Chapter Eight
Willa
I sat with my shoulder pressed against Nitro’s side, his hand a warm weight against the curve of my belly. The lamp by the armchair cast a soft amber glow across the living room. My body felt different -- heavier, looser -- the strain I’d carried since arriving finally starting to unwind.
I’d been watching Nitro instead of the television for longer than I wanted to admit, studying the hard line of his jaw, the faint crinkle near his eyes whenever something held his full attention.
He stayed perfectly still, but not in the cold, controlled way he carried himself at Church or around the club.
This felt quieter. Softer. His jaw had loosened, his thumb moving once across my stomach in a slow, absent sweep over the fabric.
His gaze stayed fixed on his own hand like he was trying to understand something too big to put into words yet.
The hard edge I’d seen in him since I walked through the gate had eased, replaced by something raw enough to tighten my chest. Awe, maybe.
Or disbelief finally giving way to reality.
The silence between us carried no tension. No pressure to speak or define what was happening. We simply sat there together, his hand on my belly and my shoulder pressed against his arm, both of us understanding the moment mattered without needing to say it out loud.
Then Nitro turned his head and caught me already watching him. Neither of us looked away.
Time seemed to stall. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.
Just a suspended moment where everything else faded into the background.
His gaze locked on mine in the dim light, and something inside my chest shifted, making space for feelings I hadn’t been ready to name.
It wasn’t hunger or the sharp heat I remembered from our night together.
This landed deeper. Recognition. The quiet certainty of being fully seen by someone -- and realizing they weren’t turning away from it.
My breath caught, visible in the slight part of my lips.
His hand went still against my belly, his fingers spreading wider across the curve as if he needed more contact, more proof that what was happening was real.
Gunshots and screeching tires filled the television, but none of it mattered compared to what was happening on the couch.
The room around us -- the couch, the coffee table, the lamp throwing shadows across the wall -- might as well have not existed at all.
What I saw in his eyes hit harder than any claim ever could, catching me completely unprepared. Want. Pure and simple and completely unguarded. The restrained control I’d seen all night gave way to something hungrier -- the look of a man finally allowing himself to take what he wanted.
I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t have explained it if asked. I only knew staying close felt more right than creating distance again.
“I can feel them,” he said, his voice lower than I’d ever heard it.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
His thumb made another slow pass across my belly before going still again. “Are they --” He broke off, frustration clear in the line of his jaw. “Does it hurt? When they move?”
The question landed differently than anything else he’d said -- not a claim, not a demand. Just a direct request for information, for understanding, for the kind of knowledge that came with being the one whose body was changing by the day.
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t hurt. It just… feels like them. Like they’re making themselves known.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s… good.”
He looked at me again. His face grew calm in a deliberate way, his hand rising carefully from his leg like he’d already made the decision and was done fighting it.
Nitro moved first -- unhurried, reading me the way he always did, completely and without rushing it.
He reached up and tucked a wave of dark hair back from my face, his fingers trailing along my jaw, and I didn’t pull back.
My chin tipped up slightly, my hands curling into the fabric of my own shirt at my thighs, a current running under my skin from the point where his fingers had brushed my cheek.
He leaned in and kissed me -- not demanding, not the cold precision of a man issuing a command, but with the calm resolve of a man no longer fighting what he wanted.
His mouth was warm against mine, his breath coming slightly faster than it had been a moment before, his hand still resting against my belly as if he couldn’t bear to break that contact even for this.
I felt the control he was using -- the restraint of a man holding himself back -- and something in my chest cracked open at the sight of it.
I kissed him back.
The moment I did, whatever wall remained between us finally fell.
His hand slid from my belly to my waist, fingers spreading wide against the small of my back, and pulled me closer with a carefulness that didn’t lessen the intensity of what was happening between us.
His other hand moved to my hair, sliding into the dark waves at the nape of my neck, and the kiss deepened until the couch was no longer enough room for what we were doing.
He pulled back just enough to look at my face -- his eyes dark in the low light, his expression stripped of the control he wore like armor. “Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice lower than I’d ever heard it.
I shook my head. “I don’t want you to stop.”
He paused for a moment, then he was kissing me again, his hand in my hair holding me exactly where he wanted me, and I felt when his control began to slip -- the restraint giving way to the raw hunger of a man who’d decided what he wanted and was finally, fully letting himself have it.
He stood, drawing me up with him, one hand still at the small of my back, the other still in my hair.
My body followed without conscious decision -- my feet finding the floor, my hands coming up to grip the front of his shirt for balance.
We stood there for one suspended moment -- chest to chest, his breath warm against my face, my fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
We moved with the intensity of people who’d delayed the inevitable for far too long.
His hands were on my waist, careful of the curve of my belly, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt like I was afraid he might change his mind if I let go.
The hallway barely left room between us, yet Nitro still shifted his body carefully, making sure I never felt trapped against the wall.
The ceiling light was off, just the glow from the living room behind us and the light spilling from the bedroom ahead casting enough illumination to see by.
The bedroom door was already open. The bed was visible beyond it -- queen-size with a gray comforter, and the bedside lamp throwing a warm pool of light across the mattress.
His bed. The thought sent a thrill through me.
We moved toward it together, his hands firm on my waist, my back to the open doorway.
My shoulder blades met the doorframe, the wood cool through the thin cotton of my shirt, and Nitro stopped -- not pulling back, not creating space, just pausing for one suspended moment with his forehead against mine, his breath coming slightly faster than it had been a moment before.
“This okay?” he asked.
I nodded. A flicker crossed his face, something quieter than desire but far more affecting, tightening something deep in my chest.
He walked me backward into the bedroom, his steps measured, his body angled to keep from crowding me, and I let him, moving without hesitation, my attention on his face, my hands still gripping the front of his shirt like I was afraid he might change his mind if I let go.
The room suddenly felt charged with tension as his hands moved over me with steady, focused care.
My calves hit the edge of the mattress, and I stopped, suddenly aware of exactly how close we were to the point of no return.
Nitro felt it too -- I could see it in the way he held himself just far enough away that I could step away if I needed to.
His hands stayed on my waist while his attention held steady on my face, and the pure want in his expression loosened something deep inside me, making room for emotions I’d spent too long holding back.
“I’m sure,” I said. “I want this. I want you.”
He followed me down as I sat, his weight careful beside me on the bed.
Outside, night had settled fully over the compound -- the distant murmur of voices drifting across the yard, the occasional rumble of a motorcycle somewhere beyond the fence, the familiar quiet of Reckless Kings territory after dark.
But inside, none of it mattered. There was only this -- the warmth of his mouth against mine, the steady weight of his hand at the small of my back, and the focused care he brought to every touch like the moment deserved his full attention.
“Tell me what you need.” His voice dropped low enough to brush across my skin. It wasn’t a demand so much as a man making sure I was with him every step of the way. I reached for him.
Nitro undressed me with deliberate attention -- his movements unhurried, his gaze never leaving mine as he reached for the hem of my shirt.
He lifted it over my head with careful hands, his palm brushing the curve of my breast as the fabric passed, and set it aside without looking at it.
Then his hands were on my waist, spanning the full curve of it and the rounded swell of my belly, his palms warm and unhurried against my skin.
He looked at me -- really looked, taking in the changes pregnancy had made to my body -- and his expression held nothing that resembled hesitation or reservation.
His jaw was tight, his eyes dark, and the way he touched me communicated possession and reverence in equal measure.
One hand slid up to cup my breast through my bra, thumb brushing over the nipple in a touch that was both gentle and deliberate.