Chapter 19 #2
I finished my breakfast and was going through my head to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to pack something important when one of the prospects brought a wrapped box to Magnum, who gave me a weighted look before he moved my plate and drink out from in front of me and settled the box where they’d been.
I frowned at him, wondering what he was up to.
“Did I miss my own birthday?”
He looked at the box, then up to my face. The silent order to stop joking around and just open it was clear.
So I tore the wrapping off, pulled the top of the box off, and then just stared — and breathed in the scent of new leather.
It was a black vest, folded so I could see the top front of it, and I could see my embroidered name. My fingers traced the stitching. Storm perfectly written with a needle and thread.
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind what this was, and I stood so I could lift it and see the whole thing. My arms trembled and my heart slammed so hard in my chest, I could feel it in my throat.
The leather was stiff and new, the embroidery was perfect, and across the back were the words that made my stomach somersault and my throat close at the same time: Property of Magnum
I stared at it. The room had gone quieter, or maybe the blood rushing in my ears just drowned everything else out.
I’d thought he was never going to offer this, or that maybe someone in the club hadn’t voted that he could.
I hadn’t known if he wanted to give it to me or not, but it isn’t the kind of thing you can ask for.
I mean, if I wanted to marry him, I could propose, or at least bring it up as a hypothetical.
I didn’t think I would, but the option was there.
But that option isn’t available for this. He had to offer it. He had to want to claim me publicly.
And he finally fucking had.
At first, I’d been kind of relieved, because I had genuine issues with being seen wearing it. What if someone got video of me in it and posted it online? My career, my brand, the careful walls I’d built around my public face — I work hard to report the story, not be the story.
And then I’d decided it didn’t matter. This is who I am.
I’d known he was a biker from the start.
I’m not ashamed of him in private, so it was ridiculous to be ashamed of him in public.
He’s a good man, and maybe he isn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen, but he follows his own moral code.
He draws lines and he doesn’t cross them.
Much as I do. I break the law for some of the snooping I do, but only when I can substantiate it to myself. When the results actually do justify the means.
I’d felt… less than, during the days I met them for Daytona Bike Week.
I was the only girlfriend without a vest proclaiming who I belonged to, and I hadn’t liked it.
Being on his arm without a vest made me look like a temporary, disposable sweetbutt, and that’d bothered me way-the-fuck more than a vest would’ve.
I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, that what we did behind closed doors was enough, and I didn’t need the public claim.
I also told myself I’m way too recognizable to be wearing a vest proclaiming I’m the property of a biker, but hardly anyone ever recognizes me at these things.
You see what you expect to see, and no one expected to see Storm McIntyre on the arm of a biker.
Plus, I was usually in a ballcap and sunglasses because doing my hair and makeup is kind of hit-and-miss while camping.
But even if someone recognized me, I no longer cared.
I looked at the vest again, and my eyes burned. I blinked hard, but the heat behind them stayed. The leather creaked softly when my grip tightened, and the sound seemed enormous in the sudden silence of the room.
I again noted it was heavier than I expected, like it carried the full weight of what those three words meant — Magnum was claiming me in the only language this world understood, and in front of the people who mattered to him.
I couldn’t wait to feel it on my shoulders, and I turned my head to meet Magnum’s gaze.
To anyone else, his face probably looked stony and emotionless, but I could see the uncertainty in his expression — he wasn’t sure I was going to accept it, thought I might refuse this claim he’d finally offered.
I hated that I’d made him think, even for a second, I didn’t want to wear a vest proclaiming I was his, and it was suddenly important I put him out of his misery, so I turned and pushed the vest toward him.
“Will you put it on me?” My voice came out so rough it surprised me, but I managed to get the words out, and that was all that mattered, because the muscles around his eyes relaxed and I saw relief and joy.
The room erupted around us — boots stomped the floor, hands clapped, and all the whoops and hollers echoed loudly, filling the room.
But I felt like Magnum and I were in a bubble in the middle of the chaos, my eyes on him, his on me.
Slowly, he took the vest from me and opened an armhole.
I pressed my hand into it, then my arm. He pulled it around for me, I slid my other arm in, and then it was on me, the weight on my shoulders like a missing piece locking into place.
I turned to him and threw my arms around his neck, and he just held me, his arms tight around me, pulling me flush against the solid heat of his chest. I buried my face against the side of his throat and breathed him in.
His heartbeat thudded steady under my cheek while mine raced.
Neither of us moved. We just held on while everyone in the room celebrated around us, and for those few long seconds the only things that existed were the vest on my shoulders and the man who’d finally put it there.
Okay, and also the plug he’d worked into my ass an hour earlier, because fuck, it was huge.
But then his mouth was at my ear, his voice low and rough. “I timed this wrong, because I need to take you downstairs and fuck you again before we leave, but there isn’t time.”
The plug shifted when I relaxed into his body, and I tried not to moan.
The damned thing was made of glass, completely unyielding inside me, and impossible to ignore.
The stretch had thankfully faded to a deep, insistent fullness that pressed against sensitive places, but it was a constant reminder of how he’d watched my face while he worked it in, opening me, making sure I’d remember he owns me all fucking day long.
The plug was private ownership made physical. A claim no one in this room could see, but one I felt with every step. And now, the vest made his ownership real in a whole different way.
I figured I’d be so horny I couldn’t see straight when we arrived in Milledgeville.
I knew the words proclaiming me as his property would be visible to every driver who glanced our way on the interstate, and the constant vibration made the plug rock and settle deeper with every mile.
By the time we reached the rally, I would no doubt be aching and half out of my mind with need for him — exactly the way he wanted me.
This vest meant, for the first time, who we are in private was being broadcast publicly. In BDSM circles, that’s done with a collar, but even then, only people in the lifestyle get it. Also, collars have become a fashion item, so it isn’t a given anymore.
The vest is different. It would tell every brother, every ol’lady, every stranger who sees it on me that I belong to Magnum. That he owns me in ways different from a normal boyfriend. Everyone who saw me in it would know I belong to a biker.
I’d wanted a high-protocol relationship since before I even knew the term, and I have it with Magnum, but it’s even more than that, and I belong to him in ways I never expected to give myself to anyone.
Not just the nights he takes me apart and rebuilds me, not just the plug that keeps me mindful of him even when we’re surrounded by noise and celebration.
I came to him thinking I wasn’t a masochist, and I learned I’m just not the normal kind of lifestyle masochist.
And I need the pain he gives me. I need him to prove, every night and every morning, that I need his cock despite the pain it brings. I need him to own me, to control my orgasms, my breath, and even the shape of my feet when in high protocol.
When forty-something motorcycles fired to life, with me on the back of one of them, I was at peace with the world. The vest settled heavy across my back, hanging from my shoulders. The plug held me wide open.
And both of those things were proof that I belong to Magnum. Lock, stock, and barrel.