Chapter 2 #3
“The bar,” he says, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest through my t-shirt. “Every time you came in after a shift, exhausted but perfect, I’d sit in the corner, nursing one drink all night, just to be in the same room.”
I draw him down for another kiss, slower this time, deeper, an exploration rather than a claim.
His weight settles more fully against me, the solid warmth of him grounding me as our tongues slide together.
When we break apart, my lips feel swollen, my body humming with a need I’ve never experienced before.
“I thought about approaching you so many times,” I confess, running my fingers through his hair. “But you always seemed… untouchable. Dangerous.”
Regret flickers across his face, his brow furrowing slightly. “I am dangerous, X. My life isn’t safe. The club, the things I’ve done…” His hand stills on my chest, directly over my heart. “You should know what you’re getting into.”
I cover his hand with mine, pressing it firmly against my heart so he can feel its steady beat. “I’m not naive. I’ve lived here my whole life. I know about the Devil Souls. I grew up here at the clubhouse with my uncle. Not as much as an MC kid, but I was here.”
“Knowing and being involved are different things,” he says, his expression serious. “People I care about become targets.”
“Is that why you kept your distance?” I ask softly, the pieces finally clicking into place. “To protect me?”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “Partly. And partly because I didn’t think someone like you would want someone like me once you knew the truth.”
The vulnerability in his admission makes my chest ache. I cup his face between my hands, making sure he can’t look away. “I’ve wanted you since I was seventeen,” I say firmly. “Nothing you tell me will change that.”
A fierce, possessive glint lights his eyes. He dips his head, capturing my mouth in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. I arch into it, my need answering his with equal intensity, my hands sliding beneath his shirt to feel the warm skin of his back.
His hand slips under my t-shirt, palm flat against my stomach, exploring with a reverence that makes my breath catch. His fingers trace the ridges of my ribs, the dip of my navel, learning every contour as if he’s mapping territory he plans to claim thoroughly.
“I’ve imagined this,” he says against my throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin. “Hearing the sounds you’d make.” His thumb brushes across my nipple, drawing a soft gasp from me that seems to please him.
My own hands become bolder, slipping farther beneath his Henley to feel the warmth of his skin, and I come across the faint ridge of what feels like a scar running along his side. When my fingers reach his waistband, he catches my wrist in a gentle but firm grip.
“Not tonight,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “Not like this.”
I blink up at him, need and confusion warring in my mind. “Why not?”
He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. “I’ve waited seven years for you,” he explains, his eyes soft with something that makes my heart stutter. “And when it finally happens, I don’t want it rushed on a couch after burgers. You deserve better.”
His words kindle a deeper fire in my chest. Respect, consideration, the promise of something lasting beyond just physical release. This isn’t just about sex for him. It’s about us.
“Okay,” I agree softly, tracing the line of his jaw. “But you don’t have to stop touching me.”
A slow smile transforms his face, softening the hard edges and making him look younger, almost boyish. “Didn’t plan to,” he says, his hand resuming its exploration beneath my shirt. “Just setting boundaries.”
His hands continue their gentle exploration, trailing heat across my skin with each touch. The world outside ceases to exist. There is only this moment, this man, and the delicious weight of his body pressing me into the couch.
“Tell me what you like.” His breath is warm against my ear.
My mind goes blank. No one has ever asked me that before. My previous encounters had been hurried, clinical almost, the result of too many hours at the hospital and too little time for actual relationships.
“I’m not sure I know,” I admit, feeling heat rise to my cheeks that has nothing to do with arousal.
He pulls back slightly, studying my expression with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. There is no judgment in his dark eyes, only curiosity and something warmer.
“Then we’ll figure it out together,” he says, his voice a low rumble I feel vibrate through my chest. “No rush.”
The promise in those words, of time, of patience, of discovery, makes something loosen in my chest. I reach up, threading my fingers through his dark hair and drawing him down for another kiss. This one is slower, deeper, an exploration rather than a claiming.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing harder, I find myself smiling. “I think I’d like that,” I whisper.
His grin is devastating, all white teeth and crinkled eyes transforming his usually serious face into something younger, lighter. “Noted,” he says.
We stay like that, trading kisses and touches that grow increasingly bold but never crossing the line he’s drawn. I lose track of time, my world narrowing to the points where our bodies connect, to the taste of his mouth, to the small sounds of pleasure that escape us both.
Eventually he shifts, rolling us so I lie half on top of him, my head resting on his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my ear, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my back.
“You’re thinking too loud.” His voice is a pleasant rumble against my cheek.
“Just wondering how we got here,” I admit. “After all this time.”
His hand pauses briefly before resuming its path up and down my spine. “I got tired of watching from a distance. Seeing you in that parking lot, standing up for yourself… something snapped.”
I prop my chin on his chest, looking up at him. “I’m glad it did.”
A shadow passes over his features and is gone so quickly I almost miss it. “My life is complicated, X. The club, the things I do…”
“I know,” I interrupt, not wanting to lose the warmth of this moment to fears and warnings. “And we’ll talk about all of that. But right now…” I press a kiss to his sternum, feeling the sharp intake of breath beneath my lips. “Right now, can we just have this?”
The tension in his body eases. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers gentle against my scalp. “Yeah,” he agrees softly. “We can have this.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, the only sounds our breathing and the distant hum of the traffic outside. I feel myself beginning to drift, the exhaustion of my shift and the warmth of his body lulling me toward sleep.
“I should go,” he ventures eventually, though he makes no move to disentangle himself.
“Or you could stay,” I suggest, words tumbling out before I can second-guess them. I push myself up to look at him properly. “Just to sleep,” I clarify. “I’m too comfortable to move, and you must be tired too.”
Something flickers in his eyes, surprise followed by a warmth that make my chest tighten. “You sure?”
I nod. “My bed’s more comfortable than this couch, though. And big enough for two.”
He studies me for a long moment, as if searching for any hesitation. Finding none, he nods. “All right.”
We untangle ourselves reluctantly. I lead the way to my bedroom, suddenly conscious of the unmade bed, the scrubs tossed over a chair, the stack of medical journals on the nightstand.
“Sorry for the mess,” I say, hastily straightening the duvet.
His hand on my wrist stops me. “X. It’s fine.” His voice is gentle, amused. “I’m not here to judge your housekeeping.”
I relax, feeling foolish for my sudden self-consciousness. “Right. Um, bathroom’s through there, if you need it. I have spare toothbrushes in the cabinet.”
His thumb traces small circles on the inside of my wrist, the simple touch sending shivers up my arm. “Thank you.”
We take turns in the bathroom, the domesticity of it both strange and oddly right. When I emerge in sleep pants and a worn t-shirt, I find him sitting on the edge of the bed, stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, hair loose around his shoulders.
My mouth goes dry. Even partially clothed, he is breathtaking. All lean muscle and tattooed skin. The bedside lamp casts shadows that emphasize the strong line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders.
“Which side do you prefer?” he asks, breaking me from my trance.
“Uh, left,” I manage, gesturing vaguely. “I usually sleep on the left.”
He nods, sliding to the right side of the bed. He moves with a fluid grace that belies his size, settling against the pillows like he belongs there. I switch off the main light, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp, before climbing in beside him.
We lay there for a moment, a careful few inches separating us, the air charged with awareness. Then he turns on his side, facing me, expression soft in the dim light.
“Come here,” he says quietly, lifting his arm in invitation.
I move into the space, fitting myself against his side, head resting on his shoulder. His arm comes around me, warm and secure, his hand settling on my waist.
“This okay?” he asks, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.
“More than okay,” I allow myself to relax into the embrace. The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear is soothing, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the air-conditioned room.
He reaches over to switch off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. In the shadows, with only the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, it is easier to be honest.
“I’ve never had this,” I admit softly. “Someone staying the night. Just to sleep.”
His arm tightens slightly around me. “Never?”
“No.” My fingers trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “My shifts are crazy. Most guys don’t understand why I can’t text back for twelve hours or why I cancel plans at the last minute when there’s a trauma.”
He is quiet for a moment, his hand a comforting weight on my side. “I’m not most guys,” he finally replies, simple words weighted with promise. “Plus, I want to kill anyone that you’ve dated.” He says it so casually that I bust out laughing loudly.
He joins me, holding me tighter. I could get used to this.
“No,” I agree to his first statement, smiling against his shoulder. “You’re definitely not.”
The events of the day, the long shift, the emotional revelations, the physical intimacy, begin to catch up with me. My eyelids grow heavy, my thoughts blurring at the edges.
“Sleep,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It is that promise, more than anything, that allows me to finally let go, drifting into the deepest, most peaceful sleep I’ve had in years.