5. India
INDIA
Iwake up sore in the best possible way.
My thighs ache. My hips are tender where his fingers dug in. There's a pleasant throb between my legs that reminds me of everything we did last night — and everything he did to me.
I stretch slowly, feeling the pull in muscles I forgot I had, and smile into the pillow.
The bed beside me is empty, but the sheets are still warm. He hasn't been gone long.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, replaying last night in my head. The way he kissed me. The way he touched me. The way he fucked me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
No one's ever made me feel like that before.
I've had sex. Good sex, even. But nothing like last night. Nothing that left me shaking and speechless and completely wrecked.
And then he did it again. Because once wasn't enough for him.
I press my thighs together and feel the ache intensify. I should probably be embarrassed by how much I liked it. How much I liked him — the commands, the control, the way he knew exactly what my body needed before I did.
But I'm not embarrassed. I'm just... wanting more.
The door opens and Ghost walks in carrying two cups of coffee. He's shirtless, wearing just jeans that hang low on his hips, and the sight of him — all muscle and tattoos and tanned skin — makes my mouth go dry.
"You're awake," he says.
"Barely."
He hands me one of the cups and sits on the edge of the bed. I push myself up against the headboard, holding the sheet against my chest, and take a sip. It's perfect — black, strong, exactly how I take it.
"How'd you know how I like my coffee?"
"Watched you make it yesterday."
Of course he did. This man notices everything.
We drink in silence for a minute. It should be awkward — the morning after, neither of us sure what to say — but it isn't. The quiet feels comfortable. Easy.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Sore."
Something flickers in his eyes. "Too sore?"
"I didn't say that."
He sets his coffee on the nightstand and takes mine, setting it aside too. Then he's pulling the sheet away from me, baring my body to the morning light.
"Ghost—"
"I want to see you." His eyes move down my body slowly, taking in every inch. The marks he left on my hips. The faint bruise on my collarbone where he sucked too hard. The redness between my thighs from how thoroughly he used me last night. "Make sure I didn't hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me."
"No?" He traces a finger over the bruise on my collarbone, and I shiver. "This says otherwise."
"That's not hurt. That's..." I search for the word. "Evidence."
His eyes darken. "Evidence of what?"
"That last night actually happened. That I didn't dream it."
He's quiet for a moment, his finger still tracing my skin. Then he leans down and presses his mouth to the bruise, kissing it gently.
"It happened," he murmurs against my skin. "And it's going to happen again."
"Now?"
"Now."
He kisses his way down my body, slow and deliberate. Nothing like last night's urgency. This is something else entirely — tender, almost reverent. He kisses the marks on my hips. The inside of my thighs. The crease where my leg meets my body.
And then he settles between my legs and looks up at me.
"Watch me."
I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as he lowers his mouth to my pussy. The first lick is soft, exploratory, and I sigh at the sensation. He's gentle — so gentle it almost drives me crazy — his tongue tracing slow patterns through my folds.
"Ghost..."
"Shh. I've got you."
He takes his time. Learns me all over again, like last night was just a rough draft and this is the real thing. He licks and sucks and teases until I'm trembling, my hands fisting in the sheets, my hips rolling against his face.
"Please," I breathe. "I need more."
He slides two fingers inside me and I moan, my head falling back. He curls them, finding that spot, and strokes it slowly while his tongue works my clit.
It builds differently this time. Not the explosive urgency of last night, but something deeper. A slow wave gathering strength, pulling me under inch by inch.
"That's it." His voice vibrates against me. "Let it take you."
I come with a long, low moan, my whole body shuddering, my pussy clenching around his fingers. He works me through it, gentle and relentless, drawing out every last tremor.
When I finally go still, he kisses his way back up my body and settles over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
"Good morning," he says.
I laugh breathlessly. "Good morning yourself."
He's hard against my thigh — I can feel him straining against his jeans — but he doesn't move to do anything about it. Just looks down at me with those dark eyes, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just looking."
"At what?"
"You." He pauses. "I like seeing you in my bed."
Something warm blooms in my chest. This man — this grumpy, closed-off, monosyllabic man — keeps saying things that undo me completely.
I reach for his belt. "I like being in your bed. But I'd like it more if you were in me."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
He sheds his jeans and settles between my thighs, and when he pushes inside me it's slow and deep. We both groan at the sensation — me because I'm still sensitive from last night, him because... I don't know why. Because it feels as good for him as it does for me, I hope.
He moves slowly. Long, deep strokes that make me feel every inch of him. His eyes stay locked on mine, and there's something vulnerable in his gaze that wasn't there last night.
Last night was fucking. This is something else.
"You feel so good," he murmurs. "You have no idea."
"Show me."
He does. He makes love to me — that's the only word for it — slow and sweet and devastating. He watches my face like he's memorising it. He kisses me like I'm something precious. He moves inside me like we have all the time in the world.
When I come, it's quiet. A soft cry, my body arching into his, my pussy fluttering around his cock. He follows me over a moment later, burying his face in my neck, groaning my name.
We lie there tangled together, breathing hard, neither of us willing to move.
"Ghost?" I say eventually.
"Yeah?"
"What's your real name?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Ghost."
I smile against his shoulder. "Stubborn."
"You keep asking."
"I'll keep asking until you tell me."
He presses a kiss to my temple. "We'll see."
An hour later, I need air.
Ghost had to meet with the brothers — something about tracking how Harris found me — and the walls of the clubhouse are starting to feel like they're closing in.
I've been here for three days. I haven't been alone for more than five minutes.
I'm grateful, I am, but I'm also starting to feel like I can't breathe.
I slip out the back door onto the porch. The yard behind the clubhouse is quiet — dusty and hot and empty. I sit on the steps for a while, letting the sun warm my face, trying to clear my head.
That's when I see the cat.
It's a scraggly tabby, sitting just outside the chain-link fence, watching me with pale green eyes. It meows — a pitiful, hungry sound — and my heart melts.
I glance around. No one's out here. The prospect who's supposed to be watching the back perimeter is nowhere in sight. And the cat's not far. Maybe ten feet past the fence, in the shade of a scraggly bush.
It's not really leaving. It's right there.
I walk to the fence, unlatch the gate, and step through. The cat meows again and I crouch down, holding out my hand.
"Hey, baby. You hungry? Come here."
The cat approaches cautiously. I scratch behind its ears and it starts to purr, pushing its head into my palm.
"There you go. Good kitty. You're sweet, aren't you? Just a little—"
"Hello, India."
I freeze.
I know that voice. I know it intimately — three years of hearing it in my ear, telling me where to go, what to avoid, who to trust.
I stand up slowly and turn around.
Harris is standing five feet away from me. He looks the same as always — clean-cut, professional, the kind of face you'd trust to keep you safe. He's wearing a baseball cap and a plain jacket, nothing that would draw attention.
But his eyes. His eyes are wrong. Flat and hungry and fixed on me like I'm the only thing in the world.
"You look good," he says. "Rested. The biker must be taking care of you." His mouth twists. "For now."
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. The clubhouse is right there — twenty feet away — but it might as well be miles. I take a step back and he takes a step forward, closing the distance.
"Don't do that." His voice is soft. Reasonable. The same voice he used for three years to tell me everything was okay. "Don't run. We're just talking."
"We're not talking. You need to leave me alone."
"Leave you alone?" Something shifts in his face.
A flicker of genuine confusion, like I've said something absurd.
"I gave you three years, India. Three years of my life.
I kept you safe when no one else could. I was there — every show, every city, every night.
And you never even looked at me. Not once. "
"You were my security. That was your job."
"It was more than a job." His voice hardens. "You know it was more than that. I saw how you smiled at me. How you trusted me. You let me closer than anyone, and then you just — what? Let your manager throw me away like I was nothing?"
"Harris, that's not how it was."
"I earned you." The mask slips, just for a second. Something ugly underneath. "Three years. I earned the right to be seen. To be chosen. And instead you spread your legs for some biker you've known for a week?"
The words hit like a slap. This isn't the Harris I knew — calm, professional, controlled. This is someone else entirely. Someone who's been hiding underneath the whole time.
"You don't get to talk to me like that."