CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
He looks down at me, gives me a little smile and bends down to kiss my temple, then he swings his legs off the mattress. By the time I stretch and sit up, he’s already tugging on his shirt.
He’s still naked from the waist down, and my eyes lock on his cock—still half-hard, long and thick enough that the heft of it makes my breath catch.
He opens the dresser, steps into a pair of black boxer-briefs, the fabric stretching tight over the heavy length before he snaps the waistband in place.
He doesn’t spare a glance for the camera watching him.
Doesn’t care. But he grabs my clothes off the chair and tosses them to me so I can get dressed on the bed where the camera can’t see, since he moved the bed to the new position by the door.
Silas’s microphone might have picked up our cries over the perpetual whirring of the fan, the camera might even have picked up my toes curling in the corner of the image, but at least I have a modicum of privacy.
“Let’s get moving,” he says impatiently. “Get dressed.”
Like it’s any other morning. Like nothing’s different.
I drag on yesterday’s shorts, finger-comb my hair, and follow him downstairs.
The clubhouse is busier than usual, especially so early in the day.
With the race just over a week out, it seems like every patched member with a running engine is tuning, polishing, or yelling at someone who is.
The front half of the hangar churns with sound and motion: tool chests rolling, grinders spitting sparks, cheap speakers crackling out music warped by the acoustics.
The smell of diesel is thick in the air, as well as the smell of weed.
Sunlight floods through the wide-open bay doors, glinting off the polished tanks of the racing bikes lined up in tight formation—sleek, bright, and designed to fly.
I trail behind Wyatt through the organized chaos, trying to stay out of the way.
We pass the galley, where two prospects are scrambling eggs and stacking bagels for whoever remembers to eat.
Wyatt nabs a coffee for himself and hands one to me without comment.
When his fingers brush mine, the small contact buzzes under my skin.
Then he slips into Road Captain mode. He grabs a clipboard and waves Cash over, getting a quick rundown on what’s already in motion. At Tank’s Dyna, he crouches to check the tire pressure himself and rattles off the torque specs without looking up.
I hover near the tool wall, wiping grease off a wrench that doesn’t need cleaning, just so I can watch him be this version of himself—competent and commanding.
“Hey,” he calls over to me. “I need a 14-mil.”
I grab the socket off the pegboard, click it onto the ratchet, and hand it over. A few minutes later: “Torx T-30.”
I pull it from the wall and bring it over too. A prospect whistles like I’m Wyatt’s pet performing a trick.
“Didn’t know you spoke wrench,” Cash says, grinning, bent over a stripped-down FXR with a split gas tank and half its guts exposed.
“Oh, she’s got all kinds of talents,” Wyatt says, not looking up, and the leering whoop that follows from across the hangar makes my face go hot.
He straightens up and nods to the open space beside him. “You want to help?”
I nod.
He shows me where to hold the axle steady while he slides the new bearings in. The grease is thick and black, cold on my fingers. But the motion, the rhythm of working beside him, is muscle memory.
Just a few months ago, this was our routine.
Days at the garage, Wyatt running Leathernecks while I rang up parts and tried not to flinch at the sound of pneumatic tools.
He didn’t have to teach me anything, but he did.
Patient and exacting, he never once made me feel stupid for what I didn’t know.
Just pulled me in and showed me how to see a machine from the inside out.
Here in the hangar, it’s not so different from a day on the Leathernecks floor.
He works fast and efficiently, as always.
But every time his hand brushes mine, every time he glances at me, my cheeks heat.
My heart cracks with longing. Working with him like this feels familiar, yet everything between us is different.
And all I want is to go upstairs and have him to myself all over again.
We’re mid-assembly when Billy walks up to us, wearing mirrored shades although the sunlight doesn’t stretch this far. Silas stalks behind him as usual, dark and clingy as a shadow. The sight of him makes me shiver. I avert my eyes.
“Well shit,” Billy says, taking in the scene—me kneeling by a stripped axle, Wyatt crouched down, coaching me through it. “Didn’t know you could tell a 10-mil from a spark-plug gapper, Maxwell.”
I look up and shrug, pretending Silas isn’t there. “Just trying to be useful.”
Billy smirks, slow and deliberate. “If you’re looking for work, Max, I have a gig that pays by the hour. I think you’d bring in a nice sum of money for the club.”
My skin goes tight. My fists clench before I even think about it.
Wyatt stands. Wipes his hands on a rag, voice steady. “Morning, Prez. You need something?”
Billy doesn’t miss a beat. “Just appreciating how you’ve inspired Max’s spirit of industry.” He tilts his head, eyes cutting into me. “She always did do her best work on her knees.”
Silas watches the whole thing without blinking, eyes half-lidded, a small, creepy smile on his face.
Heat creeps up my neck, but I hold Billy’s stare, refusing to shrink. Wyatt’s jaw ticks once before he turns back to the Dyna, signal clear: conversation over.
Billy lingers another beat, watching the smooth handoff as I pass Wyatt an extension bar, then he claps, breaking the tension.
“Carry on, folks. Club loves productivity,” he says loudly. He pivots and saunters toward the back of the hangar with Silas in tow.
Wyatt exhales through his nose and gives me a quick glance, half exasperation, half apology. I shrug and get back to work.
The day is long and loud and hot. Too many bikes and not enough space.
Wyatt didn’t sit still for more than a minute, bouncing between rigs, rechecking chain tension, swapping out calipers, making sure every idiot with a throttle wasn’t also carrying a death wish.
By the time the last bike’s tucked under a tarp and the hangar starts to quiet, my muscles ache from crouching, standing, reaching.
Grease stains ring my wrists like bracelets.
We climb the stairs together without talking and take turns showering in the shared washroom.
After my turn, I come back to the room wrapped in my threadbare robe, the fabric soft from too many washes, tied loose at the waist.
Inside, the fan hums low from the shelf across from the bed. Wyatt’s already on the mattress, stretched out in boxer-briefs and a faded gray t-shirt, arms loose behind his head, looking like he hasn’t moved since he got there.
I watch him for a long beat. Even exhausted, he’s arresting.
Muscled chest rising slow beneath thin cotton, long legs stretched out, boxer-briefs riding low on his hips.
His hair’s damp, darker where it’s wet, contrasting with the gray cutting sharp at his temples.
It shouldn’t make him more attractive, but it does.
It always has. He’s not even trying to look good.
He just is. He’s built for purpose. All presence.
Leaner than Ryder, but carved from the same steel.
I climb onto the bed, straddle his hips, brace my hands on his chest, and his eyes open.
His hands come to my thighs, but his expression tightens into something guarded.
I give him a slow, seductive smile.
“Max—” he says, and his voice stops me. “We should get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”
“C’mon, old man,” I say with a frown. “I thought you were trained for stamina.”
A corner of his mouth lifts, eyes going soft, but he doesn’t laugh.
“You don’t make this easy,” he says. “I just want to make sure we don’t blur lines that can’t be unblurred.”
“I think it’s a bit too late for that,” I scoff.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Max,” he says gently. “You’re…God, you’re smart, and funny, and so fucking beautiful it knocks the wind out of me sometimes.”
He shifts, guiding me gently off his hips before rolling onto his side.
“And you’re sexy as hell. Last night was…” He breaks off, exhales slow. “It was incredible. You blew my fucking mind.”
The way he says it should feel good, but there’s a shadow behind the words.
“But,” he continues, “we had too much to drink. I should’ve known better. I’m almost fifty years old. I do know better.”
I blink. “I don’t care how old you are.”
“I do,” he says quietly. “Because you’re twenty-two.”
“Twenty-three,” I correct him, remembering it would’ve been my birthday at some point in the summer.
He winces, like that doesn’t make it any better.
“We’re getting out of here soon,” he says quietly. “And you’ve still got a life waiting for you on the other side of this place. You’ve got Jake. And Damian.”
“You think I’m going to go back to them and pretend none of this happened?”
He exhales through his nose. “No. I think you’ll carry it with you.
Just like I will.” He reaches up and brushes his thumb along my cheek.
“But this place, it distorts everything. Time. Trust. Need. It makes things feel permanent that aren’t.
I just…I want you to remember this isn’t the whole story. It’s a chapter. And it ends.”
I start to speak, but he shakes his head gently.
“You won’t be here forever, Max. I won’t let that happen. You’re getting out. I promise you that.” A pause. Then softer: “And I’ll be there. No matter where you land. No matter who you love. I’m not going anywhere. But I want you to have a choice. Not to get stuck with someone too old for you.”
“You think I didn’t make a choice last night?” I counter, disbelief cutting under the surface. “Yeah, I was drunk. But not that drunk. You think I never thought about this before? You and me?”
“I think it’s confusing,” he says. “We sleep in the same bed, act like a couple out in the club. But I’m old enough to be your father, honey. Older.”
“I don’t care,” I hiss, low and fierce. “Being with you is the only thing that’s made me feel like I still exist. Not someone’s property. Not someone’s pawn. Just…me. You might be older, but you’re not my father, Wyatt. And I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”
He draws a deep breath. I shift closer, place my hand on his ribcage, watching the tension ripple through him—his shoulders tight, jaw ticking.
“Give me some credit to know what I want,” I say quietly.
“You’re making this harder than it already is,” he murmurs, and I catch a glint of playfulness that wasn’t there a second ago. The first crack in the armor.
“I’m trying to make it harder,” I say, biting back a smile. “Making you hard is my whole end game here.”
That earns a breath of a laugh from him. “You’re relentless.”
My voice dips, serious again. “We’re in hell. But what I feel for you is real. Can’t we just find relief in each other?”
He’s quiet a long moment. Then: “Ryder loved you.”
It hits like a punch to the gut. His name still carries shrapnel. For a second, I can’t speak.
“I loved him,” I say, my voice raw. “I still do. But you’re all connected. Him, Jake, Damian. You. Being with you doesn’t take anything away from him. If anything, it brings me closer to all of you.”
I can’t think about Ryder right now, about the love we both felt for each other.
I can’t open up that pain and feel it, but being with Wyatt offers something else.
A feeling that runs parallel to that love, and soothes the loss of it.
I reach down, dragging my fingers lightly across his stomach, and his muscles jump.
“You know,” he murmurs, “a man’s resistance has limits.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
I shift forward, and straddle his hips again.
His hands hover near my thighs.
“You’re a menace,” he teases.
“I just want you,” I whisper, smiling.
He draws in a deep, rough breath. His eyes close. His hands move slowly up my sides, brushing the edge of my ribs like he’s still asking permission.
Then, finally, finally, he pulls me down and kisses me. Long and slow, like he’s starving, but still savoring every taste.
His mouth moves slowly at first, tasting, testing—then deeper, hungrier.
The robe loosens under his grip. One tug, and it slips from my shoulders, pooling behind me.
His hands trace up my thighs, over my hips.
He sits up to kiss my collarbone, sighing, teeth grazing skin, and I pull at his shirt, dragging it off. Heat radiates between us.
I press him back down, my thighs bracketing his hips, the cotton of his briefs rubbing against me as I rock forward, slow and teasing. His breath stutters. His hands tighten on my waist.
I roll my hips again. He groans and palms my ass, grinding me harder against him. I reach down, hook my fingers beneath the waistband, and ease his briefs down. He lifts his hips in answer. When I free him, he’s hard and ready.
I stroke him once, slowly, just to feel the way he shudders beneath me. Then I lift, angle, and slide down—taking him in inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside me. The stretch makes my breath hitch, makes his head drop back.
I start to move. A slow grind. Sweat gathers between our bodies, but I don’t stop.
I ride him with my hands pressed flat to his chest, feeling the tension ripple under his skin, the way his abs tighten.
The way his fingers dig in to my skin. He lets me set the pace but he meets me thrust for thrust.
Every movement brings us closer. The sound of skin on skin, breath against breath.
I lean down, mouth brushing his jaw, his throat, his shoulder.
He holds on tighter as our bodies chase that edge.
And when I feel his body tighten up, I start to roll my hips faster, riding him harder, until he groans, losing the fight to stay quiet.
His hands clutch my hips, urging, anchoring, surrendering.
I feel him start to pull back, restraint flaring, but I shake my head and rock down hard, locking my thighs around him. I give a single nod.
His eyes flare. His hands slam up my back. He grits his teeth, growls my name, and lets go.
Heat floods me as he comes, and the sensation rips through me until I’m breaking open, riding the wave as it hits. I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out, but it doesn’t stop the quake that rolls through me.
I collapse over him, chest to chest, forehead to sweat-damp collarbone, my pussy still quivering, and he holds me, both hands on my back.
The fan hums. The room settles. Our breathing slows. And there’s nothing but the weight of us, the warmth between us. The love.