CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WYATT HAS BEEN the quiet gravity in my life since that first night in Ryder’s kitchen. Since the first time he looked at me, his blue stare full of concern.
The back room at Leathernecks was the first room I ever had that was truly mine—a mattress on crates, an old space heater, and shelves cluttered with tools and old parts.
He gave me my first job, sitting behind the cash register, and by summer had me learning torque specs and how to bleed brakes.
He let me climb up the stairs to his apartment to borrow his dry nonfiction books, and let me hang out beside him all those nights on the couch, watching TV until my eyelids sagged.
He never touched me, never looked too long.
I’ve always wondered if the pulse I felt between us was just my imagination. Wyatt’s more than twice my age, carved from steel as gray as his hair, and he’s always treated me like a kid.
And I was with Jake. Damian. Ryder. His brothers, in every way that counts. Not that loving any of them ever felt like subtraction. Only multiplication.
But now that pulse detonates the second he answers my kiss—months of restraint combusting in a single, starving breath. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting like whiskey and Wyatt, and I feel it between my legs, behind my ribs, out to the tips of my fingers.
He claims my mouth hungrily, like letting down his guard has unleashed something wild he’s kept restrained, and in one smooth motion he rolls me onto my back, bracing himself over me on his forearms. His weight settles and I feel an unmistakable ridge pressing through his jeans, hard against my pelvis.
The thrill of that discovery makes me gasp.
I hook my legs around him, arching for more friction, and he answers with a helpless moan—unshakeable Wyatt Marshall moaning—and the rush of power leaves me dizzy.
“Max—” He breaks the kiss, dropping his forehead drops to mine, his breathing already ragged.
“Please,” I breathe, before he can say anything else. “I need you.”
He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s sending up a last-minute prayer, then lowers his mouth over mine again.
His palm slides under my tank top and around my back, popping the clasp of my bra with years of practice in that sure flick, and pushing both up above my breasts.
Cool air skates across my skin, and my nipples pebble.
“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling my top and bra up over my head and dropping them on the floor.
He sits back on his heels and looks at me, his stare ravenous, then he reaches out to cup my breasts with his big hands—his palms rough, thumbs grazing over tightened peaks and sending electricity down my spine.
Keeping his eyes on mine, he drags my shorts down my hips and off my ankles, leaving me naked beneath him.
His hand slips between my thighs, fingers feathering over my slit and brushing my clit in a lazy circle that makes me whimper.
He lifts his fingers to his mouth and sucks the taste of me from his skin.
“Jesus ,” he growls, making my heartbeat slam so hard he can probably see it.
I reach for his belt and fumble to undo it, then unzip his jeans.
I push the band of his boxers down and free his cock.
It’s huge, just like I’d always known it would be—thick and long, veined and flushed.
A bead of pre-cum already slicks the tip, and I reach for it with my thumb, slicking it down his shaft and then wrapping my fingers around him and starting to stroke.
He sucks in a sharp breath and rolls his head back, and within seconds he’s moving his hips in rhythm with my hand.
It’s Wyatt like I’ve never seen him—hungry, greedy, and pleasure-seeking—and it’s unequivocally one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.
I bend over him, letting my tongue run under the head of his cock, licking up the salt of his pre-cum and then sucking him into my mouth, already desperate for his orgasm.
Desperate to see Wyatt, my Wyatt, shudder and lose control because of me.
I take him deeper, sliding my tongue down the underside of his shaft. He’s thick, heavy, filling my mouth until my eyes water, but I want more.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he moans, his voice hoarse. “Just like that—yes. Your mouth feels so fucking good.”
He moans again, low and shaking, his fingers gripping my hair. I take him to the back of my throat, breathing through my nose, feeling him twitch and jerk until his breath breaks.
He gasps and pulls away, his cock slipping out of my mouth with a wet pop. “If we keep going like that, you’re going to make me come, honey.”
He stands and pulls his jeans and briefs the rest of the way off, then kneels between my thighs and spreads me open.
He stares for a second, then leans in and licks—a long, slow drag of his tongue over my pussy.
He licks again, then starts circling my clit with the flat of his tongue, slow and steady, until my hips lift off the mattress.
He sucks my clit, lips and tongue working until my legs shake. Two fingers push inside me, fucking me with deep strokes, curling just right, as his mouth stays locked on me.
The pressure builds fast. My back arches higher and higher with every slide of his tongue and stroke of his fingers, my vision tunneling…
eyes closing…It’s just me and Wyatt and the impossible and amazing sensation of his mouth on my sex, his fingers digging into my thighs, and within seconds I come with a cry—hips jerking and legs clenching around his head.
Wet heat rushes out of me and he just groans, licking me through it, not stopping until I’m gulping back breath.
Then he climbs up over me, broad-shouldered and powerful, salt and pepper chest chair the only thing marking his carved body with age, and he grips his cock, lining it up with my entrance…and stops.
“Is this okay?” he asks, brow furrowed and voice rough with restraint. “Are you—“
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I say with a laugh, “shut up and fuck me already!”
He breathes out a tight laugh, shakes his head, and then pushes in slowly, watching my face. I gasp.
He’s huge. I grit my teeth and dig my nails into his back as he pushes himself all the way inside, slowly, until his cock is buried to the hilt.
“Goddamn,” he groans, as I moan below him.
He starts in a steady roll of his hips, letting my body adjust around his girth, and soon his breath is coming in quick, even pants by my ear.
My voice rises with every thrust; in response he speeds up, pumping harder until the bed knocks the wall in rapid, heavy beats.
He seals his mouth over mine, swallowing the sounds.
I anchor my hands on his shoulders, nails digging in while he drives into me, until everything narrows to the rhythm of him moving inside of me.
He hooks a hand under my knee, lifting it up, and with the other hand cradles the back of my head, thrusting deeper.
Rougher. The friction from his body rubs my clit, and soon my second orgasm is rising.
He grits his teeth, clenching the carved line of his jaw as he tilts his head back and groans, and I come with a cry, my body clenching around him as the pulse passes through me like a shockwave.
“Fuck,” he pants, voice raw. “You’re gonna make me come, sweetie. Oh fuck, I’m gonna come.”
He pulls out and starts stroking himself, and in as swift a motion as I can manage with my head still spinning from my own orgasm, I bend forward, positioning myself so that I can take him into my mouth. He groans and threads fingers into my hair as he slides his cock into my waiting mouth.
“Fuck—” He only thrusts a couple of times before he breaks, grunting as he pulses into my mouth, hips quivering, hand fisting in my hair.
I swallow him down, slowly licking him clean as he shudders, and then eventually he slumps forward, and wraps an arm around me, pulling me down on the bed beside him.
The heat of his naked body, curled in so tight that there isn’t a single air pocket between us, is so much warmer and closer than all those nights I wrapped myself around his hard, contained body, pressing my palm against the cotton of his t-shirt. I’m raw and spent. Breathless and purified.
For the first time since I got here, I feel something close to happy.
Time doesn’t work right in the clubhouse. There are no windows in the hangar, no clocks. Spotty cell service. Parties go into the morning, people sleep until sunset. Time is a collective thought, structured by the majority.
The day starts when it gets too noisy to keep sleeping. Doors grinding open. The whine of a compressor kicking to life. Boots on concrete. Someone shouting across the hangar about fuel or wiring.
I surface slowly, dragged up by the noise like rising from deep water. My limbs are heavy, and I’m warm, wrapped under the weight of Wyatt’s arm and the heat of his chest against my back, breath slow against my shoulder.
Flashes from last night come back to me in scorching detail—his hand fisting the sheets, his jaw locking, the way he felt inside of me.
I press back into him and feel that hardness now, growing against my back. He makes a low noise in his throat, pulling me in against him.
“Morning, kiddo,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, old man,” I whisper.
He laughs under his breath, a sound more breath than voice. Then he rolls his hips once, grinding his erection against me with a groan that makes my insides clench, like he might take me again right now, without even opening his eyes. His fingers press into my hip…and then he stills.
A silence stretches before he sighs, squeezes my hip and sits up, rubbing his eyes and then turning the lamp on.
“Sounds busy down there,” he observes, picking his watch up off the side table and checking it. “Got a bike in the shop I promised to finish before noon.”