Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
RJ
I wake up hard.
Not unusual—I'm a man in my twenties with a functioning body and a head full of dirty thoughts.
What's unusual is the reason.
The woman curled against me, her back pressed to my chest, her arse nestled against exactly the right part of me that's causing problems.
Sometime during the night, Dalla migrated across the bed.
Or maybe I did.
Either way, the distance we maintained when we fell asleep has dissolved into... this.
Her body fitted against mine like she was made to be there.
My arm draped over her waist, hand splayed across her stomach.
My nose buried in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo—something floral and warm that I'm going to associate with torture for the rest of my life.
The covers are still between us.
That flimsy barrier I insisted on.
It feels pathetic now, with the heat of her seeping through the blankets and into my bones.
I should move, should extract myself before she wakes up and feels exactly how much I want her.
I don't move.
Instead, I lie there like a fucking eejit, cataloging every point of contact.
The rise and fall of her breathing.
The soft sounds she makes in her sleep—not quite snores, more like sighs.
The way her fingers have curled around mine where my hand rests on her belly.
My back feels better than it has in days.
The mattress actually supports my spine instead of trying to fold it in half.
The scars don't ache.
For the first time since Dublin, my body isn't screaming at me.
Which means the only thing screaming at me now is my cock.
This is dangerous.
This is everything I've been trying to avoid.
Yet, this is the best I've felt in years.
The early morning light filters through the small window well near the ceiling, casting gray shadows across the room.
I can hear the clubhouse coming alive above us—the distant rumble of motorcycles in the lot, the muffled thump of boots on floors, the bass line of music someone's playing too loud for this hour.
But down here, in this basement, it's just us.
Just this bubble of warmth and want and dangerous possibility.
She stirs, and I hold my breath.
Her body shifts, pressing back against me, and I bite down on my tongue hard enough to taste copper.
If she moves like that again, I'm going to embarrass myself.
"Mmm." The sound is sleepy, content. "You're warm."
"And you're awake."
"Barely." She stretches, a full-body undulation that drags her arse across my cock in a way that cannot be accidental. "What time is it?"
"Early. Just past seven."
"Too early." She snuggles deeper into me, and I'm going to die. I'm going to die right here in this bed, killed by a woman who has no idea what she's doing to me. "Five more minutes."
"Dalla..."
"Shh. Sleeping."
She's not sleeping.
I can tell by the change in her breathing, the tension that's crept into her body.
She knows exactly what's pressed against her.
She's choosing to stay anyway.
Dangerous, dangerous woman.
I extract myself before I do something stupid—like roll her onto her back and finish what we started last night.
The loss of her warmth is physical pain, but I force myself off the bed and onto my feet.
"Where are you going?" She rolls over, blinking up at me with those blue eyes still hazy from sleep.
Her hair is a mess, tangled and wild against the pillow.
The oversized t-shirt she wore to bed has slipped off one shoulder, exposing a stretch of creamy skin that makes my mouth water.
She looks rumpled and soft and absolutely edible.
"Shower," I manage. "A fecking cold one."
Her lips curve into a smile that's pure sin. "Need some help with that?"
"You're going to be the death of me."
"And what a way to go."
I retreat to the bathroom before I give in to the invitation in her eyes.
I close the door and lean against it, trying to remember how to breathe.
This is fine. I can handle this. I've handled worse.
I turn the shower to cold and step under the spray, letting the icy water shock some sense back into my body.
It helps.
Marginally.
The image of her stretching in that bed is seared into my brain, but at least the immediate crisis has been... deflated.
I wash quickly, mechanically, trying not to think about the fact that she uses this same shower.
That her body was under this same spray just yesterday.
That if I turned around, I'd probably see her shampoo bottle and her soap and all the intimate little details of her life.
I don't turn around.
When I'm done, I wrap a towel around my waist and crack the door to let the steam out.
The exhaust fan in here doesn't work—another casualty of the unfinished construction—so the mirror is completely fogged and the air is thick with humidity.
"Bathroom's all yours," I call out, stepping into the hallway.
"Thanks."
I hear her moving around in the bedroom, the rustle of fabric, the pad of bare feet.
I should go to my room.
Get dressed. Put some distance between us before I do something I can't take back.
Instead, I find myself lingering.
Waiting.
For what, I don't know.
I head to my room to get dressed, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, trying to focus on the day ahead.
Security check of the perimeter.
Maybe a conversation with Runes about those gaps in coverage I noticed.
Normal things. Professional things.
Things that don't involve thinking about Dalla's body pressed against mine.
I'm reaching for my boots when I hear the bathroom door open.
And then I hear it click—not closed, but barely ajar.
The exhaust fan still isn’t working, the steam still needing somewhere to go.
I shouldn't look.
I absolutely should not look.
But I look.
Through the crack in the door, I can see the mirror.
And in the mirror's reflection, I can see her.
She's facing away from me, reaching for something on the shelf. The towel is wrapped around her body, but just barely—tucked above her breasts, ending high on her thighs.
Water droplets trail down her skin, catching the light as they slide over the curve of her shoulder, down the line of her spine, disappearing into the small of her back.
She's fecking gorgeous.
All soft curves and smooth skin, her body a landscape I want to explore with my hands and mouth and tongue.
The towel clings to her, damp and thin, hinting at everything it's supposed to conceal.
Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, exposing the elegant line of her neck, the delicate shell of her ear.
I watch a single droplet trace its path from her hairline, down the side of her throat, over her collarbone, and into the valley between her breasts where the towel begins.
I track it like it's the most important thing in the world.
Like that droplet is living my dreams.
She shifts her weight, reaching higher, and the towel slips.
Not all the way, but just enough.
The tuck above her breasts loosens, and the fabric slides down an inch.
Then another.
I see the swell of her breasts, the upper curve exposed, the towel barely clinging to her nipples through what seems like sheer force of will.
She doesn't notice.
Or maybe she does and doesn't care.
Either way, she keeps reaching, keeps stretching, and the towel keeps slipping, and I'm frozen in my doorway like a man watching his own destruction in slow motion.
Then she turns.
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
She doesn't scramble to fix the towel.
Doesn't gasp or cover herself or look away.
She just... holds my gaze.
Lets me look.
Lets me see the flush spreading across her chest, the way her breath has quickened, the way her nipples have hardened beneath the damp fabric.
"See something you like?" Her voice is low.
Husky.
A challenge and an invitation wrapped in four words.
Any control I have snaps within an instant.
I cross the hallway in three strides, push open the bathroom door, and pin her against the counter.
My mouth finds hers before she can say another word, and I kiss her like I'm drowning and she's air.
Like I've been starving for weeks and she's a feast.
Like nothing else in the world exists except the taste of her and the feel of her body against mine.
She moans into my mouth, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer.
The towel is trapped between us, barely hanging on, and I can feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric.
Can feel her nipples pressed against my chest.
Can feel every curve and dip and hollow of her body aligned with mine.
"Fuck the covers," I growl against her lips. "Fuck waiting. Fuck being professional."
"Finally." She nips at my bottom lip, her fingers already working at the hem of my shirt. "Took you long enough."
I yank the shirt over my head and toss it somewhere behind me.
Don't care where it lands.
Don't care about anything except getting closer to her, getting more of her, getting everything she'll give me.
The towel falls.
And there she is.
Bare and beautiful and mine.
I take a moment just to look at her.
To memorize the sight of her naked body in the harsh bathroom light—no shadows to hide in, no darkness to soften the edges.
Just her.
All of her.
The full curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
The thatch of dark blonde curls between her thighs.
The way her chest heaves with each breath, her skin flushed pink with want.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"I'm memorizing." I drag my gaze back up to her face. "I want to remember exactly how you look right now. Before I ruin you."
Her breath catches. "Promise?"
In answer, I drop to my knees.
She gasps as I grip her thighs, spreading them apart, making room for myself between her legs.
Her hands fly to my shoulders, steadying herself as I press my mouth to her inner thigh and bite. "RJ—"
"Shh." I soothe the sting with my tongue, then move higher. "I've been thinking about this since Dublin. About getting my mouth on you. About making you come on my tongue." I look up at her, holding her gaze as I press a kiss to her hip bone. "About hearing you scream my name."
"Then stop talking and—oh."