Chapter 7
Sarge
I want her. Only her.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This was not part of the plan. I was alone. I like being alone. Alone is safe.
Alone means not bringing anyone else into my shit. Shit, I haven’t even fully figured out.
Yet, I didn’t want to leave her.
Hell, I still don’t. But I had to. If I had followed through on what I wanted, it wouldn’t have been sweet, slow, or careful. It would’ve been raw and rough. Me slamming her against the nearest surface, pounding into her core until she screamed my name.
I wanted to take. To claim.
The need to have her legs locked around me again is strong, only this time not on the back of my bike. I want to feel her nails dragging down my skin while I bury myself so deep inside her, she forgets any man who touched her before me.
Patience? Not a chance. Not with her.
The only thing running through my veins is the raw, animal need to possess her. Hard, fast, and mine. I need to brand her with my mouth, my hands, every imperfect inch of me.
Every second I held back tonight felt like torture, like fighting against an primal need that lives within me. My body screamed to claim her—worship her. Without apology. Not tender or careful. Just the carnal instinct to have what’s mine.
And fuck if I don’t still feel it. My swollen, aching cock, from her pressing that sweet pussy against me at every stoplight. Every buck of her hips was torture. She knew damn well what she was doing, even if she pretended she didn’t.
Between my legs is the raw, throbbing reminder of what I denied myself, and the pain of it feels like punishment. Now I’m left with this ache, this longing for something I almost had.
I’ll ride back to the clubhouse, shut my door, and get myself off like a goddamn teenager, because the thought of one of the club whores touching me makes my skin crawl. I don’t want them.
I want her. Only her.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? She’s not mine.
Hell, she’s too good for a man like me. All soft curves and shy smiles in a sea of women who hide behind fake laughs and cheap perfume.
She paraded into that bar glowing like she didn’t belong, and all I could think was, she should only ever leave with me.
But then doubt creeps in. What do I have to offer her? An arm that’s been through nine surgeries, scars that still ache when the weather changes, and a temper I’ve been trying to cage since the accident, but can’t always control.
She deserves better than a broken man with one hand in the club life and the other wrapped around a bottle of Jack.
I know I did the right thing—leaving. Maybe she noticed my arm, maybe not. If she did, she didn’t say anything. Probably trying to spare me the embarrassment.
I want to believe I’m not like the depraved bastards at the bar, but what proof do I have? I haven’t touched a woman in eighteen months. Not since I got hurt.
Haven’t wanted to.
Now, the first time I do want someone, really want someone, it’s her. And it hits like a goddamn freight train. What kind of man would drag her into this mess? I can’t even trust my own body half the time.
Can’t feel my hand—at all. The nerves are shot, the strength’s gone. I’m still learning how to use it again, fumbling through rehab and pretending it doesn’t kill me. Hell, I barely got cleared to grip the bars on my bike.
This shit is mine to carry. My pain. My consequence.
Not hers.
And that’s what makes it worse, because for the first time in a long time, I actually wish it didn’t have to be.
Even knowing better doesn’t stop me from wanting her and wanting to taste the sound she made when her hips ground against me on my bike. I want to hear it again. Louder, needier, just for me.
I know I should keep my distance. But fuck me if I’m not already mentally planning the next time I’ll see her. Because no matter how much I try to convince myself she’s not mine... every instinct in me says she already is.
By the time I pull into the clubhouse lot, my cock’s still aching, and my head’s a fucking mess.
Bikes are lined up like soldiers, chrome shining under the security lights that guard the gravel lot behind the fence. Music leaks out from inside, the heavy bass of something fast and angry.
I kill the engine, swing off the bike, my left hand aching like it always does after a ride. My brothers don’t mention it much anymore, but I catch the looks when I can’t lift as much, or when my grip falters. I hate the weakness. Hate what it says about me.
Inside, it’s the same scene as always. Smoke, laughter, and a couple of the girls hanging off patches like they’re oxygen. I breeze past the usual hangarounds, ignoring the way they reach out for me.
I’m not interested in them on a typical night. Tonight is no different, but I don’t even stop to socialize with the guys. All I want is the hot as fuck brunette I can still taste on my lips.
In my room, I pour a Jack neat and peel my shirt off my clammy skin. My kutte hangs on the wall next to my bed as a sign of respect.
It never touches the ground, and I don’t just drop it in a heap somewhere.
I land in the chair by the window and look down. One arm whole, the other a patchwork of skin grafts and angry reminders.
I drain the Jack, fist tightening around the glass, and force myself to breathe.
The burner phone buzzes next to me on the table. Club business, always is. Doesn’t matter if I’m bleeding, drunk, or just trying to forget for five goddamn minutes—they need me, I answer. Because that’s what brothers do.
As I sit here, stripped down and full of need, I can’t escape it. The club is my life, and this is my family.
Fucked up as they may be, they’re still family.
They call, I show up. No questions. No hesitation.
I don’t expect the same in return. As a leader, you learn to patch your own wounds, swallow your own demons, and keep fucking going no matter what.
So I’ll pick up the phone like I always do. Because I’m the man they count on. The man in charge.
The call is from our brothers in Nogales, and right on time.
We’ve got business south of the border—another meeting about the next shipment. Bigger than the last few, and word’s spreading fast. People are hurting, and we’re the ones filling the gaps the system leaves behind.
I already know what it means: at least a week on the road. Maybe more.
Still, all I can think about is the girl I left standing in her doorway.
I tell myself I made the right call walking away. But I’m no saint, and I won’t pretend to be. I may not be the best thing for her, but I know I won’t be able to stay away.
Because I already know I need to see her again.