Chapter Thirteen
Thorne
The ride back is a blur of wind and want.
She leans against me, all soft curves and quiet strength, and every bump in the road just drives her closer. I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care. But I do. I feel every breath she takes. Every time she shifts, the scent of her hair slips under my helmet and into my bloodstream.
By the time we reach the garage, my pulse is a live wire.
The engine dies, leaving only the crackle of cooling metal and the feeling of Ivy pressed against me.
I don’t move. I need a second—just one—to get my body back under control and my head to stop replaying everything I said over lunch.
She is too easy to talk to, too easy to make me believe in impossible things like trust and belonging.
Ivy’s arms slip from around my waist as she dismounts. She leans against my Arch motorcycle parked next to us, removing her helmet and shaking out her hair. Why is that simple move so sexy?
“That was exhilarating,” she says, sounding slightly breathless.
“The bike or the company?”
“Maybe both,” she replies, her eyes holding mine with a challenging look that’s half dare, half invitation that sends heat straight through me.
I should keep my distance and maintain boundaries, but instead, I step closer.
Taking her helmet, I hang it and mine on the handlebars of the motorcycle behind her.
We are inches apart, close enough that her warmth radiates from her skin, calling to me.
I can see the rapid pulse at her throat, smell the intoxicating mix of leather and her perfume or shampoo of wildflowers.
My body responds, every nerve ending alive and aware of exactly how close she is.
“I’m certain I could lose myself in both,” I tell her.
She doesn’t retreat. “That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ve never been afraid of danger.”
The air between us tightens, turns electric. My fingers brush the edge of her jaw. Then her mouth is on mine. And everything I’ve been holding back snaps.
It’s a collision, not a kiss. A claiming. She tastes like the ride—wind and heat and something I could get addicted to. Her back hits one of the bikes, and helmets clatter to the floor. I’m lost. My hands find her hips, her shirt, her skin. She gasps, pulls me closer.
A voice in the back of my mind that sounds too much like my father’s whispers that taking what you want without considering consequences is what Blackstone men do. I push it away when she tugs at my jacket, removing it.
For a heartbeat, there’s no past, no family, no Madison, there is only the sound of her and the feel of us. Her hand is on the zipper of my jeans, pulling it down and I’m removing her jacket, sliding a palm under her T-shirt.
Behind us, there is a crash, like a door being slammed. The sound yanks us apart and into reality.
I expect to see Lillianna. Or my brother. What I see is Chase, the orange tabby with the crooked tail. He’d knocked over a stack of paint cans in the corner of the garage, and the little troublemaker is walking in the mess.
I holler his name and clap my hands once. He darts out of the garage, leaving a trail of maroon paw prints on the pavement.
She pushes her hair back, flushed and breathing hard. “That was a sign.” Her gaze tracks the trail of paint. “The universe hitting pause before we make things more complicated.”
“Looks more like a mess to me,” I joke.
She laughs, but there’s tension in it. “So is what we were about to do.”
“True,” I say, though my body disagrees. I run my mouth along her neck, unable to stop myself. “Do you want me to stop? To step away?”
“No.”
Thank fuck. I bite her ear gently, and love the shudder that runs through her. But then she pushes at my shoulder. “But we have to.”
I could convince her otherwise. It wouldn’t take much; desire is written all over her face. And while I’m not a saint, I’m not a deviant. I step back. “Okay.”
She grabs her jacket. “I should go.”
And she does. Her footsteps cross the garage floor, and I watch her go because I'm not going to beg. The door clicks silently shut behind her. I stand there, jeans still open, body still wanting, with nothing left to fight against but myself.
I fall back against the bike and close my eyes, imagining what would have happened if she’d stayed.
Her nimble fingers would be sliding down my zipper.
My hand moves past the belt she’d undone and into my open jeans.
I take myself in hand, groaning as I picture her stroking me, kissing along my neck, working her way down.
“Ivy,” I moan.
A gasp cuts through the silent garage. My eyes fly open to find her standing in the doorway.
Her pupils dilate, her breath catches visibly in her throat, and a flush spreads across her cheeks.
She doesn’t look away. Instead, her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip as her gaze locks on my hand, my movements.
The hunger in her expression is unmistakable, primal, and matched only by the way her shoulders soften, her stance opens—a silent, physical surrender that speaks louder than any words.
She crosses the space between us before I can speak.
In front of me, she drops to her knees and takes me in her mouth.
And fuck, the sensation is overwhelming, better than any fantasy.
She strokes me once before guiding me past her lips, watching my reaction as she pushes herself to take more.
The heat in her eyes and her perfect rhythm is damn near enough to make my knees buckle.
My hands tangle in her hair as she drives me to the edge far too quickly.
“You have to stop. I’m going to come,” I warn.
She ignores me and, fuck, sucks harder. My balls tighten as my orgasm races up my spine and into her throat. I grate out her name, nearly shouting, and she doesn’t stop until I’m drained.
But I’m not done. I need more of her.
I slide my jeans up over my hips, leaving the button and belt untouched. Lifting her into my arms, I carry her through the loggia. She wraps her legs around my waist, lips never leaving mine as I navigate down the hall.
“Where are we going?” she murmurs against my neck.
“Somewhere private.”
The closest room is the library. I push open the heavy wooden door with my shoulder. The room is dim, evening light filtering through the tall windows. The papers earlier are spread across the antique table. They’re evidence of the family problems I’m supposed to be fixing, not complicating.
Most of them scatter to the floor as I lay Ivy on the table. I don’t care, I’m too busy working toward my own disaster. Ledgers and business projections give way to something far more urgent, far more real.
Stripping off her boots, jeans, and panties, I sit in the closet chair in front of her. “Put your legs on my shoulders,” I command.
A visible shiver moves through her as she complies, her thighs trembling slightly as she drapes them over me.
She's bare and open and watching me with those dark eyes, chest rising and falling fast. I don't rush.
I let the anticipation build for both of us.
Then my hands slide slowly up the outside of her thighs, thumbs tracing the crease where leg meets hip until she makes a soft, impatient sound.
I lower my mouth to her.
That first taste undoes me. Sweet and warm and unmistakably her, and I go still for just a second, just breathing her in, before need takes over entirely.
A broken sound tears from her throat, her hips rolling toward me like her body already knows what her mind is still catching up to. Her fingers dig into my hair..
I devour her like the starving man I am. Her taste is an addiction I’ve been fighting since the train, and now that I’ve surrendered, I can’t get enough. I memorize every cry, every shudder, and map every inch of her with my tongue until she comes apart, trembling and crying out my name.
When she recovers, I straighten up. “I want to fuck you.”
My pulse thunders in my ears. The rational part of my brain that’s kept Ivy at a careful distance since she moved into my home grows quieter with every second her scent fills my lungs.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for her.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted anything this badly.
There’s only her skin under my fingers, her eyes holding mine, and this hunger crowding out everything else.
“Then do it,” she pants. “Now.”
Shoving my jeans and boxer-briefs past my hips, I freeze at her entrance, fighting for control. "This—" I rock against her, making us both gasp, "is reckless.”
Her hand slides up to cup my jaw hard. "I know."
"And I'm doing it anyway." I hold her gaze. "I should walk away. Lock myself in my room."
"But you won't," she whispers, and it's not a question.
"No." The admission costs me. "I won't."
Then reality intrudes in the form of protection. “I don’t have a condom.”
“None? Not even in your bedroom?”
“This is my first time back home in over a year, and last time I was home, I didn’t bring anyone here.” I rock against her slick heat, nearly losing my mind with want. “Do you? We could go to your room.”
“No. We used all the ones I had on the train.”
“Didn’t get any for your friend?”
“Jealous of him?” she fires back.
“Yes,” I admit. My gaze is glued to where I’m pressed against her, not quite entering, but so fucking close.
“The only person I’ve been with since my last doctor’s test, which was clear, was you.” She tips her hips, and the head of my cock dips inside her. “I have an IUD.”
My attention snaps to her face. “You want to go bare?”
“Depends. Have you…”
“I’ve had a check-up. I’m good. The only person I’ve been with since then is you. But…”
I’ve never not used a condom. The last thing I want is to be some woman’s meal ticket. But for some reason, I trust her—at least with this.
She scoots onto her elbows, away from me. “We don’t have to. We can stop.”
I grab her hips, lining her back up with me. “I’m going to pull out,” I blurt. Trust is one thing, but no kid needs me as a father.
“That’s fine.” She smirks. “As long as you make me come before you do.”
“I’m no gentleman, but I’m not a fool.” I push into her roughly, nearly losing myself in her tight heat, surrounding me with no barrier between us.
I drive into her harder at her demand, one hand working her clit to ensure she comes again before I do. “Keep going,” she gasps, fingernails digging into my shoulders. “Right there.”
She climaxes, her walls tightening around me, pulling mine from me. I pull out just in time, groaning her name as I stroke myself to finish. The sight of my release on her drawing it out, burning something into my chest I have no business feeling.
My heart is still slamming when the impulse hits — wrap her up, carry her to my bed, keep her there until morning.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Removing my T-shirt, I clean her up. Then help her sit up. A tectonic plate shifts inside me, moving where nothing should be able to move. I’m unsettled, unmoored, as if the ground beneath my feet has suddenly become uncertain.
She stands, looks around, then picks up her jeans. My gaze falls on papers my father signed that might ruin us. All in the name of quick profit and greed. And here I am, his son, losing control because I wanted something and took it. Like father, like son.
“Well, that was…” she starts, putting on her clothes.
“A one-time thing,” I finish, though my body protests the words. “It can’t happen again.”
The words burn like cheap bourbon, but they’re necessary. I can’t be my father—reckless and selfish. This would complicate the distillery situation, confirm Sebastian’s worst opinions of me, and when I leave for Quebec… No. Better to end it before anyone gets hurt.
A shadow passes behind her eyes, too brief to identify. “You’re right,” she agrees. Looking at her hands, she sighs, then looks at me. “But I don't regret it.”
“Neither do I.” But I do. Because now that I’ve had another taste, I’m addicted.
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Goodnight, Thorne.”
“Goodnight, Ivy.”
She leaves, and I resist the urge to follow. I told her it was a mistake that couldn't happen again. I meant it.
But as I gather the scattered papers from the floor, her scent clings to my fingers. I pause, bringing them to my face, inhaling deeply. The train was supposed to be a one-time thing too. Yet here we are. And two tastes aren’t enough. They’ve made the hunger worse.
These last three years, I’ve tried to outrun my father’s shadow. But maybe that’s impossible. Maybe this hunger, this recklessness, is carved into my bones. Maybe I’m destined to destroy everything I touch.
Tomorrow, I’ll see her at the pool or across the conference table, composed and professional. And beneath every polite word and business discussion, I’ll hear the echoes of her coming apart in my hands. How she tastes. How she sounds when she calls my name.
Which means I need to rebuild the walls between us. Higher. Stronger. No more motorcycle rides. No morning swims. No more moments where I forget why keeping my distance matters.
But I’ve never backed down from a challenge in my life. And this is not going to be the battle I lose.