22. Angel
The ride back to the hotel is a blur of neon lights and the thrumming vibration of the Harley between my thighs. I wrap my arms around Damien’s waist, my fingers hooked into his belt loops.
By the time we hit the suite, the door hasn’t even fully clicked shut before his hands are on me.
He pushes me back against the heavy wood of the door, his body a solid, crushing weight that I welcome.
He kisses me with a desperation that tastes like salt and hunger, his tongue sweeping deep into my mouth.
But then, he pulls back. His chest is heaving, and his eyes are searching mine with that familiar, agonizing caution.
“Angel,” he rasps, his hands sliding up to frame my face, his thumbs stroking over my cheekbones. “We’ll go slow. If you feel even a flicker of what happened last night, you tell me and I’ll stop. I won’t think less of you, baby.”
I look up at him, at the man who would tear the world apart for me but is afraid to touch me too hard. I reach up, covering his hands with mine.
“Damien, look at me,” I whisper. “I love that you want to protect me. But I don’t want to be handled right now. I don’t want to be the broken girl you’re afraid to shatter.”
I slide my hands down his chest, feeling the frantic skip of his heart.
“Treat me the way you would have if none of that had happened. Be yourself. Don’t hold back.”
A low, guttural growl rips from his throat, and the caution in his eyes is incinerated by a dark, possessive fire. “Fuck Angel, are you sure?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
He doesn’t hesitate. He scoops me up, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and carries me to the bed.
He strips me with a raw, focused efficiency, his eyes devouring every inch of skin he uncovers.
When he stands over me, naked and looming, the tattoos on his chest look like living shadows in the dim light of the room.
He crawls onto the bed, looming over me, his knees pinning my thighs apart. He leans down, his mouth find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. He bites—just hard enough to leave a mark, just hard enough to claim the space where those bruises used to be.
“You’re mine,” he mutters against my skin, his voice a dark vibration that makes my toes curl. “Every inch of you. I’m going to mark you so deep you’ll forget anyone else ever tried to touch you.”
His hands are everywhere, rough and calloused, sliding over my ribs, squeezing my hips with a strength that tells me he’s finally stopped holding back.
He moves down, his tongue trailing fire across my belly, before he settles between my legs.
He’s mouth finds the center of me with a directness that makes me arch off the sheets, my fingers tangling in his salt-stiffened hair.
“Damien, please,” I gasp, my head tossing back.
He looks up, his face flushed, his eyes dark and blown out. “Not yet, baby. I want you screaming my name so loud the ocean hears it.”
When he finally moves back up, he doesn’t just enter me; he stakes his claim. He sinks into me in one slow, agonizingly deep thrust that fills me completely. I let out a jagged breath, my eyes fluttering shut as the sheer fullness of him stretches me, anchoring me to the mattress.
“Look at me, Angel,” he commands, his voice dropping into that low, dominant register. “Open your eyes.”
I do, and the intensity in his gaze is enough to make me come undone. He starts to move, his pace slow and punishingly deep. Each thrust is a statement of ownership. His hands slide under my lower back, lifting me to meet him, making sure there is no space left between us.
“You feel that?” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear as he picks up the rhythm. “You feel how well you take me? You were made for me, Angel. No one else.”
His voice is a low-frequency hum, a stream of possessive praise that fuels the fire in my blood.
“I want to fill you up so much there’s no room for anything else,” he grunts, his movements becoming more frantic, more primal.
He leans down, his sweat dripping onto my chest, his nose brushing mine.
“I want to put a baby in you. I will put a baby in you, knowing I’m the only one who ever got to plant that seed.”
The thought of it—of Damien’s child, of a life created from this heat and this fierce, protective love—sends a violent shudder through me. My walls clinch around him, and I can see the moment his control snaps.
“Yeah?” he growls, seeing the reaction in my eyes. “You want that? You want everyone in that clubhouse to see you and know your husband claimed you for good?”
“Yes,” I sob, my heels digging into the backs of his thighs, pulling him deeper. “Yes, Damien. Please. Give it to me. Give me everything.”
He let’s out a ragged, broken sound, his pace turning into a blur of friction and power.
I’m panting, my skin slick with our shared sweat, the world reduced to the feeling of him inside me and the scent of salt and leather.
The climax hits me like a tidal wave, a total white-out that makes my vision go dark.
I scream his name into the quiet room, my body shaking with the force of it.
Damien follows me a second later, a low, guttural roar escaping him as he thrusts one last time, pinning me to the bed with his entire weight. I feel the warmth of him, the sheer, overwhelming evidence of his claim, and I pull him down, my arms locking around his neck.
We lay there for a long time, the only sound the frantic thud of our hearts and the distant crash of the waves.
Slowly, his breathing evens out. He shifts just enough to roll us onto our sides, keeping us joined as he pulls the duvet over our tangled limbs. He tucks my head under his chin, his hand resting firmly on my stomach, his fingers splayed wide as if he’s already protecting what we talked about.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice fading into the edge of sleep.