4. Bella
BELLA
The door closes behind us and something shifts in the air.
One second I'm standing in the middle of his room, my heart pounding from the texts, from the kiss, from everything that's happened in the last hour. The next second he's on me — spinning me around, pressing me back against the door, his mouth crashing down on mine.
This kiss is different from the one outside. That one was hungry. This one is desperate. Claiming. Like he's trying to brand himself onto me, make me forget that anyone is looking for me, that anything exists outside this room.
I grab fistfuls of his shirt and pull him closer. He growls against my mouth and his hands grip my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist and he pins me to the door with his hips, the hard length of him pressing right where I'm aching.
"They're not going to touch you," he says against my lips, his voice rough. "You understand me? No one is going to fucking touch you."
"I know."
"You're safe here. You're safe with me."
"I know." I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, fierce, something almost feral in them. "Rogue. I know. Now stop talking and show me."
Something snaps in his expression. The last thread of restraint giving way.
He carries me to the bed and drops me onto it, following me down before I can catch my breath. His weight pins me to the mattress, solid and warm and overwhelming, and I arch up into him, needing more contact, more pressure, more everything.
He kisses down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I moan.
My hands find the hem of his shirt and yank it upward.
He breaks away just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it aside, and then his mouth is back on me, trailing fire across my collarbone while his hands work at my clothes.
"Off," he demands, tugging at the borrowed sweater. "I need to see you. All of you."
I help him strip it away, then the tank top underneath. His eyes rake over me — hungry, almost feral — and the way he looks at me makes me feel powerful. Wanted. Nothing like the cold assessment I used to get from Preston, cataloging my flaws like items on a checklist.
"Christ," he mutters. "You're perfect."
He lowers his mouth to my breast, sucking my nipple between his lips, and I cry out, my back bowing off the bed.
His hand palms my other breast, kneading, pinching, while his tongue swirls and his teeth graze.
The sensation shoots straight between my thighs and I'm already wet, already desperate, and he's barely started.
"Rogue — please—"
"Please what?" He switches sides, giving my other nipple the same treatment. "Tell me what you need."
"You. I need you. Now."
"Not yet." His hand slides down my stomach, popping the button on my jeans. "I've been thinking about this for two days. Jerking off in the shower, imagining what you'd taste like, what sounds you'd make." He drags the zipper down slowly. "I'm not rushing this."
He strips my jeans and underwear off in one motion, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he kneels between my thighs, looking down at me spread out beneath him, completely bare and exposed.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Soaking wet already. All this for me?"
I should feel embarrassed. Vulnerable. Instead I feel powerful, watching the way his chest heaves, the way his hands shake slightly as he runs them up my inner thighs.
"All for you," I confirm. "Now are you going to do something about it or just stare?"
His laugh is low and dark. "Demanding. I like it."
He lowers himself over me, still wearing his jeans, and the rough denim presses against my center as he grinds his hips. I gasp at the friction, the contrast of the harsh fabric against my sensitive flesh.
"Feel that?" He rolls his hips again, slow and deliberate. "Feel how hard I am for you?"
"Yes—"
"That's what you do to me. Just being near you.
Walking around the clubhouse, trying to act normal, when all I can think about is getting you alone.
" Another roll, more pressure, and I'm already climbing toward something.
"Watching you eat breakfast. Watching you laugh. Watching you exist in my space."
He reaches down between us and I hear his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. He shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself and I feel him — hot and hard and thick — pressing against my entrance.
He notches himself at my entrance and pushes inside in one long, relentless stroke.
I cry out, my body stretching to accommodate him.
He's big — bigger than I'm used to — filling me so completely there's no room for anything else.
No thoughts. No fears. No memories of cold hands and obligatory encounters.
Just him. Just this. Just the impossible fullness of having him buried inside me.
"Fuck." He holds perfectly still, his arms trembling with the effort. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he starts to move.
The first thrust punches the air from my lungs. He pulls back slowly, then drives in hard, setting a rhythm that's relentless. Each stroke goes deep, so deep I feel it in my whole body, and I can't do anything except hold on and take it.
"You feel incredible," he groans, his forehead dropping to mine. "So tight. So wet. Like you were made for me."
"Harder."
His rhythm falters. "Yeah?"
"I won't break. I'm not fragile." I hold his gaze, letting him see the certainty there. "Stop holding back."
Something shifts in his expression — surprise, recognition, hunger. "No," he agrees, his voice rough. "You won't."
He grabs my hips and lifts them off the bed, changing the angle, and when he drives back in he hits something inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
"There — right there — oh god—"
"Found it." He does it again, and again, hitting that spot with devastating precision. "That's the one, isn't it? That's what makes you scream."
I can't even respond. Every thrust sends pleasure spiking through my entire body, building and building toward something massive. I've never felt anything like this — this consuming, overwhelming need that's erasing everything else.
"Look at me," he demands. "Eyes on me, Bella. I want to watch you fall apart."
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. He's looking down at me with an intensity that steals my breath — possessive, protective, completely focused on me like I'm the only thing in the world.
"That's my girl," he says, and the praise sends a fresh wave of heat through me. "You're close, aren't you? I can feel you getting tighter. Feel you clenching around me."
"Yes — I'm so close—"
"Not yet." He slows down, drawing out each stroke until I'm writhing beneath him. "Not until I say."
"Rogue—"
"You can take it." He pulls almost all the way out, then sinks back in achingly slowly. "You can take whatever I give you."
It's torture. Sweet, agonizing torture. He keeps me right on the edge, building me up and backing off, until I'm trembling and begging and ready to scream.
"Please," I gasp. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?"
"You. I need to come. Please let me come—"
"Since you asked so nicely." He picks up the pace again, driving into me hard and fast, and reaches between us to press his thumb against my clit.
The combination is too much. His cock driving into me, hitting that spot with every thrust. His thumb circling that sensitive bundle of nerves. His eyes locked on mine, watching for the exact moment I fall apart.
"Now," he commands. "Come for me, Bella. Right fucking now."
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me like nothing I've ever felt. I hear myself scream — actually scream — and my whole body convulses around him, clenching and pulsing as wave after wave crashes over me. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, just fucks me through it while I come apart in his arms.
"That's it. Fuck, that's beautiful." His rhythm is growing ragged now, his control fraying. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come."
I'm still trembling with aftershocks when he pulls out suddenly, flipping me onto my stomach before I can process what's happening. His hand presses between my shoulder blades, pushing me down into the mattress, and then he's driving back into me from behind.
The new angle is even deeper. I cry out into the pillow, my fingers clawing at the sheets, as he sets a punishing pace.
"Again," he demands, one hand gripping my hip. "You're going to come again."
"I can't — it's too much—"
"You can." He reaches around, finding my clit again, and starts rubbing in tight circles. "You're going to give me one more. Right now."
It builds impossibly fast. I'm so sensitive, so overwhelmed, that every touch feels magnified. His cock pounding into me from behind, his fingers working my clit, his breath hot against my ear as he leans down.
"Mine," he growls. "You're mine, Bella. Say it."
"Yours—"
"Again."
"I'm yours. Oh god, I'm yours—"
The second orgasm hits even harder than the first. I scream into the pillow, my whole body shaking, and I feel him follow a moment later — the pulse of him inside me, the way his whole body shudders as he buries himself deep and lets go.
We collapse together onto the mattress, a tangle of sweaty limbs and heaving breath. He's still inside me, softening now, and neither of us moves to separate.
"Holy shit," he breathes against the back of my neck.
I laugh weakly. "Yeah. That about covers it."
He pulls out slowly, carefully, and rolls me onto my back so he can look at me. His expression makes my chest ache — soft underneath all that intensity, something raw and unguarded in his eyes.
"You good?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Better than good."
He kisses me — slower this time, almost tender, a stark contrast to the ferocity of what we just did. Then he pulls me against his chest, arranging us so I'm tucked into the curve of his body, his arm wrapped around me like he's afraid I might disappear.
"This changes things," I whisper.
"Yeah." He presses a kiss to my hair. "It does."
I wait for the fear. The regret. The voice that sounds like my mother, telling me this was a mistake.
Instead, all I feel is warm. Safe. Claimed in a way that doesn't feel like ownership — it feels like belonging.
I fall asleep with his heartbeat steady against my back.
I wake to raised voices.
The bed beside me is empty, the sheets cold. Morning light filters through the blinds, harsh and bright, and I can hear shouting somewhere in the clubhouse — urgent, angry, overlapping.
I find my clothes scattered across the floor and pull them on quickly, my heart already racing.
By the time I make it to the main room, half the club is gathered there.
Rogue is at the center, his expression hard as stone, every trace of the tender man who held me last night completely gone.
King is beside him with his arms crossed.
Ghost, Diesel, others I don't have names for yet.
They're all staring at photographs spread across the table.
"What's going on?" I ask.
Every head turns toward me. The room goes silent.
Rogue crosses to me in three strides. His hands grip my shoulders, his eyes searching my face.
"The SUV Ghost spotted last night — it wasn't alone. There are more of them. They've been canvassing the whole area." His jaw tightens. "They're getting closer."
The warmth from last night evaporates. Cold dread floods in to replace it.
"How long do we have?"
"Long enough." He cups my face in his hands. "They're not going to find you. And even if they do, they'll have to come through me. Through all of us."
I look past him at the room full of men — rough, dangerous, every one of them watching me with something that looks almost like protectiveness. These aren't soft men. They're not safe men. But right now, they're my men.
"Okay," I say quietly. "What do we do?"
Rogue's expression shifts. Surprise, maybe. Or respect.
"We plan," he says. "And then we make sure anyone who comes for you regrets it."
He pulls me against his chest, pressing a hard kiss to my forehead. And as the club mobilizes around us, I realize something.
I'm not just running anymore.
For the first time in my life, I have people willing to fight for me.
And maybe — just maybe — I'm starting to believe I'm worth fighting for.