Chapter Fifteen #2
Red. Too short, too tight, bought with half a case of Maverick’s moonshine. She’d let every man in the place see the dress and not the table, and by the time the bets got high enough, she and Nash had cleaned them out.
Then Nash’s laughter. Her hands in his hair, the sting of brick at her back, bills fluttering into the dirt. The two of them half drunk, half victorious, not caring who saw.
Cassie exhaled hard through her nose, her hand trembling just enough as she lined up the shot. The ball kissed the rail before dropping—a shaky clean. Groans and cheers rippled through the crowd.
“Corner pocket,” she said, leveling her cue.
Nash stepped closer, still crowding the space around her like he owned it.
“Side’s cleaner.”
“I said corner.”
“Still stubborn as shit,” he replied—and this time it almost sounded like respect.
Behind them, Snake crowed, “Ten bucks says they don’t make it to game three before he’s got her bent over the table.”
Another voice answered, “You’re on, brother.”
Heat crawled up Cassie’s neck. She bent for the final shot, nostrils flaring—and sank the eight.
The room went wild—cheers and laughter amid bills changing hands. Somewhere in the din, Crusher hollered, “That’s two down! Y’all wanna give her the crown now or later?”
Cassie didn’t hear the rest. Her eyes were on Nash—brow cocked.
His expression remained infuriatingly unchanged. He took a slow step closer, the corner of his mouth kicking up like he already knew the answer. “Unless you’re scared.”
“Scared?” She huffed a laugh. “Of you?” She stepped in and slapped the rack hard against his chest. “Not a chance.”
He caught it—caught her hand, too. His grip was warm, calloused, far too sure of itself. “Hell, Strawberry, I might be the only thing you’ve ever been scared of,” he murmured, his thumb dragging rough over her knuckles.
Her first instinct was to rip her hand back and make a joke. Instead, she stayed put, watching his pupils blow wide, feeling her whole body reply in kind. The noise around them winked out, the air between them thickening with need so naked it nearly liquefied her.
A low whistle cut through the haze. “Jesus Christ, just fuck already!”
The noise came roaring back, and Cassie, cursing, jerked her hand free, shoulder-checking Nash as she shoved past him and through the ring of bodies. The front door slammed behind her, muting the roar of laughter that followed her exit.
Out back, she hit the wall hard, sagging against it. Her breath caught, broke, and caught again.
She pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to pull herself together.
That look of his, that mouth of his—that smirk, that smile, that no-good drawl still curling through her like a live wire, pulsing hotter with each breath.
She dragged a palm down her face and cursed.
She was so damn screwed.
The rack hung loose in Nash’s hand, the cue still in the other. He stood there, pulse hammering, Cassie’s shove still burning through him.
Sally’s had already moved on—laughter fading as boots scuffed and chairs scraped. Someone called for shots; the jukebox kicked up another rowdy tune.
But around the pool table, it stayed quiet until a local let out a low whistle. “Well, shit. That went down ’bout as smooth as rocks.”
A patch leaned against the next table, smirking. “Shoulda pushed for five outta five, man. Might’ve had a shot at gettin’ laid before she near took your hand off.”
“She didn’t take his hand,” Snake sneered. “Just his balls.”
The cue creaked in Nash’s grip.
Twelve years gone. Connor dead. Cassie back in town. Both Berrys spinning his whole goddamn world again.
The funeral. Cassie’s hand in his. Cassie on his goddamn bike. Cassie at the pool table.
That look on her face when he mentioned Wytheville—she damn well remembered. But it wasn’t just memory standing between them. It was heat. Old and dangerous and still very fucking alive.
He slammed the cue against the table, snapping it clean in two, then hurled one half at Snake. Snake ducked, and the broken shaft smacked the guy behind him square in the chest. The rack went next, whipped across the room like a Frisbee.
“Anybody else?” Nash thundered.
Sally’s went dead quiet—the kind of silence that follows a gunshot. Nash’s jaw flexed once, then he turned on his heel and stalked for the door, boots thudding, the crowd splitting wide to give him space.
He shoved through the door, the night hitting him cool and sharp after the sweat and smoke inside.
He stood there a beat, chest heaving, throat working around a curse he didn’t bother saying.
When he didn’t see Cassie, he started moving—following the edge of the building until the light fell away, the noise behind him fading to crickets and the faint thrum of bass through the walls.
He found her out back, pressed to the siding, head tipped against it, eyes closed. Her eyes flicked open as he stepped closer—then shut again, like maybe she could wish him gone.
Fuck that.
He stopped beside her, leaned a shoulder to the wall, and looked.
The sleek slope of her throat. The rise and fall of her chest. Silk clinging to the soft curves of her breasts, her nipples tight against the fabric.
His gaze drifted lower—to the subtle dip of her stomach, the dangerous flare of her hips—
His fingers twitched, curling into fists before they did something stupid. The air between them grew hot and close, humming with leftover adrenaline.
“Since when do you run from winning?” he muttered, voice rough.
She huffed, nostrils flaring, chest lifting higher. “The game was over,” she ground out softly.
“Was it?” He leaned in before he could stop himself, mouth brushing her ear, feeling her breath hitch. “You don’t look done, Cas.”
Her eyes flew open and she spun—whether to slap him or grab him, he didn’t wait to find out. He caught her wrist mid-motion and pinned her back to the wall. Her free hand hit his chest, twisting in his shirt—
“Fuck you,” she bit out.
“You got it,” he bit back.
—and then his mouth was on hers, hard and fast, more collision than kiss. He jammed his tongue past her lips; her fist clenched tighter in his shirt, pulling him in…right before her knee shot up. He tore back, just missing it.
Eyes flashing, she swiped the back of her hand hard across her mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you,” she seethed.
He bared his teeth—half grin, half growl. “Still like it mean when you’re pissed.”
Cassie lunged, spitting curses. Nash half caught her, not sure if she meant to hit or kiss him—until both happened at once.
Mouths rough, hands grasping, they hit the wall together—the thud of it rattling the siding.
Cassie gasped, hands fisting in his shirt—dragging him closer.
Nash’s palms ran the length of her body, greedy, gripping, until they found her hips—then lower, grabbing hold of her ass and lifting her clean off the ground.
Her legs locked around his waist, her arms around his neck, fingers ripping through his hair, nails scraping the skin of his neck. Groaning, he ground himself between her thighs, pressing her harder into the wall, every sound she made spurring him faster, rougher…
Nash fumbled between them, yanking his belt open; Cassie’s heels dragged his pants down. He caught the edge of her underwear and tore the flimsy lace aside; his hand slid between her thighs, finding her already wet.
Their eyes caught as he pushed inside her. Held as he slid full hilt. Cassie’s head fell back, her breath breaking on his name.
Harder. Rougher. She fought him, met him, matched him—clinging tighter, answering every push with her own. The night narrowed to nothing but her, him, and where their bodies met—him driving furiously into her like…
Like he meant to make her stay this time.
They stayed against the wall for a while, Cassie’s face buried in Nash’s chest, his arms braced around her.
Neither of them spoke, but she didn’t let go, and only when an engine fired nearby did he pull away and lead her to his bike, where he lit a cigarette, waiting for the rest of the Kings to join them.
Dawn found them on the road, motorcycles rumbling beneath the gray light, copper spilling off the ridges as the sun rose. Cassie clung to him—arms tight around his waist, thighs locked to his hips, her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.
Near the clubhouse turnoff, Nash caught Sarge’s eye and signaled east. His Vice President nodded once. The others would retire Connor’s cut to the wall. Nash had somewhere else he needed to be.
He rode straight home, past town and deep into the ridge. The farther they went, the darker it got. No streetlights out here. No houses. Just patched asphalt, sharp switchbacks, sudden drop-offs, the headlight catching the flash of a creek running close to the road.
Out here he leaned into the curves—not just because he knew these roads blind, but because Cassie tightened her grip every time the bike dipped or banked, holding on to him, leaning with him, like she used to—like the ridge had never really let her go.
Turning into his drive, he pulled up alongside the house and killed the engine. As silence crashed in around them, she loosened her grip, shifting to swing off.
Nash twisted, caught her waist, and hauled her into his lap, crushing his mouth to hers. One hand curled in her hair, the other gripped her thigh, dragging her closer.
“Inside,” he growled against her lips.
He rose off the bike, lifting her with him, carrying her onto the porch and into the house. Kicking the door shut behind them, he took her straight to his bedroom and dropped her onto the bed.
“Strip,” he ordered, his cut hitting the floor. “Everything. Now.”
He tore his shirt away. Kicked his boots off, shoved his jeans down.
When he looked up—Christ.
Cassie’s laugh tangled with a gasp as Nash lunged, shoving her back onto the mattress and driving into her hard, the impact knocking the breath out of them both.
“Nash,” she gasped, fists tearing at his hair.
He hooked her knee high, changed the angle, thrust deeper.
She cried out, raking her nails down his back.
His thumb found her clit, his mouth covered hers, swallowing her sounds as he drove her higher and higher…
until she shattered—her body seizing, spine bowing, fingers clawing for purchase as release roared through her.
Nash didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, slower, harder, groaning as she clenched around him, tearing cry after cry from deep inside her. When the second wave crashed through her, she went limp beneath him, trembling, whimpering…just barely hanging on.
She could fight him every damn way she knew, but her body never fucking lied.
She was still his.
The rest?
That was another fight entirely.