Chapter 5 Courtney
COURTNEY
The roar of a motorcycle engine cuts through the night, vibrating in my chest before the headlights even sweep across the peeling floral wallpaper. It’s a distinct, guttural growl—lower and more aggressive than Shane’s bike, which has been a low, rhythmic thrum at the end of the driveway for hours.
Shane has been a silent sentinel in the dark. Four hours of me pacing, wondering if the 'War Room' meant he was coming back to me or heading into a fight. The silence of the house felt like a physical weight until the roar of Austin’s Harley finally shattered it.
My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, echoing the heavy thrum of the V-twin engine outside.
I haven’t moved from the bedroom since he left me panting and flushed.
I’m still wearing the oversized t-shirt I’d been cleaning in, my legs bare, the air in the house cold but my skin feverish.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even sit down.
My body is a live wire of unspent adrenaline and aching need, left suspended when duty called him away.
The engine cuts out. Heavy boots crunch on the gravel, followed by the low rumble of male voices.
Shane and Austin. The exchange is brief, clipped.
A changing of the guard. Then, the roar of Shane’s bike fading down the mountain road leaves only the oppressive quiet of the Grizzly Peak woods and the heavy, deliberate tread of boots mounting the porch steps.
I don’t wait for him to knock. I shouldn’t open the door—he told me to keep it locked—but my hand is on the bolt before I can think twice. I throw the heavy oak door open just as he reaches for the handle.
Austin fills the doorframe, his massive silhouette effectively erasing the moonlight.
He looks fucking colossal, a wall of pure, unadulterated muscle that makes the foyer feel like a cage.
He’s still wearing his cut, the heavy leather smelling of cold mountain air, gasoline, and the metallic tang of gun oil.
His hair is wind-blown, wild around his face, and his eyes are black pits, blown out with a mix of exhaustion and feral hunger.
"I told you to keep this locked," he growls, his voice a rough scrape of gravel. He steps inside without waiting for an invite, kicking the door shut behind him with a definitive slam that rattles the windows. The lock clicks home with a snap of his wrist.
"I knew it was you," I breathe, backing up as he advances. The space in the entryway suddenly feels microscopic.
"You didn't know shit, Court. Could've been anyone."
He stalks me, his movements predatory and fluid despite his massive size, the heavy leather of his cut making his silhouette even more imposing. "But you're right. It was me. And now I’m back."
I stumble backward until my spine hits the wall—nowhere left to go. "Is everything... is everyone okay?" I ask, my voice trembling as I look up at the predator I just let in.
He stops inches from me, planting a hand on the wall beside my head.
He looms over me, a mountain of fire and muscle.
"We caught two Costa scouts testing the fence line near the old logging road. They were trying to see if we were distracted by your arrival. I left them with a reminder that trespassing on Gunnar dirt carries a heavy price. They won’t be back tonight, and Logan has the Road Captain patrolling the ridge. Club business is handled."
He leans in, his nose brushing mine, the scent of gasoline and gun oil clouding my senses. "The only thing I’m worried about right now is finishing what we started before my brother interrupted."
The air between us crackles, thick and suffocating. My nipples peak hard against the thin cotton of my shirt—a betrayal he notices immediately. His gaze drops, lingering on the way the fabric tents over my chest, then travels lower to my bare thighs. A muscle feathers in his jaw.
"You didn't get dressed," he observes, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating through the floorboards and straight up into my pussy.
"I couldn't," I admit, my voice barely a whisper. "I was waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
He crowds closer, his hips slamming into mine. The contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to my womb. He’s hard, uncompromisingly rigid against the soft give of my stomach.
"For you."
The admission snaps the last thread of his restraint.
Austin groans, a low, animalistic sound, and crashes his mouth down on mine.
It isn't a kiss; it’s a siege. His tongue forces my lips apart with brutal efficiency to claim every wet inch of my mouth.
He tastes like bitter coffee and cold mint, his stubble scraping raw against my skin.
My hands fly up to tangle in his wind-blown hair, then drop to fist in the heavy, cold leather of his cut, hauling him closer until our chests collide.
His large hands span my hips, his thick fingers digging into my ass and the soft, sensitive skin of my thighs.
I can feel the rigid, pulsing length of his cock straining against his jeans, a blunt promise of the ruin he’s about to bring to my pussy.
He’s marking me before we even reach the bed.
He tastes like my past and my future. The distance evaporate in the heat of his mouth, burning away the resentment and the fear until there’s nothing left but this—us, here, finally colliding.
"Courtney," he gasps against my lips, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye. His pupils are dilated so wide his eyes look black. "I’m not leaving again. You understand? I’m not walking out that door tonight."
"Good," I pant, my hands sliding down to grip the solid muscles of his shoulders. "Don't you dare."
He sweeps me up effortlessly—one massive arm hooking under my knees while the other hauls my lower back flush to his chest. I let out a jagged breath as my pussy grinds against the heavy, cold metal of his belt buckle; the friction sparks a white-hot jolt of need.
I wrap my legs around his thick waist, locking my ankles behind his back and clinging to his broad shoulders as he hoists me higher.
He doesn't just carry me; he owns me with every stride, his fingers digging into the meat of my thighs. I feel the rigid, throbbing length of him straining against denim—a blunt promise of the ruin he’s about to bring to my body—as he takes the stairs two at a time.
I’m breathless at the sudden elevation, at the feeling of being small and protected in his grasp. He carries me toward the stairs.
"The bed upstairs is dust," I manage to say, burying my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. "The mattress is ancient."
"I checked it. It'll hold," he grunts, taking the stairs two at a time. "It better hold, because I'm about to test its structural integrity."
The master bedroom is bathed in shadows, the moonlight filtering through the bare windows casting long, pale stripes across the floor.
He doesn't bother with the lights. He walks straight to the bed and lowers me onto the mattress.
It groans under my weight, dust motes dancing in the silver light, but I don't care.
Austin stands at the edge of the bed, looking down at me like he’s conquered a kingdom.
He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the canvas of ink and scars that maps his history.
I trace the lines of his abdomen with my eyes, the deep V of muscle disappearing into his jeans.
He is magnificent and terrifying, a god of war standing in my ruin of a bedroom.
"Take it off," he commands.
My hands tremble as I grip the hem. I pull the fabric up and over, discarding it on the floor. I’m wearing nothing underneath. The cool air hits my skin, but Austin’s gaze is hot enough to burn.
He stares at me like a starving man at a feast, his gaze heavy enough to bruise. He tracks the way my chest heaves, nipples peaked from the cold air, and the deep, inviting flare of my hips.
“Jesus, Court,” he rasps, his voice a low vibration in his chest. “You’re built like a fucking goddess. Those wide hips... you were made to take my weight. Made to carry my seed and keep this mountain ours.”
He unbuckles his belt, the metallic clink echoing in the room.
He shoves his jeans and boxer briefs down together, kicking them aside.
When he straightens, my breath catches in my throat.
He is massive. Thick and heavy and visibly pulsing with need.
The sight of him triggers a primal instinct deep inside me—intimidating yet sparking an overwhelming urge to be filled by him.
He climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping significantly under his weight. He crawls over me, caging me in with his arms, his knees bracketing my hips. He doesn't kiss me immediately. He just looks, his face hovering inches above mine, his breath fanning across my cheeks.
"Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice raw. "I need to hear you say it. Because once I’m inside you, there’s no going back. I’m claiming you, Courtney. To the club, to this town, to every asshole on that mountain—you’re mine."
"I want you," I whisper, reaching up to cup his jaw, feeling the rough stubble against my palms. "I’ve wanted you since I was sixteen, Austin. I never stopped."
A tremor runs through him. He turns his face into my palm, kissing the center of my hand, before trailing wet, hot kisses down my wrist, to the sensitive skin of my inner arm, and then to my chest.
He worships my body with a focused intensity that makes my head spin. His mouth closes over my breast, sucking hard, his tongue swirling against the nipple until I’m arching off the mattress with a cry. His hand slides down my stomach, heavy and possessive, fingers splaying wide over my womb.
"So soft," he murmurs against my skin, the vibration of his voice traveling through my breastbone. "Wide hips. Made for me. Made to carry my legacy."