Chapter 7 - Chloe
I can't believe this is happening. Is this insanity?
My first time… And with an MC president, with a source. I'm going against every journalistic ethic I've ever learned, but it feels so good, so right. He's my protector, after all.
Hellfire slows his movements, his massive hands cupping my ass as he lifts me effortlessly. I gasp as he thrusts deeper inside me, my legs wrapping around his waist.
"Where's the bedroom, sweetheart?" he growls against my neck.
I manage to point down the hall, and he carries me there, his cock still buried inside me. Each step sends shockwaves of pleasure through my body.
He lays me gently on the bed, positioning himself on top of me again. But a surge of boldness takes over, and I try to flip us. He doesn't budge – he's too big, too solid.
"Please," I whisper.
He rolls us over, letting me straddle him. I take a moment to admire his body beneath me – all hard muscle and scars. My fingers trace one particularly jagged line across his chest.
"Do you have more scars from the military or from being a biker?"
"You really can't turn off that journalist brain, can you?" His hands squeeze my hips. "More from being a biker. Lot more hand-to-hand fights in this life."
"Thank you," I say seriously, filing away the information.
"You're welcome. Now, are you going to keep interviewing me, or are you going to ride me?"
Blushing, I start to move. I've never done this before, but I do my best, slowly rocking my hips. The sensation of his thick shaft sliding in and out of me is overwhelming.
"That's it, sweetheart," he encourages, his fingers digging into my flesh. "Find your rhythm."
I brace my hands on his chest, using the leverage to lift myself up before sinking back down. Each movement sends sparks of pleasure through me, and I can't help the loud moans that escape my lips.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," Hellfire growls, his eyes dark with lust as they roam my body.
One of his hands moves to where we're joined, his thumb finding my clit.
The added stimulation makes me cry out. "Oh God, Hellfire!"
"That's right, baby. Say my name."
I ride him faster, chasing the building pressure in my core. His hips start to thrust up to meet mine, burying himself even deeper inside me. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, mixed with our heavy breathing and my increasingly loud moans.
Suddenly, Hellfire sits up, wrapping one arm around my waist to keep me close. The new angle has me squirm, his cock hitting my G-spot over and over again.
"Look at me," he commands, and I force my eyes open to meet his intense gaze. "I want to see your face when you cum."
"Hellfire," I pant, "I'm so close."
"Me too, sweetheart. Come for me. Let me feel you."
His words and the sensations overwhelming my body push me over the edge. I come with a cry, my inner walls clenching around him. The intensity of it surprises me – I've never felt anything like this before.
He follows shortly after, his grip on my waist almost painful as he empties himself inside me. He buries his face in my neck, groaning my name as he pulses inside me.
We stay like that for a moment, connected intimately, both of us breathing heavily. Then he gently lays us back down, still inside me, cradling me against his chest.
As the fog of lust clears, reality starts to set in. I just lost my virginity to the president of the motorcycle club I was supposed to be investigating. I should feel guilty, conflicted. Instead, I feel... safe. Protected. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"You okay?" Hellfire's voice is softer than I've ever heard it.
I nod against his chest.
"Better than okay." I lift my head to look at him. "Is this going to complicate things?"
He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
"Sweetheart, things were complicated the moment you hid behind that dumpster. This... this just means I have even more reason to keep you safe."
I should probably be worried about what that means for my story, for my career. But right now, wrapped in the arms of this dangerous man who makes me feel so protected, I can't bring myself to care.
"Do you regret it?" he asks, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.
"No," I answer without hesitation. "But..." I bite my lip, wondering how to phrase this.
"But what, sweetheart?"
"What does this mean? For us?" I force myself to meet his eyes. "Surely a biker like you wouldn't want to make a young journalist your old lady. Besides… I don’t even know your real name or why you’re called Hellfire."
He shakes his head, something like disappointment crossing his face.
"You think that lowly of me? Think I'd take your virginity and bounce? And I hate saying my real name, but it’s Cole. And Hellfire? Let’s just say that I usually leave my enemies begging for a second to breathe. Sometimes with my fists, sometimes with fire."
"No!" I protest quickly even though hearing him talking about torturing others is scary, "I just... I don't expect you to stay and act all lovey-dovey with me, either, you know? And, thank you. For protecting me. For being honest with me."
A smile tugs at his lips.
"You're right about that part. I'm not the flowers and poetry type." His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek. "But that doesn't mean I'm going anywhere. I'm here to stay, to protect you. Whatever happens after... happens. I've never been one to run from complicated situations, sweetheart. Never will be."
I wrap my arms around him – or try to, at least. His torso is too broad for me to reach all the way around.
"What about the Outlaws article?"
"Write it," he says firmly. "But in the meantime..." He shifts, pulling me closer. "Maybe you'd consider moving to the Clubhouse for a while."
I lift my head to look at him. "The Clubhouse?"
"It's where Angel and I live. The first floor is the bar and the office, but the upper floor's our home." His expression turns serious. "No one would dare try anything there. Not with me around. Not after last time."
“You want me to move in with you?"
"I want you safe," he corrects, but his eyes say something more. "The Outlaws will figure out you're investigating them eventually. When they do, I want you somewhere they can't touch you."
I should probably think this through more carefully. Moving in with a biker I just met, leaving my apartment, my independence... But looking into those amber eyes, feeling his protective embrace, I already know my answer.
"Okay," I whisper.
His eyebrows lift in surprise. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." I trace one of his scars again. "I trust you, remember?"
He growls low in his throat, rolling us over suddenly so he's on top of me again.
"Dangerous thing to say to a man like me, sweetheart."
I feel him hardening against my thigh. "Maybe I like dangerous."
"Good," he says, lowering his head to my neck. "Because you're about to get a lot more of it."
As his lips and hands start exploring my body again, I realize I've crossed more than just one line tonight. I've stepped fully into his world, and somehow… It feels exactly where I belong.
A month later...
After three weeks of living in the Iron & Blood Clubhouse, I'm finally starting to feel at home. It took time to adjust – to fall asleep to the sound of rowdy bikers, to wake up to Angel's cooking, to deal with the suspicious looks that gradually turned into protective nods.
Each member of the MC showed acceptance in their own way.
Butcher, the VP, brings me his mother's cookies every Sunday after his visits, insisting I need to "put some meat on those bones." He's become almost like an uncle, gruff but caring, always making sure I eat properly and checking my car's oil.
Crow and Wrath, the brothers, took it upon themselves to teach me pool and self-defense respectively.
"Can't have the boss's girl not knowing how to throw a punch," Wrath had said, while Crow installed military-grade security on my laptop "just in case."
Ruthless, despite his name, turned out to be quite the handyman, fixing my constantly jamming printer and setting up a proper home office in my room. Of course, his frequent visits might have more to do with catching glimpses of Angel than helping me, but Hellfire pretends not to notice – most of the time.
Maverick, the youngest full member, brings me coffee every morning from the fancy place across town, claiming he "was passing by anyway." We all know he makes the trip because he loves his morning cappuccino, but no one calls him out on it.
And Angel... she's become the sister I never had, teaching me to navigate this new world of leather and chrome, sharing stories about growing up in the MC life, showing me how to handle the constant testosterone surrounding us.
But it's not all domestic bliss.
The article... God, the article. I can still see my editor's face when I presented the evidence.
"Drop it," he'd said. "Pretend you know nothing."
Every newspaper in town gave me the same response – fear masquerading as journalistic integrity.
So, we did it ourselves. The MC members distributed one edition, printed in a shop two towns over, across Cedar Falls.
"HUMAN TRAFFICKING RING EXPOSED: LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT SILENT"—the headline still makes me proud.
Butcher handled the printing contacts, Crow and Wrath organized the distribution routes, and Ruthless and Maverick covered the town in a single night. People are talking, demanding answers from the council, but nothing's been decided yet.
The Outlaws circle the bar like vultures, but they haven't made a move. Not with Hellfire always by my side, his protective streak showing in every possessive touch, every watchful glance. He's everything I never knew I needed – strong, caring, dangerous, and completely devoted in his own gruff way.
Some nights, when the bar is quiet and we're alone in his room, he tells me stories about the club's early days. About how each member joined, about their code of honor, about why they choose to live outside the law but never without principles. Other nights, he shows me exactly why they call him Hellfire, leaving me breathless and marked as his.
A knock on my door pulls me from my thoughts.
"What are you doing?" Hellfire's deep voice carries through the wood.
"Writing," I call back, smiling as he enters without waiting for permission. He never does.
He moves behind my chair, his large hands settling on my shoulders. "More exposés?"
"Actually," I lean back against him, "I'm writing about us."
His hands tighten slightly. "Us?"
"The club," I clarify, though we both know there's more to it. "How you protect the town in your own way. How sometimes the line between right and wrong isn't as clear as people think."
"Dangerous story," he murmurs, but I hear the pride in his voice.
"I learned from the best," I tease, tilting my head back to look at him. "Besides, I have a pretty scary biker watching my back."
He leans down, his lips brushing my ear.
"Damn right you do." His hand slides down to rest on my collarbone. "And your front. And everything in between."
I shiver at his touch, my body responding instantly like it always does.
"I'm trying to work here."
"Work can wait," he growls, spinning my chair around to face him. His amber eyes are dark with desire, and I see that familiar possessive glint that never fails to make me weak. "Your scary biker needs attention."
His hands slide under my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the bed – our bed now, I suppose. Every night spent here has been a reminder of how far I've come from that terrified journalist hiding behind a dumpster, desperate for a story.
I found my story, all right – just not the one I was expecting. Instead of exposing a criminal motorcycle club, I fell in love with its president. Instead of fearing the dangerous world of bikers, I found a family.
And somehow, being wrapped in the arms of a man who most people run from but who holds me like I'm precious makes it even better.
"I love you," I whisper against his neck.
He stills for a moment, then pulls back to look at me.
Those fierce eyes soften just slightly.
"Mine," he growls, and coming from him, that means the same thing.