Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Later that Night
Xavier
I must have dozed off at some point, the exhaustion of the past day finally catching up with me.
I drift in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of muffled voices in the hallway, footsteps passing by the door, the occasional burst of laughter from the main room.
The clubhouse never truly sleeps, I’m realizing, a living, breathing organism with its own rhythms and patterns.
The soft click of the door opening rouses me partially. I keep my eyes closed, lingering in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. The familiar scent of leather and soap tells me who it is before I hear his quiet footsteps approaching the bed.
“X?” Zach’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You awake?”
I don’t respond, too comfortable in this drowsy state to fully surface. The mattress dips as he sits beside me, and I feel the gentle brush of his fingers pushing hair away from my forehead. The tender gesture makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Probably for the best,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. “Been a hell of a day.”
I feel him shift, hear the soft thud of his boots hitting the floor as he removes them. The rustle of leather follows, his cut being laid carefully over a chair. Despite my closed eyes, I can picture his movements precisely, the methodical way he prepares for sleep.
The bed dips again as he stretches out beside me, careful not to disturb me. For several moments, he’s completely still. Then I feel the warmth of his palm settling on my waist, so lightly I might have imagined it if not for the heat that seeps through my t-shirt.
I can’t maintain the pretense any longer. I turn toward him, eyes opening to find his face inches from mine in the dim light filtering through the blinds.
“Hey,” I whisper, voice rough with sleep. “How’d the meeting go?”
His eyes soften at the edges, tension draining from his shoulders. “Long. Complicated. But productive.” His thumb traces idle patterns on my hip. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie, shifting closer until our legs tangle together. The solid warmth of him against me feels right in a way I can’t quite articulate. “I was just resting my eyes.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “Liar.” His hand slides up my side to cup my face, calloused fingers gentle against my skin. “You were out cold. Drooling a little, even.”
“I was not,” I protest, heat rising to my face.
“Were too,” he counters, leaning in to press his lips to my forehead. “It was cute.”
The simple affection in the gesture makes my chest ache. This is a side of Zach I’m still getting used to, the tender, teasing man behind the enforcer’s mask. I reach up, fingers threading through his hair, loosening it from its tie until it falls around his shoulders.
“I like your hair down,” I admit, watching as it spills through my fingers like dark silk.
His eyes darken, pupils expanding in the low light. “I like your hands in it,” he replies, voice dropping to that register that sends heat pooling in my stomach.
The air between us shifts, thickens with intention. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there with unmistakable desire. I’m suddenly, completely awake, every nerve ending alert to his proximity.
“We got interrupted earlier,” I remind him, trailing my fingers down the side of his neck, feeling his pulse jump beneath my touch.
“We did,” he agrees, his hand sliding from my face down to my collarbone, resting at the hollow of my throat where my heartbeat races. “No interruptions now, though.”
I swallow hard, watching his eyes track the movement. “The door locked?”
His smile turns predatory, all heat and promise. “First thing I did when I came in.”
The admission sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine. I lean forward, closing the small distance between us until our lips brush. A question, an invitation. Zach answers immediately, his mouth capturing mine, stealing my breath.
This kiss is different from our previous ones. Deeper, more deliberate. His hand slides to the back of my neck, angling my head to deepen the contact. I part my lips on a gasp, and he takes the invitation, tongue sweeping inside to taste me properly.
My hands clutch at his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his t-shirt. He shifts, moving over me until I’m pressed into the mattress, his weight a delicious pressure that grounds me in the moment.
When we break apart, both breathing harder, his eyes are nearly black with desire. “Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “Any time. Just say the word.”
The consideration in the midst of such obvious want makes my heart swell. “I don’t want to stop,” I assure him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the warm skin beneath. “Not this time.”
Something flares in his eyes, relief, desire, a fierce possessiveness that should frighten me but doesn’t. He sits back just long enough to pull his shirt overhead, tossing it aside before returning to me.
The sight of him, all lean muscle and intricate tattoos in the dim light, makes my mouth go dry. I trace a pattern inked across his chest, following the lines of a stylized bird in flight that spans from shoulder to sternum.
“Phoenix,” he explains, watching my exploration with heated eyes. “For rebirth.”
I lean up to press my lips to the center of the design, feeling his sharp intake of breath at the contact. His skin is warm against my mouth, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my palm.
“Your turn,” his fingers finding the hem of my t-shirt, seeking permission with his eyes.
I nod, lifting my arms to help as he pulls the shirt overhead. The cool air raises goosebumps across my skin, or maybe it’s the way Zach looks at me like I’m something precious and rare, something to be savored.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, hands skimming reverently down my sides, mapping ribs and hip bones with careful attention. Each touch leaves fire in its wake, making me arch into the contact, seeking more.
He lowers his head, lips finding my collarbone, trailing kisses across my chest. When his mouth closes over my nipple, I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there.
He lavishes attention on one side, then the other, alternating between gentle suction and the careful edge of teeth that sends sparks shooting down my spine.
My hips rise involuntarily, seeking friction against the hard length of him pressed against my thigh. He groans at the contact, the sound vibrating against my skin.
“Zach,” I breathe, not entirely sure what I’m asking for, just knowing I need more.
He understands anyway, shifting to align our bodies more fully.
Even through layers of denim, the pressure is exquisite.
A promise of what’s to come. His mouth returns to mine, the kiss deeper now, hungrier.
I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him closer, swallowing his groan as our bodies connect.
His hand slides between us, finding the button of my jeans. He pauses, breaking the kiss to look at me. “Still okay?” he asks, voice strained with the effort of restraint.
“More than okay,” I assure him, lifting my hips in encouragement.
The button gives way under his skilled fingers, followed by the zipper. He hooks his thumbs in my waistband, dragging the denim down my legs with agonizing slowness. I kick them aside, suddenly conscious of being nearly naked while he’s still half dressed.
My eyes trace the lines of his body, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath black boxer briefs that do little to conceal his arousal.
He returns to the bed, hovering over me with his weight braced on his forearms. The careful consideration in the gesture—not crushing me, giving me space—makes something warm bloom in my chest alongside the heat of desire.
“You’re thinking too much,” he says, brushing his nose against mine. “I can practically hear the wheels turning.”
I smile, caught. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me shiver. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”
I trace patterns on his back, feeling his warm skin. “I’m thinking that I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for longer than I’ve been willing to admit, even to myself.”
His eyes soften at the confession. “How long?”
“Since that night at Murphy’s,” I admit. “Maybe before. Maybe always, in some way.”
He lowers his forehead to rest against mine, something vulnerable flickering across his features. “I’ve wanted you since I was seventeen, X. Never stopped.”
The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath. I pull him down for a kiss that’s more emotion than technique, trying to convey with touch what words can’t adequately express. His body settles more fully against mine, skin to skin, heat to heat.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, fingers tracing the edge of my boxers with teasing lightness. “Can I touch you?” he asks, voice rough with desire.
“Please,” I breathe, lifting my hips in invitation.
He slips his hand beneath the fabric, fingers wrapping around me with perfect pressure. I gasp at the contact, head falling back against the pillow as he begins to stroke slow, deliberate movements that have me trembling within moments.
“Look at me,” he commands softly. When I open my eyes, his gaze nearly undoes me. “I want to see you. Want to watch you come apart for me.”
His words send heat flooding through me, pushing me closer to the edge. His rhythm increases, the twist of his wrist on the upstroke making my breath catch. I’m close, so close, but I want more. Want all of him.
“Wait,” I gasp, catching his wrist. My heart pounds against my ribs, body trembling on the edge but wanting, needing, more than this. “Not like this. I want— I need—”