Chapter 6 #2
He opens his mouth to say something else, but then movement catches his eye—RJ coming back through the porch door.
Their eyes meet across the room.
I watch my father's expression harden into something cold and assessing.
The MC president evaluating a threat.
He holds RJ's gaze for a long, weighted moment—a death glare that would make lesser men flinch.
RJ doesn't flinch.
He meets my father's stare head-on, chin lifted, shoulders squared.
Not aggressive, but not backing down either.
The silent standoff stretches for what feels like an eternity.
Then my father nods once—short, sharp, acknowledging—and turns back to me. "Friday dinner. Your mother expects you both."
He's gone before I can respond.
RJ crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside me. "Did your father just invite me to family dinner?"
"I think he did."
"Huh." He considers this. "He also looked like he wanted to gut me."
"But he didn't say anything."
"No. He didn't." RJ's mouth curves slightly. "Progress."
I lean into him, and his arm comes around me automatically. "He knows he can't tell you to leave. You're under orders from the Mackenzies."
"I wouldn't leave even if I wasn't." His fingers trace patterns on my shoulder. "Not unless you told me to go."
We sit like that for a while, comfortable.
But I can feel the tension in him—a coiled energy that wasn't there before.
He's distracted, I realize.
Has been all morning.
"What's wrong?" I ask quietly.
He stiffens. "Nothing."
"RJ."
"Just thinking."
"About?"
A pause. "Security stuff. Nothing you need to worry about."
He's keeping something from me.
I know it, and he knows I know it.
But I also know that pushing him won't get me anywhere—not yet.
So I let it go.
"Any update from Ireland? Have you talked to your father?"
"Not yet. I'll call tomorrow, touch base. See if there's any new intel on the Krajncs."
"Okay." I snuggle deeper into his side. "Okay."
Later, when the sun is setting and the clubhouse is getting loud with evening activity, I find him on the front porch.
He's standing at the railing, staring out at the tree line with that focused intensity that means he's spotted something.
I follow his gaze, scanning the fence, the trees, the road beyond—
And there it is.
A dark sedan, parked on the shoulder, maybe a hundred yards past the main gate.
Tinted windows.
Engine off. Just sitting there.
A chill runs down my spine. "How long has that been there?"
"A few hours." His voice is carefully neutral. "Maybe longer."
"Is it—should we be worried?"
"I told your father. He's aware. The club is handling it."
"That's not an answer."
He turns to face me, and something in his expression makes my chest tight. "I don't want you to worry."
"Too late for that." I step closer, reaching for his hand. "Talk to me. Please."
He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.
"I don't know what's coming," he says finally. "But something is. I can feel it. And I need you to trust me, Dalla. Trust that I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe."
"I do trust you."
"Then let me handle this. Let me be the one who worries about the dark sedan and the threats and all the things that go bump in the night. You focus on your work, on your deadline, on your life." His free hand cups my face. "Let me protect you. It's all I know how to do."
I want to argue.
Want to demand more information, more transparency, more of the burden he's carrying alone.
But I can see how much it costs him to ask—this man who was trained to be a weapon, asking me to let him be my shield.
"Okay," I whisper. "But we're talking about this later. All of it. I don't want secrets between us."
"Later," he agrees. "I promise."
He kisses me then—soft and sweet and full of things neither of us is ready to say.
When we pull apart, the dark sedan is still there, watching.
But somehow, with his hand in mine, it doesn't seem quite as terrifying.
"Come on," I say, tugging him toward the door. "Let's go downstairs."
The basement is cool and quiet, a sanctuary from the noise above.
I don't turn on the lights.
The last of the sunset filters through the window well, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow.
RJ follows me to the bedroom, and when I turn to face him, his expression makes my breath catch.
Hunger. Want. Need.
But also hesitation, like he's waiting for permission.
I give it to him by grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss.
He responds instantly, his hands finding my waist, my hips, pulling me flush against him.
But when he tries to deepen the kiss, to take control like he always does, I push him back.
"Not this time," I say against his lips. "This time, I'm in charge."
His pupils blow wide. "Dalla—"
"Do you trust me?"
The same question he asked me on the porch.
His answer is immediate. "Yes."
"Then sit the fuck down."
I push him toward the bed.
He goes, settling on the edge of the mattress, looking up at me with an expression that's equal parts anticipation and wariness.
"Hands on the bed," I instruct. "You don't touch me until I say you can."
His jaw flexes.
I can see the struggle in him—the instinct to take over, to control, warring with his promise to trust me.
But he plants his palms on the mattress and holds still.
"Good." I pull my sweater over my head, tossing it aside.
His eyes track the movement hungrily. "You've been in charge every time we've done this. You've made me scream, made me beg, made me fall apart in your hands."
I reach back and unhook my bra, letting it fall. His breath catches.
"Now it's my turn."
I take my time with the rest—sliding out of my leggings, my underwear, letting him look his fill.
By the time I'm naked, he's practically vibrating with the effort of staying still.
"You're beautiful," he rasps. "So fecking beautiful."
"I know." I step between his spread thighs, running my fingers through his hair. "Take off your shirt."
He obeys, yanking it over his head with more force than necessary.
I push him back until he's lying flat, then climb onto the bed, straddling his hips.
"Dalla—"
"Shh." I lean down and kiss him, slow and deep, grinding against the hard length of him through his jeans.
He groans into my mouth, his hands fisting in the sheets. "I want to try something. Tell me if it's too much."
"Anything. Whatever you want."
I work my way down his body, pressing kisses to his chest, his stomach, the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.
I trace the ridges of his abs with my tongue, feel the muscles jump and clench beneath my mouth.
When I reach his jeans, I take my time with the button and zipper, enjoying the way he squirms.
"Lift your hips."
He does, and I drag his jeans and boxers down together, freeing him.
He's hard and flushed and leaking at the tip, and the sight of him makes my mouth water.
I've seen him before, touched him, had him inside me—but there's something different about this.
About having him laid out beneath me, waiting, wanting, completely at my mercy.
"I've been thinking about this," I murmur, wrapping my hand around him, stroking slowly from root to tip. "About tasting you. About making you lose control the way you make me lose control."
"Dalla—fuck—"
I take him into my mouth.
He makes a sound like I've punched him, his hips jerking involuntarily before he forces himself still.
I work him slowly, taking him deeper with each pass, learning what makes him gasp and groan.
A swirl of my tongue around the head makes his thighs tremble.
A firm suck makes him curse in Gaelic.
When I hollow my cheeks and take him to the back of my throat, his hands fly off the mattress and fist in my hair before he catches himself and forces them back down.
"Sorry—feck—sorry—"
"It's okay," I pull off long enough to say. "You can touch my hair. Just my hair."
His fingers thread through my strands immediately, not pushing or guiding, just holding.
Grounding himself as I take him apart with my mouth.
"So good," he groans. "Your mouth is so fecking good, Dalla. I'm not going to last—"
I pull back, and the look of desperate relief on his face almost makes me laugh.
His cock twitches against his stomach, slick with my saliva, angry red and desperate for release.
"Not yet," I tell him, climbing up his body until I'm straddling his hips. "I'm not done with you."
I position myself over him, letting just the tip nudge at my entrance.
His hands grip my hips, trembling with restraint. "Please," he breathes. "Dalla, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please let me inside you. I need—I need to feel you—"
I sink down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.
We both moan at the sensation—him filling me completely, stretching me in that way that borders between pleasure and pain.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Just feeling. Just being.
Connected in the most intimate way two people can be.
Then I start to rock.
Slow. Deliberate.
Setting a pace that's designed to drive us both crazy.
I circle my hips, finding the angle that makes sparks shoot up my spine, and his grip on me tightens.
"Feck, you feel incredible," he grits out. "So tight. So wet. Taking me so well."
"You feel good too." I brace my hands on his chest, changing the angle, taking him deeper. "So deep like this. I can feel you everywhere."
His hands slide up my body—my waist, my ribs, my breasts.
He cups them, thumbs teasing my nipples into stiff peaks, and the added sensation makes me clench around him.
"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you need. Use me. I'm yours."
The words send a thrill through me.
I ride him harder, faster, chasing the building pleasure.
His thumb finds my clit, circling with just the right pressure, and I cry out.
"That's it, love. Come for me. Let me feel you."
"RJ—" His name is a gasp, a prayer, a plea. "I'm close—I'm so close—"
"I know. I can feel it. You're squeezing me so tight." He presses harder on my clit, rubbing in tight circles. "Come, Dalla. Come on my cock. I want to feel you shatter."
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me like lightning, white-hot and blinding.
I hear myself scream—actually scream—as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
Through the haze, I feel him thrust up into me once, twice, and then he's coming too, groaning my name as he spills inside me.
For a long moment, we just breathe together.
I collapse onto his chest, boneless and trembling, and his arms wrap around me like he'll never let go.
After, we lie tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.
"That was..." he starts.
"Yeah."
"You're going to kill me."
"But what a way to go."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest.
I feel it against my cheek and smile.
The room is dark now, the last of the light faded.
But I don't want to move, don't want to break this bubble of peace we've found.
"Can I tell you something?" I ask quietly.
"Anything."
I take a breath. "I was supposed to be a doctor."
His hand stills on my back. "What?"
"Med school. I did two years before I dropped out." I trace a scar on his chest, not quite meeting his eyes. "Everyone expected it—the club, my parents, everyone. The MC princess becomes the MC doctor, patches up bullet wounds, saves lives. It was supposed to be my purpose."
"What happened?"
"I hated it." The admission still feels like a betrayal, even after all these years. "Not the medicine—I was good at that. But the expectation. The assumption that my life belonged to the club before it belonged to me. That my path was already decided, and I was just... walking it."
RJ is quiet, listening.
"Fashion was the one thing that was mine," I continue. "The one thing nobody chose for me. So I dropped out, moved to Tallahassee, and started from nothing. And I've spent five years feeling guilty about it, wondering if I made a mistake, wondering if I let everyone down."
"You didn't."
I look up at him.
His gray eyes are soft in the darkness, full of understanding.
"You didn't let anyone down," he says. "You chose yourself. That's not selfish." His hand cups my face. "The people who love you? They want you to be happy. And if fashion makes you happy, then that's exactly where you're supposed to be."
I don't realize I'm crying until he brushes the tears from my cheeks.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For understanding. For not making me feel like I have to justify my choices."
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You never have to justify anything to me, Dalla. I just want you to be you. Whoever that is."
I burrow into him, feeling something in my chest crack open.
This man—this complicated, dangerous, unexpectedly tender man—sees me in a way no one else ever has.
And I'm starting to think I might be able to fall in love with him… but he’s only here for a while.
Only here to watch me, because he’s assigned to me.
But, I don’t want to think about any of that.
Outside, somewhere past the gates, a dark sedan waits in the shadows.
But in here, in his arms, I'm safe.