Chapter 17 Darla #2
I stared at my knees, knuckles white where I gripped the helmet. “You ever think it’s easier to be who they say you are? Instead of fighting it every single day?”
He shrugged, the motion almost invisible in the dark. “I’ve been both. One’s a cage, the other’s a war zone. Pick your poison.”
I let out a half-laugh, then pulled my knees tighter to my chest. “I used to think if I prayed hard enough, the truth would change. That if I just… tried more, tried harder, the world would become the place my father promised it was.”
Axel didn’t answer. He just smoked, the ember burning a line in the night.
“I saw the pictures,” I said, forcing the words out. “What he’s doing—the guns, the kids in those containers—that’s not God’s work. That’s just evil in a better suit.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“I want to be angry,” I admitted. “But mostly I just feel sick. And stupid. Like I should’ve known all along.”
He flicked the cigarette butt over the cliff, then pushed off the bike and dropped beside me, the gravel crunching under his boots. He didn’t say anything, just sat shoulder to shoulder with me, the heat of him bleeding through the denim and leather.
“Tell me something true,” I said, desperate for anything but my own voice in my head.
He rubbed the scar on his jaw, like he always did when he was gearing up for honesty. “I used to be somebody else,” he said. “Back before the club, before all this. My name wasn’t Axel. It was Alfred. Alfred fucking Martin.” He spat the name out like it burned his tongue.
I turned to him, blinking. “Alfred?”
He grinned, teeth flashing in the dark. “Yeah, go ahead and laugh. It’s as pathetic as it sounds.”
I didn’t laugh. I just waited.
He looked away, up at the stars. “You deserve the truth. Even if it sucks.”
We sat in silence, the city buzzing below us like a hive of angry bees. I tried to picture him as Alfred, tried to imagine him small and scared and unloved. I couldn’t. The man beside me was so solid, so utterly himself, that the idea of him as a broken kid made my chest ache.
I shivered, partly from the cold, partly from the weight of it all. He noticed. Of course he did.
“Come here,” he said, opening his arm.
I slid against him, letting his warmth soak through.
He pulled me in, pressing my head to his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady under the fabric.
We fit together awkwardly at first—elbows and knees and two people not used to being held—but after a minute, it felt right.
He wrapped both arms around me and squeezed, not gentle but not crushing either.
“Is this okay?” he asked, voice barely above the wind.
I nodded, face pressed to his shirt. “Yeah. More than okay.”
“You’re safe, babe. I’ll kill the next man who puts his hands on you, including your father.”
We stayed that way for a while, the silence broken only by our breathing and the occasional coyote howl from the woods behind us. I tried to memorize the way his arms felt, the scent of smoke and leather, and something warm underneath.
I don’t know if it was the city lights, the hangover of adrenaline, or the way Axel’s body pressed against mine, but every nerve in me was raw and sparking.
When he pulled me closer, I could taste the salt of his skin and the warmth of his neck, and I wanted more—way more than comfort.
Maybe he felt it too, because he didn’t hesitate, just kissed me with a hunger that made my insides riot.
His lips were rough and chapped, but his tongue was soft, and he slid it past my teeth with a confidence that made me whimper. I grabbed his face in both hands, pulling him down to me, and the helmet tumbled off the rock and rolled into the weeds. I barely registered it.
He kept one arm around my waist, the other hand sliding under my shirt, palm splaying out over my back like he could hold me together by force alone.
His thumb traced my spine, slow and deliberate, then curled up to hook under my bra.
I gasped, breaking the kiss, but I didn’t want him to stop.
I pressed into him harder, legs tangling with his, grinding myself against the thick muscle of his thigh.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, lips swollen, eyes blazing. “I can’t not touch you,” he breathed.
I answered by biting his lower lip, then yanking his shirt up so I could get my hands under it.
His skin was hot, even in the chill, and I dug my nails into his ribs, feeling the scars and the twitch of muscle.
He let out a low, guttural sound, part laugh, part growl, and attacked my neck, leaving a trail of teeth and tongue up to my ear.
I shuddered, every inch of me awake and begging.
“You’re cold,” he murmured, voice thick with want.
I shook my head. “Not anymore.”
He stripped my shirt off in one motion, tossing it over his shoulder like it was nothing, then dropped his own.
His chest was a roadmap of old wounds—some clean, some jagged, all of them earned the hard way.
He took my hands and placed them on his chest, then bent to kiss between my breasts, careful but not gentle.
I arched back, letting the night air freeze my skin, letting him be the only heat in the world.
When he reached for my bra clasp, his hands shook just a little. It was the first time I’d seen him nervous, and it made me bold. I undid it myself and let it fall away, nipples stiff and aching. He groaned, then ducked his head, mouthing at one, rolling the other between his callused fingers.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice made me blush harder than anything else that night.
He traced the curve of my breast with his tongue, then kissed a path down to my navel, pausing only to suck a mark above my hip bone. I felt my whole body contract, hips bucking involuntarily. I reached for his belt, but he batted my hands away.
“Not yet,” he whispered. “I wanna take my time.”
I laughed, low and shaky. “We’ve got maybe an hour before Bart puts a tracker on my fucking uterus.”
He grinned, then slid his hand under the waistband of my jeans. His fingers were cold at first, but I was already wet, and he found me in one practiced motion, sliding two fingers inside and curling them just right. I cried out, the sound swallowed by the empty sky.
He worked me, slow at first, then faster, thumb circling my clit until I was thrashing, gripping his wrist so hard I thought I’d leave bruises.
When I came, I saw spots behind my eyelids, my whole body locking up.
He held me through it, fingers never stopping until I collapsed against him, trembling.
He kissed my temple, then rested his chin on my head. “Fuck, Darla. I could get addicted to that. Fuck that, I am addicted. And there’s no fucking cure, Princess.”
I pulled him down, pressing my lips to his ear. “Your turn.”
He hesitated, just for a second, then undid his belt and shoved his jeans down.
His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking.
I wrapped my hand around him, feeling the pulse of blood and the heat, and stroked him slow, twisting my wrist like I’d learned from late-night internet research.
He swore, low and desperate, then yanked my jeans down over my knees, one hand steadying me, the other guiding himself inside.
It hurt at first—he was big, and I was still twitchy from the orgasm—but I wanted it.
Needed it. I grabbed his shoulders and sank onto him, taking him deep, letting him fill me up until there was nothing but the stretch and the burn and the perfect friction.
He thrust up, once, twice, and I set the rhythm, rocking against him, biting his neck when it got to be too much.
We fucked hard and messy, no rhythm, no finesse, just the raw panic of two people who knew the night was the only thing standing between them and oblivion.
I rode him, bracing on his thighs, hair sticking to my face, sweat mixing with the dew.
He held my hips and slammed me down, the slap of skin on skin echoing out over the cliff.
When he came, he buried his face in my shoulder, teeth scraping skin, and I felt him pulse inside me, hot and shuddering. I clenched around him, riding the aftershocks, then collapsed, chest to chest, both of us gasping like we’d just run a marathon.
For a long time, we didn’t move.
Eventually, he lifted me off and cradled me in his lap, hands stroking my back, my hair, the curve of my ass. “You okay?” he asked, real concern in his voice.
I nodded, dizzy and happy and spent. “More than okay.”
We sat that way, naked except for boots and the helmet staring at us like a pervert, until the edge of the sky went pink. My teeth started to chatter, and he wrapped me in his jacket, zipping it up so the collar covered my mouth.
He found his shirt and pulled it over my head, then dressed himself, never taking his eyes off me for more than a second. When I was decent, he reached into his jeans and pulled out a silver ring, dull and battered, nothing fancy.
He took my hand and pressed the ring into my palm, closing my fingers around it. “It was my mom’s,” he said, voice rough. “Last thing I had before the world went to shit. I want you to have it.”
I tried to give it back. “I can’t—”
He shook his head. “I want you to. Besides, it might bring you luck. God knows you’ll need it.”
I slid it onto the chain with my cross, letting both hang close to my heart. “Thank you,” I said, voice barely audible.
He kissed me, slow and sweet, then helped me up. We straddled the bike, me in front this time, his arms locked around my waist. The city below was waking up, the first semis rumbling down the interstate, the smog haze turning gold.
He gunned the engine, but kept the volume down this time. We rolled away from the overlook, the sun at our backs, the night still heavy on our skin.