Chapter Six #3
I didn’t know who moved first. Maybe both of us. Her lips brushed mine, cautious, almost asking. I answered carefully, letting her lead, making sure she knew she could stop anytime.
Instead, her hand slid from my collarbone to my neck, fingers gripping my hair as the kiss deepened.
Something cracked open in my chest, pressure I’d carried so long I thought it was normal.
Her lips parted under mine, open but not giving in, and I met her there, holding back just enough to stay in control.
When we separated, her eyes searched mine, looking for regret or hesitation and finding neither. Just certainty and a question of my own -- what she wanted, how far, how fast.
“Samson,” she whispered, my name in her voice pulling at something primal.
My hands hovered at her waist, not quite touching. Asking permission without words. She took them in her own, guided them beneath the flannel shirt to rest against her sides, the heat of her skin burning through the thin cotton of the T-shirt.
“I want this,” she said, answering the question in my eyes. “I want you.”
Simple words cut through complication. I drew her closer, our bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle neither of us had known we were solving.
Her fingers traced my jaw, my neck, dipping beneath my collar to follow the scar she’d discovered.
Mapping me with touch, learning boundaries and contours.
“Bed?” I asked, giving her the space to direct us.
She nodded, rising with me, our hands still connected as I led her toward the bedroom. The fire’s light followed us partway, casting long shadows dancing along the walls as we moved. At the bedside, I paused, giving her one last chance to reconsider.
Instead, she slipped the flannel from her shoulders and reached for the hem of my T-shirt -- the one she wore -- and pulled it over her head in a single fluid movement.
She quickly removed the rest of her clothes, until she stood before me completely bare.
The dim light caught the curves and hollows of her body, highlighting the contrast of smooth skin and healing bruises, the complex beauty of a survivor.
I removed my own clothes more slowly, aware of her eyes on me, on the roadmap of scars telling my history better than words could.
Her fingers traced a knife wound at my ribs, a bullet graze at my shoulder, evidence of a life lived beyond society’s boundaries.
No judgment in her touch -- only acceptance, recognition.
When I pulled her against me, the contact of skin against skin drew a sharp breath from us both.
Her pulse fluttered beneath my lips as I traced the line of her neck, learning what made her sigh, what made her fingers tighten in my hair.
We moved together toward the bed, the mattress giving beneath our combined weight.
“Tell me what you want,” I murmured against her skin. “What you need.”
She guided my hands to her breasts, her back arching as my rough thumbs circled her nipples. When my mouth replaced my fingers, her nails dug crescents into my shoulders.
“Lower,” she breathed, guiding my hand between her thighs where she was already slick and ready.
I stroked her pussy, feeling her pulse against my fingers as she writhed beneath me. Her hand wrapped around my hardness, squeezing with just enough pressure to make my vision blur.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, tracing a particularly jagged scar across my abdomen before sliding down my body. I flipped us, letting her have more control.
The hot, wet heat of her mouth engulfed me, and I groaned, fisting the sheets. When I couldn’t take any more, I pulled her up so she straddled me. She sank down slowly, taking me inch by inch, her gaze never leaving mine.
“Fuck,” I growled as she began to move, her hips rolling in a rhythm that had me fighting for control.
I gripped her waist, thrusting up to meet her, watching her breasts bounce with each movement.
When I reached between us to circle her clit, her inner walls clenched around me.
She came with my name on her lips, her entire body shuddering.
Three more hard thrusts and I followed, emptying myself deep inside her as stars exploded behind my eyes.
Panting for breath, she collapsed on my chest, her head tucked into my neck and shoulder. “Stay,” I murmured against her hair, not sure if I meant tonight, tomorrow, or something far more permanent.
She pressed closer, arm tightening across my chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, the words both promise and defiance against whatever waited beyond our walls.
Outside, the compound settled into night, darkness pressing against windows, distant sounds of motorcycles returning from runs, brothers securing the perimeter. Inside, we’d created something neither of us had expected to find -- a refuge from the chaos surrounding us.
I traced patterns on her bare shoulder as her breathing slowed toward sleep, knowing with bone-deep certainty my claim at the gate had been only the first step, an outward sign of something growing inside me.
What began as duty -- protecting someone who needed it -- had become something else entirely.
Something I hadn’t looked for but couldn’t let go of now.
The realization should have terrified me. Instead, it settled into place, filling an emptiness I hadn’t realized I felt before. Whatever came for us -- badge or gun or borrowed authority -- would find us together.
As Callie’s breathing evened into sleep against my chest, I kept watch, one hand resting on her hip, the other within easy reach of the weapon on the nightstand. Some habits couldn’t be broken. Some shouldn’t be.
“Mine,” I whispered into the darkness, claiming and claimed in equal measure.