lips, slow, reverent, filthy, exposing every wet, trembling part of me.
Groan rumbling through his chest, deep. He lowers his head, tongue ring catching the light, and then his mouth is on my pussy, hot and demanding, sealing over me like he’s starving. The first stroke of his tongue steals the air straight out of my lungs.
My back bends off the bed as I feel the metal ball in his tongue on my most sensitive part. I hear a sound tear out of me. I don’t care what the motel walls hear.
Royal growls against me, his tongue and the ring working slow at first, then harder, dirtier, like he’s devouring every shaky breath I feed him. Every drop of sticky desire he coxes my body to make.
His black painted nails dig into my thighs, dragging my pussy closer to his open mouth, forcing every tremor through me to hit his lips.
Biker sucks my clit, gentle then punishing, alternating strokes that send electricity up my spine until my hips are lifting helplessly against his face. Every time my body jerks, he groans louder, his tongue ring sliding against me with obscene hunger.
He's relentless. Worshiping my sex. His mouth moves like a knife and he’s carving his name into me with every stroke.
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes as I come apart under him, watching every second. His lined eyes narrow, his lower lip drops, revealing his insatiable hunger. I read the word impossible tattooed on his face, for the first time like it’s a lie.
When I collapse back onto the bed, sweating and trembling, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He kisses me again, slow this time, like he’s tasting everything he just did to me and wants me to taste it too.
I do. However, my taste on his tongue doesn’t hit like it should. Should feel like I won a battle. But it doesn’t.
Because I’m terrified. Because I want more. Everything that’s impossible.
The motel room hums with the leftover heat of us. And Royal’s wrestling with his own loyalties. He stands abruptly, muttering, “I need a minute,” like the words hurt him.
The shower roars to life a second later. He leaves the bathroom door open. Steam curls into the room, thick and inviting. I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
Through the cracked door, I see his silhouette through the plastic curtain. Broad shoulders. Muscles flexing under the spray. His hands braced on the cheap shower walls as he bows his head under the water like he’s praying or punishing himself.
The sight drags a whimper out of me before I can swallow it.
He goes still.
“Becki,” he growls without turning. “You better not be standing where I think you are.”
Pulling the curtain back, I say nothing.
The steam shifts, and I catch a glimpse of his back, wet skin, scars, and the tattoo across his spine. His Kings of Anarchy patch. My thighs press together at the sight.
But I gasp, realizing what I know but haven’t yet considered. Royal’s in deep. An officer with his backpack, if he leaves the club, they’ll carve that tattoo out of his skin.
I think he fears that too.
Biker turns just enough that the water hits his chest now, streaming over muscle and heat. His head low, wet black hair hiding his face, he drags a hand down his abdomen, his tattooed fingers sliding lower, before he fists his cock with a slow, punishing grip.
His head drops back against the fake porcelain, throat working as a groan escapes him. Water runs down the ridges of his stomach, his abs tightening as he strokes himself once, twice, long slow pulls that make his shoulders shake.
Beating his cock, he mutters a curse that sounds like my name. Watching him unravel from want in the half-steam darkness is the filthiest, most intoxicating thing I have ever seen.
My breath snags. He looks up. His eyes find mine. Slowly, very slowly, he smirks.
“If you don’t stop staring,” he warns, voice pure sex. “I’m fixin’ to drag you in here and make you finish what you started.”
My pulse stutters.
“Maybe I want you to.”
He swears under his breath. A violent, guttural sound.
The shower shuts off abruptly.
He steps out dripping, towel slung low on his hips, water running in rivulets down his chest.
He stalks toward me with purpose.
“Last chance to walk away,” he murmurs.
I don’t move.
I’m tall, almost as tall as him. But biker makes me shrink. Royal towers over me. One hand cups my jaw. The other grabs my hip, dragging me flush against him.
His mouth grazes my cheek.
Hot.
Starving.
“I can’t touch you again tonight,” he says, voice trembling with restraint.
“If I do… no more Kings.”
My breath shakes.
“Royal…”
He pulls back a fraction, forehead pressed to mine.
“Get in bed,” he orders softly. “Now. Before I forget the difference between protecting you and taking you.”
I listen.
Because his self-control will not last forever.
And I’m not sure I want it to.