Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
FALLON
He cuts the engine and we both remove our helmets.
I swing my leg over, dismounting as carefully as I can manage in my dress, but before my feet fully touch the ground, his hand catches mine.
The contact is electric—his calloused fingers closing around my wrist with possessive certainty.
He tugs me back toward him, pulling me close to where he's still seated on the bike, positioning me between his spread thighs.
"I need a minute," he says, and his voice comes out rough—gravel and want mixed together in a way that makes my stomach flip.
"You okay?" I ask, searching his face for whatever's wrong. My free hand comes up instinctively to touch his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my palm.
He chuckles—dark and deeply amused—then brings my hand down, placing it directly on his pants where he's unmistakably hard. The heat of him radiates through the denim. My breath catches in my throat, shock and arousal flooding through me in equal measure.
"Oh," I whisper, but then—God help me—I rub him through the denim without thinking. My palm presses against the rigid length of him and I feel him twitch in response. He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest as he pulls me down to kiss me with desperate intensity.
"This is not helping my problem," he whispers against my lips, but his hips rock into my touch anyway, betraying how much he wants it despite the complaint.
"I'm sorry," I say breathlessly, but I don't stop. I can't stop. My hand keeps moving, stroking him through the fabric, fascinated by every growl that rumbles from his throat, every involuntary thrust of his hips.
"If you don't stop, I'm going to pull you on top of my lap and fuck you right here in the open." His voice drops lower, darker, more dangerous. "Put on a show for everyone who works here."
A whimper escapes me at the thought—unbidden and desperate.
The idea of him claiming me where anyone could see, showing everyone exactly who I belong to, marking me as his in the most primal way possible.
My thighs clench together involuntarily.
But reality crashes back like cold water and I pull my hand away, stepping back on shaky legs.
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
After what feels like an eternity—probably only a few minutes—he gets off his bike and leads me inside. His hand finds mine again, fingers lacing through mine with casual possessiveness that still makes my pulse race.
He introduces me to a guy named Nick at the counter wearing a cut that says "prospect" like Kade's.
He's nice—friendly smile that reaches his eyes, easy manners that suggest he's used to putting people at ease.
Brown hair, average height, the kind of guy you'd pass on the street without thinking twice except for the MC vest. Then Kade takes my hand again and I tense for a second—a reflex I can't quite control yet—still not used to this casual display of affection in public where someone who knows Daniel might be anywhere.
He notices immediately because of course he does.
He always notices. Stopping just inside the large open bay area full of bikes and the sharp scent of motor oil and metal, he turns to face me.
He kisses me right there in front of everyone.
Not a small kiss either—not some chaste peck meant for show.
This one is full of tongue and possession, claiming and demanding, the kind that makes me weak in the knees and forget my own name.
Makes me forget where we are, forget that people are watching, forget everything except the taste of him and the feel of his hands gripping my hips.
Someone whistles—long and appreciative—and I smile into the kiss despite myself, feeling bold and wanted and utterly reckless.
Kade pulls back slowly, reluctantly, eyes holding mine with intensity that steals my breath. "Here we are free to do anything. Here you're mine, so relax, Peaches." His thumb rubs my cheek with devastating gentleness. "No one here gives a fuck about your husband or his rules."
His.
That word sticks in my head, embedding itself somewhere deep where I'll examine it later when I'm alone and can afford to fall apart over what it means.
"Sup, Teach?" A deep voice interrupts and I freeze instinctively—every muscle locking up in preparation for threat. My shoulder blades press together as I make myself smaller without conscious thought.
"It's okay, it's my cousin Ash. You met before," Kade says immediately, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my lower back until I relax slightly, turning to see the guy approaching.
He's tall—maybe six feet—with dark messy hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed and didn't care enough to fix it.
He's wearing ripped jeans that might be designer or just genuinely destroyed, and a vintage band tee under his cut.
He moves with the easy confidence of someone who's never met a stranger, never walked into a room and worried about his welcome.
I remember him being one of the guys with Kade when he crashed my dinner at the pizza place—the one who couldn't stop grinning.
"Hey," I say, managing something resembling normal speech despite my racing heart.
"It's nice to see you again." His grin widens impossibly, dimples deepening. "I see he finally wore you down. About fucking time."
"Shut up," Kade tells him without any real heat, but there's warning in his tone that his cousin cheerfully ignores.
"I wanted to take a look at her car real fast," Kade says, squeezing my hand once before releasing it.
"Okay, I put it over there." He points toward the far end of the garage where I can see my little sedan—the only car in this entire sea of motorcycles, looking painfully out of place.
"You can go get started and I'll show Teach around," Ash says, already moving to my side like it's decided.
"Fallon," I correct gently but firmly.
"Right." But the grin doesn't fade even a fraction. If anything, it widens, like my correction amuses him.
"Be good," Kade tells him with the weary tone of someone who knows the warning won't be heeded.
"Who, me? I'm always good." Ash's hand gestures theatrically toward the garage, playing at innocence so badly it's almost charming. "Come on, Teach. I'll bring you back to him in a few. Promise not to corrupt you too badly."
He ignores my correction completely, still calling me Teach as he takes me around the garage with running commentary.
He introduces me to people who are all scarier than the last—bikers and mechanics with hard eyes and harder lives written in the scars on their hands.
Including Havoc, who I met briefly at the pizza place too.
Up close, he's even more intimidating with those dark intense eyes that don't blink often enough and perpetually bruised knuckles that suggest violence is his default language.
He's massive—six-two of solid muscle—with his black hair buzzed short on the sides.
When he nods at me, it feels like being assessed by a predator deciding if you're prey or pack.
Then there's Spider, who makes my breath catch and not in a good way.
Tall and dangerous with copper skin stretched tight over muscle, and that spider web tattoo creeping out from under his longer hair across the shaved portions of his scalp like some beautiful, terrible warning.
He's polite though—extends his hand with formal old-school courtesy that somehow makes him more unsettling rather than less.
His voice is pure gravel when he says "Ma'am," and his handshake is carefully measured, like he's constantly aware of his ability to hurt.
And then a terrifying giant named Sevyn who doesn't speak at all—not even a greeting.
He just unfolds from his chair like some Norse god rising from his throne, towering over everyone at what must be six-six, covered in intricate tattoos that crawl up his neck and peek from his collar.
But somehow, despite the overwhelming size and intimidating presence, he has the kindest, safest eyes I've ever seen.
Ice blue and observant, seeing everything, judging nothing.
He shakes my hand carefully, like he's afraid of his own strength, his enormous palm engulfing mine completely but applying no pressure at all.
In the break room—a surprisingly normal space with a coffee maker and microwave and fridge covered in magnets—Ash offers me a water and introduces me to an older guy wearing the same cut as the others.
The patch says his name is Hammer, his hair greying at the temples and smile lines around his eyes.
So many weird names in this world. But he's genuinely nice—fatherly almost, immediately asking if I need anything, making sure I'm comfortable, offering me a seat like we're in his living room instead of a motorcycle shop.
On our way back over to Kade, another man approaches us with measured strides that suggest he never hurries for anyone.
He's tall—over six foot like all of these men seem to be—with dirty blonde hair that's messy in that deliberate way that probably takes effort to achieve.
A full beard frames his jaw, and steel grey eyes assess everything with the calculating precision of someone who misses nothing.
He's muscular and well-maintained despite being older than most of the others, maybe early forties, moving with the quiet authority of someone who's been in charge so long he doesn't need to announce it anymore.
His cut says "President" in bold letters, and every line of his body screams danger wrapped in control.
"Oh, this is about to get fun," Ash says under his breath, but there's something gleeful in his tone that suggests he's looking forward to whatever's coming.
"What? Why?" I ask nervously, but he just turns to the man with a grin that's pure troublemaker.
"Reaper," Ash greets him with easy familiarity.
Reaper. What kind of name is Reaper? And why does it send a chill down my spine?
"Who's this?" the man says, nodding toward me with those assessing grey eyes that feel like they're cataloguing everything about me in seconds.
"I'm Fallon," I say, holding my hand out and refusing to let him intimidate me despite every instinct screaming to make myself smaller, to apologize for existing in his space.
My chin lifts almost defiantly and I meet his eyes directly—something Daniel trained out of me that I'm slowly, painfully reclaiming.
"This is Walker Stone, Kade's dad," Ash supplies helpfully, watching this interaction like it's better than television. "And Fallon is, uh—"
"Kade's friend," I jump in quickly before Ash can say something that will make this worse. Friend feels safer than whatever truth we're actually living.