Chapter Three #2
Jackson turned her around again, his hands firm on her hips.
Her eyes were glassy, lips parted, and the sight of her like this, flushed and compliant, tested every ounce of his control.
He wanted to kiss her, to strip her bare and claim the submission she offered so sweetly.
Instead he rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in.
"This changes things," he said quietly.
"I know."
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. "You're still going to push. I can see it in your eyes. But from now on, when the danger comes, you don't face it alone."
Larkin lifted one hand and traced the line of his beard with her fingertips. "And if I do?"
Jackson caught her wrist, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to the pulse point there. "Then I'll remind you exactly who is in charge. And you'll take every bit of it because you need it as much as I need to give it."
She swallowed hard, the fight draining out of her expression until only heat remained. Jackson released her wrist and stepped back, giving her space to breathe. The apartment felt smaller than before, the books on every shelf watching them with silent judgment.
"I need to go," he said, though every instinct screamed at him to stay. "Club business won't wait, and you need time to think about what just happened."
Larkin nodded, arms wrapping around herself.
She leaned back against the wall, the lingering heat from his hand still buzzing beneath her denim.
It was a dizzying contradiction, one that should have chafed against her fierce independence, but instead, it brought a strange, heavy peace.
For a woman who spent every waking hour fighting to keep control, chasing down leads, and holding her own against corrupt politicians and dangerous men, letting Jackson take the reins felt like a physical release.
She was always the boss of her own life, always the one carrying the weight.
For those few minutes, she hadn't had to think.
She had only had to feel, to yield to a strength that felt safe enough to hold her. “Jackson?”
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For showing up tonight."
He gave her a single nod, then crossed to the door. His hand rested on the knob for a moment before he looked back. She stood exactly where he had left her, back against the wall, cheeks still flushed. The sight burned itself into his memory.
"Lock this behind me," he said. "And don't go anywhere tonight."
"I won't."
Jackson stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut.
He waited until he heard the deadbolt slide home, then headed down the stairs.
Outside, the night air hit his face like a cold splash.
He climbed onto his bike and sat there for a long minute, hands gripping the handlebars, trying to steady the storm inside his chest.
The ride back to the clubhouse passed in a blur of streetlights and engine noise.
Jackson's mind kept circling back to Larkin pressed against that wall, her voice soft and obedient, her body yielding under his hand.
He had crossed a line tonight, one he could not uncross.
The Kings would have plenty to say if they knew he was getting involved with the journalist, but the truth was he had stopped caring about their opinions the moment he saw that knife in the bar.
He parked the bike and walked inside. The main room was quiet, most brothers already gone for the night. Stryker, one of the club's oldest members, sat at the bar nursing a beer, and he lifted a brow when Jackson dropped onto the stool beside him.
"You look like a man who just made a decision he can't take back," Stryker said, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet room.
Jackson signaled for a drink. "Something like that."
"The journalist?"
"She's in deeper than she knows. The Vipers tried to take her out tonight."
Stryker took a slow sip, his weathered face showing the lines of a hundred past club battles. "And you pulled her out."
"Yeah."
"You going to keep pulling her out?"
Jackson accepted the whiskey the bartender slid across the wood. He stared into the amber liquid for a long moment. "I think I have to."
Stryker nodded like that settled something. "Then you better figure out how to keep her safe without losing yourself in the process. Women like that have a way of getting under a man's skin."
Jackson knocked back the drink in one swallow. The burn did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. "She's already there."
He pushed off the stool and headed for his office.
The maps on his desk waited exactly as he had left them, red and blue pins marking a war that was only getting hotter.
Jackson sank into his chair and stared at the pattern, but all he could see was Larkin's face, flushed and trusting, her body still warm from his hand.
Tomorrow he would call a meeting. They needed to tighten security on the businesses, double the patrols, and figure out how Whitaker was feeding information to the Vipers.
Tonight, though, Jackson let himself sit with the memory of her submission, the way she had counted each strike, the way she had called him Sir like it belonged on her tongue.
He knew this was only the beginning. Larkin Jones had walked into his world with fire in her eyes and trouble in her wake.
Now she had given him a piece of herself, and Jackson Reed did not let go of what was his.
The storm was coming, and he would be standing between her and every blade that tried to reach her. Whether she liked it or not.