Chapter 25
Chapter
Twenty-Five
KADE
I'm barely out of her when the words spill out.
"Come home with me."
Her eyes shoot up to mine. Wide. Surprised.
"I mean—you said he's out of town until the weekend, right?"
"I can't." She's still holding onto me. Still pressed close. "He tracks my phone, and if he notices I'm not here—" She trails off.
"Oh."
I step back. Pulling up my pants. Giving her space to get dressed too.
Her bra and shirt are crumpled on the floor. I grab them. Hand them to her. The look she gives me is sad. Tired.
"Does he always track you?"
"Always." She starts pulling her clothes on. "He's very—" She stops. Thinks for a minute. "Possessive."
Possessive. The word sits wrong in my gut. That's not possessive. That's controlling. That's fucked up.
"Do you want something to drink now?"
"Nah. I need to go take care of some things."
"Do you have to go?"
"Yeah." I run my hand through my hair. "It feels wrong being here."
She gives me a look.
"I know. This is all wrong. But I don't know—hanging out in his house feels different."
She nods. Understanding even though I'm explaining it like shit.
"Okay," she whispers.
"What time do you need to leave in the morning?"
"I usually leave about seven. Why?"
"Okay. I'll be here at seven to pick you up."
"You don't have to. I can just Uber—"
"You're not Ubering." My voice comes out harder than I mean it to. "I'll pick you up."
"Okay. Thank you."
I pull her back into me. Kiss her again. She deepens it immediately and it's not long before I'm getting hard again. Fuck. I wish I could take her home with me. Fuck her all damn night in my bed where she belongs.
She whimpers into the kiss and I have to pull back before I don't leave at all.
"Fuck." The word groans out of me. "I need to go before I can't leave."
She smiles. Small but real. "Okay. I'll see you in the morning."
"In the morning."
I open the door. Push the garage door button. Look back at her one more time.
She looks so fucking sexy standing there half dressed. Hair a mess. Looking just fucked. I have to resist the urge to stay. To say fuck it and drag her back against that door.
"Goodnight, Peaches."
"Night, Kade."
I turn and walk out before I change my mind.
When I get on my bike, I look up to see her watching me from the doorway. Then she closes the garage door and I'm staring at white paint instead of her face.
I take off. Speeding home. The whole time thinking about ways I can get her to my house for the night without her husband finding out.
The engine roar usually clears my head. Not tonight. Tonight it just gives me space to think. To plan.
He tracks her phone. Fine. Leave the phone at her house.
But how do we do it?
I start working through logistics in my head as the highway blurs past. Her phone's tracked—that's the main problem.
If she leaves it at home and he calls, no answer.
That won't work. He'll lose his shit, maybe come home early.
But what if we forward everything to my phone?
Her calls, her texts, all of it. Keep the bastard thinking she's home safe while she's actually in my bed.
The plan takes shape piece by piece, building until it feels solid.
Possible. By the time I pull into our driveway, I've got it worked out.
"What's up?" Ash says when I walk through the front door.
He's sprawled on the couch with a beer dangling from one hand, legs stretched out like he owns the place.
Which, technically, he does—we all split rent on this cabin.
He goes by Jr. to most people because my dad practically raised him and he was saddled with Reaper Jr., it got old fast. But he's my cousin, we grew up together in the MC, so I use his real name more than most.
"Not much, you?" I ask, heading straight for the kitchen. The familiar weight of the day sits heavy on my shoulders as I grab a beer from the fridge. Pop the top. The metal cap bounces off the rim of the trash can before dropping in.
Havoc walks by just as I'm taking my first sip.
His real name is Tyson but nobody calls him that—hasn't been Tyson since he earned his road name by leaving a trail of broken bodies and shattered relationships everywhere he goes.
He's six-two, solid muscle built from morning workouts and street fights, and intimidating as hell if you don't know him.
Even if you do know him, he's still pretty fucking intimidating.
He stops beside me mid-stride. Sniffs the air with exaggerated curiosity, his nose practically twitching.
"You smell like sex," he announces, continuing toward the fridge like he just commented on the weather. "She smells good though."
Ash's laughter explodes from the living room—loud and obnoxious.
"Don't fucking smell me," I mutter, walking into the living room. I drop into the recliner, beer in hand, trying to ignore the knowing grin spreading across my cousin's face.
Ash leans forward on the couch, getting way too close to my personal space. He makes a show of sniffing dramatically, his nose inches from my shoulder.
"Back the fuck up," I warn, my free hand coming up ready to shove him away.
"I just want to verify Havoc's investigative findings," he says, grin widening to shit-eating proportions. "Scientific method and all that."
"Come any closer and I'll cut your fucking nose off so you can't smell anything ever again."
He laughs harder, finally backing up against the cushions with both hands raised in mock surrender. "Touchy, touchy."
"Thanks for that," I call toward the hallway where Havoc's already disappeared. He just grunts from his room—typical Havoc communication style. The guy's vocabulary consists of grunts, single-word responses, and occasionally full sentences when shit gets serious.
"So who's the lucky girl?" Ash asks, attention fully locked on me now. The TV's still playing some action movie but he's completely forgotten about it. This is better entertainment apparently.
"None of your fucking business."
He laughs again, leaning back with his beer. "Is it Teach? Please tell me it's Teach."
"Oh shit it is, isn't it? Am I right?" He sits forward again, practically vibrating with excitement like he just won the lottery. "The hot teacher who looked at you like she wanted to—"
"Fallon," I interrupt, her name feeling weird to say out loud to someone else. Like making it real beyond just the two of us.
"Wait, is that Teach's name?" He pauses, genuinely trying to remember. "I can't remember."
"Yeah," I confirm.
"Oh shit, you're actually banging your teacher." His smile stretches even wider, impressed and amused in equal measure. "My little cousin, all grown up and seducing the faculty."
"Actually I'm going to try and get her over here sometime this week," I say, watching his expression shift from amusement to interest. "Her husband's out of town for work. Can you not be such a fuck head if she comes by?"
Ash makes a show of considering this, tilting his head and stroking his chin like he's contemplating some deep philosophical question.
I scowl at him hard enough that he should feel it.
"I'm just fucking around. I'll be cool," he says, dropping the act. "I'll even clean. Maybe shower. Really class up the joint for your lady professor."
"She's not—" I start, then stop. Don't know how to finish that sentence. What is she? My teacher? My lover? The married woman I can't stop thinking about? "Just don't make her uncomfortable."
"Scout's honor." He holds up three fingers, which is ridiculous because Ash was never a scout. "So what day you having her over?"
"I don't know yet. Maybe tomorrow night if I can work it out." I take a long pull from my beer, thinking about the logistics again. "But she said her husband tracks her phone so I don't know if she'll be able to come. Might not risk it."
"Easy solution—just have her leave her phone at home," Ash says with a shrug, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Problem solved."
"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking. Forward everything to my phone, she can answer if he calls or texts." I'm already planning it out again, refining the details. "Just need to convince her it'll work."
"Ahh, look at my little cousin." Ash's voice goes soft and mocking. "Hooking up with a real woman. She's fucking hot too, by the way. Like seriously—"
I glare at him hard enough that my jaw clenches.
"Fine, fine," he says quickly, hands up again. "I'll shut up about how hot she is. But you know I'm right."
I do know. That's the problem.
"So how long you two been fucking?" he asks, settling back with renewed interest. This is going to be a whole interrogation now.
"Not long," I answer, keeping it vague.
"How not long?" He's not letting this go. Never does when he gets curious about something.
"Since the gala," I tell him, but I'm already pulling out my phone. My thumb hovers over her contact, wanting to message her but also not wanting to look like a desperate fucker who can't go five minutes without talking to her.
A message pops up before I can make the choice.
Unknown: Thanks for everything today, I had nobody else I could call.
The words hit different than they should. Nobody else. Not a friend, not family, nobody but her eighteen-year-old student. What kind of life is that? The question settles heavy in my chest—uncomfortable and wrong. Who the fuck has she got if I'm her only option when shit falls apart?
Me: You can call me anytime, I'll be there. You don't have to thank me, plus you "thanked" me plenty already.
Unknown: Is it crazy that I already want to "thank you" again?
Fuck. My chest tightens. She wants me. Not just wanted—present tense, right now, already thinking about next time. The knowledge spreads through me like heat.
"You're smiling at your phone like a little bitch," Ash says from the couch.
"Fuck off."
He laughs, the sound carrying across the living room. "I'm just saying, man. Never seen you like this before."
"Like what?" I glance up, challenging him to say it.
"All pussy whipped and shit."
"I'm not pussy whipped." But the denial sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Sure you're not." He grins, clearly enjoying himself. "It's cool though. She seems like a cool chick, plus you're way less angry than usual. It's kinda nice."
I flip him off. He just laughs harder.
"I'm going to my room." I stand and start walking. "Just don't act like—" I pause, looking him over deliberately. "Like you, if she does come over this week."
His laughter follows me down the hall.
I close my door and lean against it for a second, staring at my phone.
Me: I've wanted to be inside of you again since the moment I pulled out.
I save her contact while I'm at it. Just "Peaches" with a peach emoji because apparently I'm that fucking gone for this woman.
Peaches: Maybe you can come in for coffee in the morning if you get here early enough.
My dick hardens instantly. Coffee. Right. We both know what she's really offering, and it sure as fuck isn't coffee.
Me: I would love some coffee.
Peaches: Good, I'll see you in the morning then.
Me: You will. Goodnight Peaches.
Peaches: Goodnight.
I set my phone on the charger on my nightstand and head for the bathroom, already counting down the hours until morning. The shower calls—I need to wash off the day, clear my head, maybe jerk off thinking about what tomorrow morning might bring.
The hot water beats down on my shoulders and back, steam filling the small space.
I brace my hands against the tile and let it pour over me.
But my mind won't shut off. All I can see is her pressed against that door earlier.
The way she looked at me—desperate and wanting and so fucking beautiful it hurt.
The sounds she made when I touched her. The way my name sounded on her lips when she came.
Nobody else to call.
The words circle back, intrusive and wrong. I squeeze shampoo into my palm and work it through my hair roughly. What the fuck kind of marriage leaves a woman that isolated? That alone? Tracks her phone like she's property instead of a person.
My jaw clenches hard enough to ache. The anger surfaces again—that constant simmer that lives just below everything else, always ready to boil over. Daniel Reid. I want to break his fucking face.
I turn the water hotter, trying to burn the rage away. It doesn't work. It never does. Violence is my first language—the only one I'm truly fluent in.
I scrub soap across my chest and arms mechanically, mind already racing ahead. Tomorrow I need to convince her to come here. To my place where Daniel can't track her, can't control her, can't touch her.
I rinse off and shut the water down, stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom.
This thing with Fallon is going to blow up in my face eventually. I know it. She knows it. But fuck if I can stop myself.
I dry off roughly and pull on a pair of grey sweatpants, leaving my chest bare.
I head back to my room and fall into bed, phone within easy reach on the nightstand. The screen lights up briefly—no new messages. She's probably getting ready for bed herself. Maybe thinking about tomorrow morning the same way I am.
Ten hours until I see her again.
Ten fucking hours until I can put my hands on her, kiss her, make her forget about that piece of shit husband and everything else that makes her scared. Ten hours until "coffee."
My eyes close but sleep stays distant. I'm too wired, too keyed up. My mind keeps running through possibilities—what tomorrow morning might look like, how I'll convince her to come here during the week, what I'll do if Daniel finds out.
I force my breathing to slow, willing my body to relax into the mattress. Tomorrow. I'll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight I just need to sleep so I can get to her as early as possible.
Ten hours.
I count them down in my head until finally, eventually, sleep drags me under.