Chapter 2 #2
Closer than he usually lets himself get inside the clubhouse, where anyone could walk in.
I set the mug in the dish rack and turn around.
He's standing two feet away, filling the doorway between the kitchen and the hall with his shoulders, his tattoos, and that goddamn red bandana.
His dark eyes are locked on mine, and there's nothing casual about the way he's looking at me.
My mouth goes dry.
"What are you here for?" I ask. My voice comes out steady, which is a miracle because my heart is slamming against my ribs hard enough that he can probably see the pulse in my throat.
He doesn't answer.
He just looks at me, his jaw tight under his beard, his hands at his sides.
I watch his fingers flex once.
Open, close. Like he's holding himself back by force.
"Emiliano." I say his name the way I always do—soft, deliberate, like I'm unwrapping it.
His whole body reacts. A shift in his shoulders, a slight drop in his chin. His eyes go darker.
"Don't," he says. His voice is rough, scraped raw. "Don't say my name like that right now."
"Like what?"
"Like you know what it does to me."
The kitchen is small.
Four steps between the sink and the door.
He's taking up most of that space, and I can practically taste it—adrenaline and the leather-and-soap smell of his skin.
I know the smart thing to do.
The smart thing is to laugh it off, make a joke, break the tension the way I've been breaking it for weeks.
Turn it into banter. Keep it safe, but I'm tired of safe.
I've been circling this man for a month and I'm done pretending I don't want him.
"What if I do know?" I take a step toward him. One step. "What if I know exactly what it does to you, and I say it anyway?"
His jaw tightens. His hands flex again. He hasn't moved.
He's not going to make this easy for me—he's going to stand there, burn, and let me decide.
Because Doom doesn't take. He waits.
And right now he's waiting for me to tell him what I want, which is either the most infuriating or the hottest thing a man has ever done.
"Emiliano."
I put my hand flat on his chest, right over his heart.
It slams against my palm—fast, hard, like it's trying to break through his ribs.
His skin burns hot even through the thin fabric of his shirt, and I feel the subtle vibration of the groan that rumbles up from his throat.
His hand finds my hair. Fingers thread through the dark brown strands, then grip tight at the root.
He yanks my head back, and I'm gasping before his mouth even crashes into mine.
The kiss is brutal. Consuming. His tongue pushes past my lips like he's trying to devour me whole, and I'm drowning in the taste of him—mint and whiskey and something darker, something purely him.
I grab the silver chain around his neck and pull him closer, needing more, needing everything.
He walks me backward. My shoulders hit the wall first, but he doesn't stop there.
His hands drop to my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and then I'm being carried, my legs wrapped around him, my fingers tangled in his short curls.
He sets me on the counter, the marble ice-cold against my bare thighs.
I hiss at the temperature difference—freezing stone against my skin, scorching heat radiating from his body.
He steps between my spread legs, and I feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against my core through too many layers of fabric.
"Look at me," I whisper.
His eyes meet mine. Pupils blown wide, swallowing the warm brown until there's barely a ring left.
His breathing comes ragged, chest heaving. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
"Tell me to stop," he says, voice rough like gravel. "Tell me to stop and I will."
"I don't want you to stop."
The words barely leave my mouth before he's pulling me off the counter.
My feet hit the floor, and then he's dragging me down the hallway, his grip almost bruising on my wrist.
I love it. Love the way he's barely holding himself together, the way his control is fraying at the edges with every step.
His bedroom door kicks open.
He turns and yanks his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and—
God.
I've seen him shirtless before, but this is different.
This is for me.
The tattoos I've only caught glimpses of are on full display now—ink sprawling across his chest, his arms, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
His skin is beautiful, warm brown glowing in the low light, muscles shifting beneath as he moves.
He sees me looking.
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face before he's on me again, walking me backward until my knees hit the mattress.
I fall, and he follows immediately, covering my body with his.
The weight of him pins me down, and I arch up, desperate for friction.
He doesn't speak. His hands do the talking—sliding under my shirt, calloused palms dragging across my stomach, my ribs, pushing the fabric up until he can see the lace of my bra.
He makes a sound low in his throat, almost pained, and ducks his head to press his lips to the swell of my breast.
"Emiliano—" His name breaks apart in my mouth as his fingers find my nipple through the lace, rolling, pinching. "Right there. There."
He lifts his head, watching my face as his other hand works at my jeans.
The button pops free. The zipper drags down. Then his fingers slip beneath the waistband of my panties, and I'm lifting my hips, helping him strip me bare.
"Fuck," he breathes when he sees me. Just fuck, nothing else, but the way he says it—reverent and hungry and desperate—makes heat flood through me.
He sheds his jeans and boxers in one motion.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, curving up toward his stomach.
I reach for him, wrapping my fingers around his length, and his whole body shudders.
"You're going to kill me," he mutters.
"Good."
I guide him to my entrance. He notches himself there, the broad head of his cock pressing against my opening, and stills.
His arms bracket my head, muscles trembling with restraint.
I look up at him—really look at him.
The sharp line of his jaw. The furrow between his brows. The way his lips part on a shaky exhale. He's beautiful like this. Undone.
"Look at me," I tell him again. "Don't close your eyes."
He nods once, a jerky movement, and then he pushes inside.
The stretch is intense.
My body resists at first, too tight, too full, but he's patient—rocking in by increments, letting me adjust, whispering praise I can barely hear over the thundering of my own heart.
When he's finally seated to the hilt, I feel him everywhere.
In my chest. In my throat. In the spaces between my ribs.
"Move," I gasp. "Please—move."
He pulls back and slams home.
The pace he sets is relentless.
Each thrust drives me into the mattress, the headboard slamming against the wall in a rhythm that matches my racing pulse.
I'm loud—I can't help it—crying out with every snap of his hips, words spilling from my mouth in English and Spanish, everything blending together.
"Sí, sí, así—right there, don't stop—"
He groans like he's dying. His hand finds my clit, thumb pressing against the swollen bud, and I arch off the bed, a scream catching in my throat.
"Come for me," he demands. "Give it to me—now."
The orgasm tears through me.
My whole body locks up, walls clenching tight around him, and I bury my teeth in his shoulder to muffle the scream that rips from my lungs.
He fucks me through it, pace turning erratic, chasing his own release.
Three more thrusts. Four. Then he buries himself deep and freezes, a sound tearing from his throat—barely human, raw and primal.
I feel him pulse inside me, feel the heat of his cum flooding my walls, and I hold him through it, fingers tracing the sweat-slick muscles of his back.
We stay like that for a long moment.
His weight collapses onto me, heavy and grounding, his breath hot against my neck.
I can still feel his heart pounding against my chest—fast, hard, matching the rhythm of my own.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are soft. Vulnerable.
He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it again.
I brush a thumb across his jaw.
"Stay," I whisper.
He doesn't answer in words. He just pulls me closer, tucks my head beneath his chin, and lets the silence say everything that needs saying.
We lie in his narrow bed, breathing hard, the sheets tangled around our legs.
The room smells like sex and sweat and the faint trace of that soapy scent that clings to everything he owns.
He hasn't moved. He's on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
I'm on my side next to him, my head on the pillow, watching his chest rise and fall.
His tattoos look different in the low light—darker, the lines blurring into shadow.
He hasn't kicked me out. He hasn't rolled over and gone to sleep.
He hasn't reached for his phone, his jeans, or any of the exit strategies men use when they want you gone but won't say it.
He's just lying there, and I can feel the tension in him—not the sexual kind.
The kind that comes from a man who doesn't know what to do with someone who stays.
I reach over and trace a line of ink across his chest.
A wing, maybe, or a feather.
The design is intricate, layered, the work of someone who sat in a chair for hours.
"I'm not leaving," I tell him. Not a question. Not asking permission.
He turns his head and looks at me.
Those dark eyes, still guarded, but something underneath that's different than it was an hour ago.
Softer isn't the right word. Doom doesn't do soft. But the guard has dropped half an inch, and from him, that's everything.
"Okay," he says.
One word. That's all he gives me.
I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat slow down, and his arm comes around my shoulders, and he holds me like he's not sure he's allowed to, but he's going to do it anyway.
We fall asleep like that.
His hand in my hair. My palm flat over his heart.