23. Alexandra
The floor disappears beneath me, my legs locking around his waist on instinct as he lifts me like I weigh nothing. The sudden loss of gravity steals my breath and replaces it with heat and certainty—the bone-deep kind that tells me I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
He lowers me onto the bed slowly, deliberately, like he’s committing the weight of me to memory. His mouth finds mine again, unhurried but consuming, a kiss that feels like hunger held in check by reverence. His hands move over me with practiced confidence, peeling away layers one by one, never rushed, never careless—until my clothes are gone and my skin is left buzzing, oversensitive to the cool air and his warmth.
The cut stays.
He makes sure of it.
Leather against bare skin. His hands slide beneath it, around it, never taking it off, like the sight of it on me matters just as much as what’s underneath. His voice drops when he notices me watching him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes dark, reverent. “That’s how I want to see you. Every day. For the rest of my life.”
Something in my chest tightens painfully.
His mouth traces slow paths along my skin, touches following that leave me arching into him, breath coming apart in soft, helpless sounds. Every kiss feels intentional, like he’s reminding both of us that this isn’t just want—it’s claim.
When he finally presses his forehead to mine, breath rough, his hands firm on my hips, the world narrows down to heat and heartbeat and the weight of the cut against my back.
“Mine,” he says quietly, like a vow.
I answer by pulling him closer.
His lips close around my nipple and I gasp, my back arching as his hand cups my breast, thumb brushing just enough to make my breath stutter.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
For a second I think he might stop. He rises to his knees and pulls his shirt off. Then he lays down on the bed next to me.
“Come on then,” he says playfully. “Ride my face, baby.”
I look at him shocked.
“I told you, between you and me, you’re not the chair.” He winks. “Panties off, come sit on my face.”
I do as he says. I move up, straddling his face. It doesn’t take more than a second before his tongue starts licking, sucking, nibbling. He pushes a finger into me and I’m lost in pleasure.
“Come for me, baby. Soak my face.”
“Yes—fuck—Cole,” I gasp as my orgasm hits, sure enough soaking his face.
He flips me over with ease, positioning himself behind me. The first thrust steals the sound from my lungs, pleasure detonating through me so hard my vision whites out.
“Cole!” I scream, my orgasm crashing over me as he drives into me relentlessly, setting a pace that leaves no room for thought, no room for anything but sensation. He keeps going until I forget my own name, until the only thing I know is him.
We come apart slowly.
Not all at once, not cleanly. Just breath by breath, skin still too sensitive, bodies tangled together like neither of us knows where one ends and the other begins. I’m draped across him, my leg thrown over his thigh, his arm heavy and warm around my waist.
Everything feels loose. Boneless. Spent in the best way.
Cole presses a kiss to my temple, then my hair, his breathing finally evening out. His thumb traces lazy circles on my hip, absentminded, possessive without trying to be.
I smile into his chest.
This—this—is what safe feels like.
***
Two months later, it’s Thanksgiving.
Which feels mildly absurd, considering my life imploded, rerouted, and rebuilt itself in roughly the time it takes Americans to decide what constitutes a proper pie.
I’m standing in the clubhouse kitchen, watching someone argue passionately about mashed potatoes, when it hits me just how… settled everything feels. Not quiet. Not safe in a fragile way. Just right, in that solid, grounded sense that sneaks up on you when you stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I took the university’s offer.
What was supposed to be one semester abroad turned into my entire degree — three years, fully funded, in the United States. Which means I am, apparently, spending the rest of my life here because I ran into a biker clubhouse bleeding and terrified one night and fell in love with its president.
Stone—Cole—likes to pretend he had nothing to do with it, but we both know he’s going to pay for this for years. I miss European chocolate. Bread. Cheese. Soap that doesn’t smell aggressively like freedom. I remind him of this regularly. He accepts his fate with the long-suffering patience of a man who knows he’s already won the important part.
We live mostly at the clubhouse now. It’s easier with campus so close, easier with the rhythm of my classes and his responsibilities overlapping instead of colliding. The noise doesn’t bother me the way it once did. Somewhere along the way, the chaos became familiar. Almost comforting.
I’ve gotten closer to his brothers too. Not just polite proximity, but real connection. Riot quizzes me on my classes like he understands half of it. Neon tries to convince me every bad idea is actually a learning experience. Bruiser pretends not to care but always makes sure I eat. And Cyber—Cyber has taken it upon himself to help me with my programming assignments, which mostly involves him hovering over my shoulder muttering “who taught you this?” like a personal insult.
Rasmus is still here too.
That part took some adjustment. Cole doesn’t love that I need a life outside the club, outside of him — but he accepts it. Doesn’t interfere. Doesn’t posture. He trusts me. And more importantly, he trusts us.
Rasmus and I train together now.
Calisthenics. Pole. Strength and control and balance — the kind of movement that reconnects me to my body in a way nothing else does. It started as a way to burn off stress, then became routine, then something I looked forward to more than I expected.
I need that space. Friends who don’t wear leather. Walls that don’t echo with engines. A version of myself that exists outside of titles and patches.
Funny enough, that’s exactly how it started.
The moment I stepped inside, there was no hesitation at all — no doubt, no adjustment period — just the quiet certainty of muscle memory and mirrors and poles reminding me that I already belonged here.
Rasmus had taken me to the place where he trained — an old industrial building converted into something between a gym and a creative playground. Concrete floors. High ceilings. Music drifting through the open space like it wasn’t in a hurry.
“Welcome to my second home,” he had announced, spreading his arms dramatically.
I’d clocked the pull-up rigs first. Rings. Mats.
Then I’d seen the pole studio.
My steps had slowed.
Rasmus had followed my gaze. “You do pole.”
“Did,” I’d corrected, already smiling. “Back in Denmark. A lot.”
He’d blinked. “That explains the terrifying core strength.”
“I didn’t bring pole clothes,” I’d added, glancing down at my leggings.
“You’ll manage.”
I’d snorted. “Skin is… kind of essential.”
He’d grimaced. “I’ve spent my entire life avoiding friction burns.”
“Wrong sport,” I’d told him sweetly.
We’d warmed up on the mats. Rasmus had groaned through every stretch like he was actively reconsidering all his life choices.
“If I don’t survive,” he’d panted, folded in half, “tell my mother I died bravely.”
I hadn’t answered — I’d already been climbing. The pole had been cool under my hands, familiar. The first spin had clicked into place like muscle memory waking up.
I’d landed lightly.
Rasmus had stared. “That was deeply unnecessary.”
“Jealous?”
“For science,” he’d said solemnly, stepping up. He’d jumped, gripped the pole — and immediately slid down with a startled yelp.
“WHY was it hot?”
“Grip,” I’d said. “And more skin.”
“I regret everything,” he’d muttered, trying again.
He’d managed exactly one rotation before panic had set in.
“Oh no—oh no—”
He’d landed in a heap.
I’d clapped. “Ten out of ten dismount.”
From the floor, he’d groaned, “Please tell everyone that was intentional.”
“Very avant-garde,” I’d assured him. “Extremely interpretive.”
The memory faded as the smell of roasted turkey and butter pulled me back into the present.
Thanksgiving.
I was hovering in the kitchen, pretending I was being helpful instead of burning off nerves, when arms slid around my waist from behind. Cole pressed in close, solid and familiar, his chin brushing my shoulder.
“Ready for your first Thanksgiving?” he asked, voice low, almost gentle.
I snorted. “Thrilled. Truly. Nothing says cultural immersion like a national holiday centered around aggressive amounts of food and historical denial.”
He laughed into my neck. “You love it.”
I scoffed. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” he said, squeezing my waist. “You’ve been asking questions about stuffing for a week.”
“That was academic curiosity.”
“Baby,” he murmured, amused, “you looked up three different pie recipes.”
I huffed, then sighed, the truth slipping out despite myself. “Fine. I like the idea of it. Family. Everyone together. It’s just—” I hesitated. “This is the first time I’m meeting your parents. And your sister.”
That sobered him instantly.
He tightened his hold. “Yeah.”
“That’s… different,” I said quietly. “This isn’t just club family. This is your family-family.”
He shifted, turning me in his arms until I was facing him. One hand came up to my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek with quiet reassurance.
I swallowed. “What if they don’t like me?”
His brows knit just a little, like the idea genuinely hadn’t occurred to him. “They will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said, steady as ever. “My mom’s gonna see how you make me laugh. My sister’s gonna clock that you don’t let me get away with shit. And my dad?” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “He’s gonna see that I’m happy. That’s all he’s ever cared about.”
My chest tightened.
“And if I’m awkward?” I asked.
“Then you’ll be awkward and loved,” he said simply. “That’s kind of a family tradition.”
I laughed softly, leaning into him despite the nerves still buzzing under my skin.
He pressed a kiss to my temple, lingering. “You’re not walking into this alone, Lex. You’re walking in with me.”
I rested my forehead against his chest for a moment, breathing him in, letting the weight of that settle.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’m ready. But if your mom asks me about grandchildren, I’m blaming you.”
His mouth curves into that slow, dangerous smile I know far too well. “I mean,” he says lightly, like he’s talking about the weather, “I wouldn’t be mad about it. Ever. I’m thinking… a lot of babies.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “Hold your horses, biker.”
His brows lift, amused.
“Although,” I add, lowering my voice, “if you keep looking at me the way you do, you might be testing fate.”
His grip tightens on my waist, eyes darkening. “Careful. I might just bend you over here and test fate before dinner.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself, warmth blooming low in my belly. “Promises, promises.”
Before Cole can make good on that wicked look in his eyes, a small voice drifts down the hallway.
“Lexy? Did you see my daddy?”
The spell breaks instantly.
I turn, and there she is—barefoot, pink sweater sliding off one shoulder, dark curls a wild halo around her face. Big serious eyes that always look like they know more than they should.
Angel.
Doc’s daughter. Four years old and somehow already the unofficial heart of this whole rough, loud, complicated place.
I don’t know much about her story. Just pieces I’ve gathered since the day Cole made me his old lady—her mom isn’t in the picture, Doc raises her on his own, and every single brother in this club would burn the world down for that little girl if she asked nicely enough.
She looks between me and Cole, completely unimpressed by whatever charged moment she interrupted.
“Daddy said he’d read me the dinosaur book,” she explains solemnly. “But he disappeared.”
Cole clears his throat, the dangerous heat in his expression melting into something different—softer, almost fond. “He’s probably hiding from the T?Rex,” he says.
Angel considers this. “That’s not very brave.”
I bite back a smile.
“I’ll help you find him,” I say, holding out my hand.
Her small fingers slip into mine without hesitation, warm and trusting in a way that makes something squeeze tight in my chest.
Behind me, Cole goes quiet.
I don’t have to look at him to know what he’s thinking—that this world of leather and engines and sharp edges somehow still holds room for sticky hands and dinosaur books. That maybe there’s space here for more than survival.
Angel tugs me toward the door. “He hides by the kitchen when he’s pretending to work.”
“Good intel,” I tell her seriously.
As she leads me out, I glance back once.
Cole is watching us with an expression I’ve never seen before—unarmed, almost stunned, like the future just walked in wearing scuffed sneakers and asked for her dad.