Chapter 18 Zara
His mouth is still warm against mine when he reaches past me and pushes open his bedroom door.
The kiss we just shared lingers between us—breathless and hungry and a little bit desperate. Bush doesn’t do anything halfway. When he kissed me back, it wasn’t cautious or unsure. It was possessive and promising.
When the door swings inward, he steps aside so I can walk in first. This simple gesture has my stomach flipping. I hesitate on the threshold as I consider the meaning of this moment. I’ve dreamed about this man and this moment since I was fifteen years old.
Back then, he wasn’t Bush. He was Whip—the dangerous biker who leaned against my father’s counter with a clenched-tight jaw and eyes that missed nothing. I didn’t understand the full scope of what the Bushrangers had planned for me. I just knew everything about them felt wrong, except for Whip.
When Whip told my dad to get us out of town, he didn’t explain or soften the message. He saved my life.
I remember the way he looked at me that day—not like I was a bargaining chip or a burden, but like I was something precious that needed protecting. It was the first time a man had ever looked at me that way.
I’ve been carrying that look around in my chest ever since.
Now I’m standing outside his bedroom, about to cross into something I’ve imagined for years, and my confidence wavers.
What if I built him up too much? What if the hero I’ve worshipped in secret can’t live up to the fantasy?
Worse—what if I’m not enough? I’m not fifteen anymore.
I’m not some wide-eyed girl staring at a biker like he’s carved from legend.
I’m a woman. But I can’t stop trembling.
He notices. Of course he does. Bush notices everything.
“Zara,” he says quietly.
Just my name. Nothing more.
I step inside.
The room smells like him—clean soap, leather, something darker underneath. It’s simple. Uncluttered. A reflection of the man himself. The door shuts behind us with a soft click that echoes too loudly in my ears.
My heart pounds.
“I’ve wanted this,” I admit before I can stop myself.
His eyes darken. “So have I.”
That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. For years, he’s been larger than life in my head—untouchable. The idea that he wanted me also feels surreal.
“I used to think about you,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. “After we left. I didn’t even know your real name, but I—”
He closes the distance between us.
“Zara,” he says again, firmer now. His hands settle at my waist, steady and warm. “You were a kid.”
“I know.”
“And I wasn’t a hero.”
“You were to me.”
Something shifts in his expression at that. Not pride. Not arrogance. He almost looks pained. His fingers brush my cheek as I tilt my face towards his. “I’m not perfect,” he murmurs. “I’m not the man you built up in your head.”
“I don’t want perfect,” I whisper. “I want you.”
For a split second, doubt flickers through me again—fear that I’m about to shatter an illusion I’ve held for so long.
Then he kisses me. Slow and intentional.
His lips move against mine like he’s memorizing me, not conquering me.
The nervous thoughts dissolve under the heat.
My hands slide up his chest, feeling the solid reality of him.
This isn’t a fantasy or a memory. This is real.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, our breaths tangled together.
“Are you certain this is what you want?” he asks softly.
And for the first time since I stepped through that door, I know without any doubt that this is exactly what I want and need.
“I want you,” I repeat, as I slide my hands inside his kutte so I can push it off his shoulders.
Instead of letting it fall, I place it gently on the dresser.
I may not know everything about his world, but I know his kutte is important.
When I tug on his shirt, he stops my hands, and for a minute, I think he’s going to reject me, but he smiles.
“My turn,” he says as he unbuttons my blouse. He doesn’t take his eyes off my face until I feel the silk sliding off my shoulders. When he glances at my chest, he sucks in a breath before whispering. “Gorgeous.”
Before I can reach for his shirt again, he reaches behind my back to unfasten my bra.
Using his thumbs, he removes my it, then tosses it onto my shirt.
“Perfection,” he says before lowering his mouth to take my right nipple into his mouth.
His tongue and hot mouth send sparks of pleasure through my system.
But when he sucks, I feel my body bending to his will.
My legs become unsteady as he relentlessly works my nipple into a peak.
He releases it with a pop, but instead of moving to the other side.
He bites my hardened nipple. The bite of pain ramps up my desire.
I paw at his shirt, but he only chuckles at my feeble attempt. Rather than help me, he shifts his focus to my left nipple and starts the process all over. If not for his firm grip on my hips, I’d have melted into a puddle at his feet.
I hear a mewling sound when he releases my nipple.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from me.
Bush chuckles as he slides his hands into the waistband of my slacks.
I don’t remember him unfastening them, but they slide to the floor so that I can step out of them.
I stand naked before him while he’s still fully clothed.
“You grew into a stunning woman, Zara,” Bush murmurs as he guides me to the bed.
Once I’m seated, he treats me to the glory that is his body as he strips in front of me.
First to go is his shirt. I gape at the muscles now on display.
The man is chiseled perfection. I want to lean forward and trace his abs with my tongue.
However, before I can move, his fingers shift to the button of his jeans, freezing me in place.
My mouth goes dry as I study the growing bulge in his jeans as he lowers the zipper.
There is no doubt he’s packing. When the jeans drop to the floor, I take a long look at the magnificent man before me.
I’ve had the pleasure of seeing prime examples of the male specimen, but nothing compares to the god standing before me.
He’s a masterpiece, and I’m a very lucky girl.
“Like what you see, baby girl?” Bush growls as he strokes his dick. I tear my eyes from the drop of pre-cum on the tip to stare into his face.
I let my smile grow as the possibilities for the night wash over me. “Very much,” I reply, my voice husky with desire.
Sliding to my knees, I place my hands on his muscled thighs and breathe deep.
His scent is intoxicating. Somehow it reminds me of home.
I lash out my tongue and lick the tip of his cock, tasting his essence.
My body shudders with pleasure when I hear him suck in a breath.
Emboldened, I wrap my lips around his cock and take him in.
He hits the back of my throat, and I’m frustrated because I can’t take all of him.
Wrapping my fingers around his shaft, I lose myself in the feel of him in my mouth and the taste of him on my tongue.
Bush fucks my mouth. I’m prepared to swallow his cum, but he pulls out before he shoots his load.
I whimper and glare up at him, causing him to chuckle.
“My turn, greedy one,” he chides before lifting me by my armpits and tossing me on the bed.
Grabbing hold of my legs, he spreads them and dives in like a man lost in the desert coming across an oasis.
He lights up my nerve endings as his tongue explores my seams and crevices.
When his finger plunders my slit and finds my G-spot, I buck with pleasure.
I’ve never had a man send me over the edge so quickly.
It’s almost as if he knows my body better than I do.
After he laps up my juices, he reaches over to the nightstand and opens the drawer.
From it, he pulls out a strip of condoms, rips one off, and tosses the others on the bed.
“Those are for later,” he explains with a devilish grin as he tears open the foil in his hand.
He rolls on the condom and positions himself at my slit.
Before penetrating, he leans forward to kiss me.
The taste of me on his lips is amazing. “I hope you weren’t planning on sleeping tonight, because once won’t be enough. ”
I groan at his promise and the feel of his cock stretching me wide. Not only will I not be getting any sleep, but I know I’ll be walking funny in the morning. All I can think is ‘bring it.’