Chapter 4 #2
"It means exactly what it sounds like." His voice has gone rough.
Strained. "It means I've spent three nights lying awake thinking about you in the next room.
Thinking about the sounds you make when you sleep.
Thinking about what would happen if I stopped being professional and started being honest."
"And what would happen?"
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Nothing good. Nothing you want."
"You don't know what I want."
"I know I'm not it." He turns away, reaching for the shirt draped over the end of his bed. "I'm not a good man, Dalla. I've told you that. I've killed people. I've done things that would make you—"
"I don't care."
He freezes, shirt in hand.
"I don't care what you've done," I continue, and I'm moving before I realize it—closing the distance between us, refusing to let him retreat. "I don't care how many men you've killed or what you think that makes you. I grew up in this life. I know what monsters look like. And you—"
I grab his arm, forcing him to face me.
"You're not a monster, RJ. You're a man. A man who took bullets in the back protecting people. A man who threw himself on top of me when bullets started flying. A man who's been sleeping on a torture device for three nights because he's too proud to admit he's in pain."
He's staring at me. Those gray eyes burning with something I can't name.
"That's not monstrous," I whisper. "That's human. And I'm so fucking tired of you pretending otherwise."
The silence stretches.
Tension coils in the air between us, thick and electric.
I'm suddenly aware of how close we're standing—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his bare skin.
Close enough to see the individual flecks of silver in his gray eyes.
Close enough that one small step would put me in his arms.
I take that step.
"Dalla." His voice is wrecked. A warning and a prayer wrapped in two syllables.
"Tell me to stop," I say. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk away. I'll go back to my room and we'll pretend this conversation never happened."
He doesn't say anything.
I reach up and cup his face in my hands.
His jaw is rough with stubble, his skin warm beneath my palms.
I feel the muscle tick under my fingers.
Feel the restraint coiling tighter and tighter.
"Tell me to stop," I repeat, softer now.
His control snaps.
One second I'm standing in front of him, and the next I'm being hauled against his chest with a grip that borders on bruising.
His mouth crashes into mine, and it's nothing like I imagined—it's better.
Rougher. Hungrier.
The kiss of a man who's been starving and just realized he's allowed to eat.
I gasp against his lips, and he swallows the sound, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he's claiming territory.
One hand fists in my hair, angling my head where he wants it.
The other wraps around my waist, pulling me so close I can feel every hard plane of his body pressed against mine.
He kisses like he fights.
No hesitation. No mercy. Complete and total devastation.
I give as good as I get.
My fingers dig into his shoulders—those broad, scarred, beautiful shoulders—and I pull him closer.
Deeper.
I want to crawl inside him.
Want to consume and be consumed.
Want to burn until there's nothing left but ash and satisfaction.
He makes a sound low in his throat—half growl, half groan—and it sends electricity straight down my spine.
His tongue slides against mine, tasting, claiming, and I'm drowning in him.
In the heat of his mouth.
In the strength of his hands.
In the solid wall of muscle pressed against every inch of me.
He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, but I don't care.
I don't care about anything except his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, and the heat of him surrounding me like a wildfire.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Dalla. Fuck."
"Don't stop."
"I should—we should—"
"Don't. Stop."
I grab the back of his neck and drag him down for another kiss.
This one is slower but no less intense—a thorough exploration of lips and tongue and teeth.
He nips at my bottom lip, and I moan.
The sound seems to unlock something in him.
His hands slide down my sides, tracing the curve of my waist with a reverence that makes my heart ache.
Then lower, over my hips, around to grip the backs of my thighs.
In one smooth motion, he lifts me off my feet.
I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct, and the new position presses us together in ways that make us both gasp.
I can feel all of him now—the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the undeniable evidence that he wants this as badly as I do.
"Jaysus," he mutters, his accent thickening. "You're going to kill me."
"What a way to go."
He laughs—actually laughs—and it's such an unexpected sound that I pull back just to see his face.
He's smiling. Really smiling.
It transforms him completely, softening the hard edges, making him look younger and lighter and almost happy.
I want to make him smile like that every day for the rest of my life.
The thought should scare me.
We've known each other for less than a week.
But it doesn't feel like less than a week.
It feels like I've been waiting for him my entire life.
His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise where they're gripping my thighs, and I love it.
Love the proof that he's as affected as I am.
"You have no idea," he mutters between kisses, "what you do to me."
"Tell me."
"I can't—" He breaks off, pressing his forehead to mine. His breath comes in ragged gasps. "I can't think straight when you're near me. Can't focus. Can't be the soldier I'm supposed to be. You've ruined me, Dalla. Completely fecking ruined me."
"Good." I run my hands through his hair, tugging lightly. "Now we're even."
"Even?"
"You ruined me first. In that garden. When you stepped out of the shadows and looked at me like I was something you wanted to devour."
His eyes darken dangerously. "You have no idea how close I came that night. How hard it was to tell you to go inside when all I wanted was to—"
"Was to what?"
He answers by kissing me again.
Harder this time. More desperate.
His hips roll against mine, and I whimper into his mouth—actually whimper—which should be embarrassing but isn't because he makes the same sound right back.
"Maybe I don't want the soldier." I run my hands down his chest, feeling the muscles jump beneath my touch. "Maybe I want the man."
He shudders. Actually shudders. Like my words are too much for him to bear.
Then his mouth is on my neck, and I lose the ability to think.
He kisses down the column of my throat, like he's memorized every nerve ending and knows exactly how to light them on fire.
His teeth scrape over my pulse point, and I gasp.
His tongue follows, soothing the sting, and I melt against him.
"RJ—" His name comes out broken. Desperate.
He finds the sensitive spot just below my ear and sucks, and I make a sound that probably carries through those thin walls and up into the clubhouse itself.
I don't care.
Let the whole club hear.
Let them know exactly what's happening down here.
His hands are everywhere—sliding up my sides, tangling in my hair, gripping my thighs where they're still wrapped around his waist.
He's holding me like I weigh nothing, like he could do this for hours, and the casual display of strength makes something hot and liquid pool in my belly.
"Please," I manage, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm asking for. "RJ, please."
He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes.
His pupils are blown wide, the gray almost swallowed by black. His lips are swollen from kissing. His chest heaves with each breath.
He looks wrecked.
He looks beautiful.
"Please what?" His voice is gravel and smoke. "Tell me what you want."
"You. Just you. All of you."
Something shifts in his expression.
The hunger is still there, but it's tempered now by something softer.
Something that looks almost like wonder.
Like he can't quite believe this is real, that I'm real, that I'm here in his arms asking for more.
"You're sure?"
"I've been sure since Dublin. Since you looked at me in that garden like I was something worth wanting."
He's quiet for a moment.
His thumb traces my cheekbone, achingly gentle after the intensity of the last few minutes.
The contrast makes my heart ache.
"You're everything," he says quietly. "Do you understand that? Not just something worth wanting. Everything."
My heart cracks open.
I kiss him again—softer this time, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my lips against his.
He kisses me back the same way, and it's somehow more intimate than the desperate collision from before.
More terrifying. More real.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"So," I manage, my voice unsteady. "About that bed."
He laughs—a real laugh, surprised and warm.
It transforms his whole face, makes him look younger and lighter and almost happy.
"You're relentless."
"You're stubborn." I poke his chest. "We share. No arguments. I'm not listening to you do push-ups in the middle of the night anymore."
"What if I can't keep my hands to myself?"
The question is teasing, but there's real concern beneath it.
He's still worried about crossing lines. Still convinced he'll ruin me somehow.
"Then don't," I say simply.
His eyes darken. His grip on my hips tightens.
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying." I hold his gaze. "I want you, RJ. In my bed, and I'm done pretending otherwise."
For a long moment, he just stares at me.
I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—duty versus desire, protection versus surrender.
Desire wins.
"Okay," he says roughly. "We share."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He kisses me again, quick and hard. "But I'm sleeping on top of the covers."
"That's ridiculous."
"It's a compromise."
"It's barely a compromise."
"It's the best you're getting tonight." He pulls back, and I can see the effort it takes him to release me. "If I get under those covers with you, I won't be able to stop myself."
"And if I don't want you to stop?"
His jaw clenches. "Then we wait. Until my back isn't fucked up and I can give you everything you deserve."
It's such an RJ answer—self-sacrificing even in the face of something he clearly wants.
But I understand.
He wants our first time to be right.
Not desperate and pained on a borrowed bed in my father's clubhouse.
"Fine," I agree. "Top of the covers. For now."
"For now," he echoes, and the promise in those two words makes my stomach flip.
I grab the plates of shepherd's pie from his dresser.
Miraculously, they're still warm.
"Come on," I say, heading for the door. "Let's eat. Then you can help me change the sheets on my bed."
He follows me out, and I feel his eyes on my back—different now.
Heated. Possessive.
Something has shifted between us. Something irrevocable.
I should probably be terrified.
Instead, I'm smiling.
Later—much later—I lie in the dark and listen to him breathe.
He's on top of the covers, true to his word.
Still dressed in sweats and a t-shirt.
Still maintaining that last fragile barrier between us.
But he's here, in my bed.
His warmth radiating through the blankets, his presence solid and real beside me.
We ate, sitting on the floor of the room, passing the plates back and forth and pretending our hands weren't shaking.
Pretending the air between us wasn't still charged with everything we'd said and done and almost done.
After, we changed the sheets on my bed together.
A strangely domestic act that felt more intimate than the kissing.
He smoothed the corners with military precision.
I watched his hands and thought about them on my body.
Neither of us mentioned it.
Now we're here.
Side by side in the darkness.
Close enough to touch but not touching.
It's torture.
It's perfect.
"You're not sleeping," he murmurs.
"Neither are you."
"Hard to sleep when you're this close."
I turn my head on the pillow.
He's lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, his profile sharp in the dim light filtering through the window well.
His jaw is clenched.
His hands are fisted at his sides, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
"Is the mattress better?"
"Much." There's genuine relief in his voice. "I'd forgotten what a real mattress feels like."
"Then you should sleep. Actually sleep. Not that two-hour bullshit you've been doing."
He huffs something that might be a laugh. "Bossy."
"You like it."
"Aye," he admits quietly. "I do."
Silence settles between us.
"RJ?"
"Hmm?"
"What happens now?"
It's the question I've been afraid to ask.
The one that's been lurking beneath every kiss, every touch, every heated look.
What does this mean?
Where do we go from here?
Are we just two people giving in to attraction, or is this something more?
He's quiet for a long moment.
When he speaks, his voice is rough with something I can't name.
"I don't know. This—you—it’s not supposed to happen. I am supposed to protect you, keep you safe, stay professional. Instead..." He exhales. "Instead, I'm lying in your bed, counting the seconds between your breaths, wondering if I'll ever be able to walk away from you."
"Maybe you don't have to walk away."
"Maybe." He turns his head, and even in the darkness, I can feel the weight of his gaze.
"Or maybe I'm just delaying the inevitable.
The Krajncs are still out there. There's something else going on too—something I haven't figured out yet.
This isn't over, Dalla. And when it is..
. I'll have to go back to Dublin. Back to the Brotherhood. "
The words land like stones in my chest.
I knew this.
Of course I knew this.
He's not from here.
He's not staying.
He's a soldier on assignment, and when the assignment ends, he'll leave.
But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.
I reach out and find his hand in the darkness. His fingers intertwine with mine immediately, like they were waiting.
Like they were made to hold mine.
"Then we deal with that when it comes," I say. "For now, you're here. I'm here. And I'm not wasting whatever time we have worrying about tomorrow."
He squeezes my hand. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to.
"Goodnight, RJ."
"Goodnight, Dalla."
We lie there in silence, hands linked, breathing in sync.
And for the first time since Dublin, I feel something I'd almost forgotten existed.
Safety.
Not because of his protection or his skills or the gun I know is on the nightstand beside him.
Because of him. Just him.
I fall asleep with his hand in mine and his heartbeat steady in the darkness.
And somewhere, beyond the walls of the clubhouse, a dark sedan sits on a side road, engine idling, waiting for morning.
Watching.
Always watching.