Chapter 5 #2
He turns, and suddenly I'm pressed against the workbench, his hands on either side of me, caging me in.
He's so much bigger than me—taller by several inches, broader, more solid.
I should feel trapped. Cornered. My instincts should be screaming at me to get away from this apex predator who has me pinned.
Instead I feel held. Safe. Like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"This what you came for?"
"I came to see your garage."
"Bullshit." His mouth is so close I can feel his breath, warm against my lips. "You came because you want this as much as I do."
"What's 'this'?"
Instead of answering, he kisses me.
It's nothing like I imagined. All those nights lying in bed, thinking about him, I pictured him rough and demanding. Taking what he wants without asking. Controlled violence finally let loose.
But this kiss is careful, controlled, almost tentative. His lips brush mine softly, testing. Asking. Like he's afraid I'll run if he moves too fast. Like he's giving me a chance to stop this before it starts.
Like he cares whether I want this, not just whether I'll let him have it.
I don't want to stop.
I'm the one who deepens it, opening for him, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt. He makes a sound that's almost surprised—a low grunt of shock—and then his control snaps.
Then it's everything I imagined.
His hands are in my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper. His tongue is in my mouth, tasting me, claiming me. His body is pressing me hard against the workbench, and I can feel how hard he is against my hip, how much he wants this.
I grind against him just to hear him groan.
"Fuck," he mutters against my mouth. "Knew you'd be like this."
"Like what?"
"Perfect." Another kiss, bruising. "Responsive." His hand slides down my back, grabs my ass, pulls me tighter against him. "So fucking eager for it."
He spins me around before I can respond, pressing my chest to the workbench, his body covering mine from behind.
The metal edge digs into my hips but I don't care—all I can feel is him, the heat of his body, the weight of him pressing me down.
I can feel him hard against my ass and I push back instinctively, needing more, needing friction, needing—
"Want you," I gasp. "Ash, please—"
His hand slides around to palm me through my jeans and I nearly come just from that, just from the pressure of his hand and the heat of his body and the way he's breathing ragged against my neck.
"Going to fuck you right here," he says, low and rough. "Against this bench. Then again in my bed. Then maybe against the wall if you're still conscious."
"Yes, god, yes—"
But then my brain catches up.
Robin's words echo in my head, cutting through the haze of want.
He warned me about this. I know what he meant.
I know that if I let this happen, if I let Ash fuck me right here in this garage, I'll fall completely.
I'll be ruined for anyone else. And when he walks away—because he will, because that's what Robin says he does—I'll have nothing but memories and a hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
My lion is screaming at me to shut up, to take what's being offered, to deal with the consequences later. But the human part of me—the part that's been hurt before, that knows how this ends—that part speaks up.
"Wait."
He freezes instantly. Pulls his hand back, puts space between us, gives me room to breathe. No hesitation, no pushback, no trying to talk me back into it.
"You okay? Too fast?"
"No, I—" I turn in his arms to face him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and he's breathing hard. He looks wrecked, and we've barely started. "What are we doing?"
"Thought it was obvious." His voice is rough. "I'm about to fuck you on this bench."
"And then?"
His expression closes off. The heat is still there, but wariness is creeping in. "Then what?"
"Then what, Ash? After you fuck me. Tomorrow. Next week." I can hear my voice shaking but I can't stop it. "What are we doing?"
"Jason—"
"Do you want to date me? Do you want more than just sex?"
He's still got his hands on my hips, his body still close to mine, but he's gone completely still. The heat between us is still there, crackling like a live wire, but there's something else now too. Something that feels like fear.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Maybe you should go."
My heart cracks. Actually cracks—I swear I feel it split right down the middle.
"Because you don't want more than sex?"
He pulls back to look at me, and his expression is raw. Vulnerable in a way I've never seen from him. This isn't the Ash who walked into the bar on Sunday, all controlled danger and easy confidence. This is someone else. Someone who doesn't know what to do with the question I just asked.
"Because I don't have an answer for you," he says. "Not beyond what we both want right this moment."
"You don't know if you want to date me?"
"I don't know if I know how to date you. Or anyone." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I don't do relationships, Jason. I do missions. Objectives. Short-term goals with clear endpoints. I don't know how to want someone beyond right now."
"But you do want me right now."
"So fucking much it hurts."
The words hang between us, honest and brutal. He wants me. He's not pretending otherwise. Not playing games, not stringing me along, not making promises he can't keep. He's telling me the truth: he wants me, but he doesn't know how to keep me.
But wanting isn't the same as keeping, and I need to be kept.
"I can't," I whisper. "I can't do just tonight. I'm not built for it."
"I know." He steps back, giving me more space. His hands drop to his sides, empty. "I know you're not."
"Robin warned me. He said you'd want me, but wanting and keeping are different things." I'm rambling now, trying to fill the silence with words because the silence is too heavy.
"Robin's usually right about me."
"Is he right about this?"
Ash doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those hazel eyes, and I see something there that might be regret. Or frustration that he's not getting what he wants. I can't tell. I don't know him well enough yet to read him, and maybe I never will.
My hands shake as I fix my clothes. Straighten my shirt. Try to make myself look like I wasn't just being devoured against a workbench.
"I should go."
"Yeah."
But neither of us moves. We just stand there, both breathing hard, the space between us charged with everything we're not doing. His hands are clenched at his sides. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it.
"Ash—"
"Go, Jason." His voice is rough. "Please. Before I do something we'll both regret."
I go.
Walk out of his perfect garage, past his three beautiful bikes, through his empty house that doesn't feel like a home. Get on my bike with numb fingers. Start the engine.
I don't look back as I drive away.
---
I make it back to the bar somehow. Park my bike. Walk through the main room on autopilot, barely registering who's there or what they're doing.
Robin and Toby are on the couch watching something with Knox. Vaughn's behind the bar, polishing glasses he's probably polished three times already. They all look up when I come in, and I see them register my expression, my posture, the way I'm holding myself together by sheer force of will.
"Jason?" Robin calls, sitting up.
I wave vaguely. Can't manage words. Head straight for the stairs.
"Jason, wait—"
I don't stop. Can't stop. If I stop, I'll break down right here in front of everyone, and I can't do that. I still have some pride left. Some small scrap of dignity that I'm clinging to with everything I have.
My room is small. Just enough space for a bed and a dresser and the shelf where I keep my cookbooks. I close the door behind me, strip off my clothes that still smell like him, and get in the shower.
The water is too hot, almost scalding, but I don't adjust it. I stand under the spray and try to wash the feel of him off my skin. His hands on my hips. His mouth on mine. His body pressed against my back, so close I could feel every inch of him.
It doesn't work. I can still taste him, still feel him, still hear him saying he wants me so much it hurts.
Just not enough to keep me.
I get out, dry off, pull on sweats. Through the thin walls, I can hear the others talking downstairs. Can't make out words, but I know they're probably discussing what's wrong with me. What happened. Whether someone should come up and check.
Robin knows. He warned me this would happen.
My phone buzzes. Vaughn: You okay?
Fine. Tired.
Need food?
No.
He doesn't push. That's the thing about pack—they know when to let you lick your wounds in private. They'll be there when I'm ready to talk, but they won't force it.
I curl up in my too-small bed, in my too-small room, and try not to think about Ash's perfect garage and his strong hands and the way he said my name like it meant something.
But not enough. Never enough.
I'm not enough to keep. I never am. The guys I date get bored, move on, find someone more interesting.
My last boyfriend told me I was "too much" when he dumped me—too clingy, too needy, too eager to please.
Like wanting to be with someone was a character flaw.
The one before that said I was too domestic, like wanting to cook for someone was pathetic instead of loving.
And now Ash. Who wants me, but not enough to try. Not enough to figure out how to be something more than a one-night stand.
I close my eyes and let myself feel it. All of it. The wanting and the rejection and the ache that's going to be there for a while.
Tomorrow I'll be fine. Tomorrow I'll put on a smile and cook breakfast for the pack and pretend like nothing happened.
But tonight, I don't have to pretend.