Chapter Seven
Pressure Valve
Savage
The problem with pressure is that it doesn’t care where it builds.
It stacks behind your eyes. In your chest. In your hands when you grip something too tight and don’t notice until it cracks. I’ve spent years learning how to bleed it off without letting it touch anyone else.
Tonight, it’s clawing at my spine. I feel like a pressure cooker ready to explode.
The meeting with the captains ran long and sideways.
Too many opinions. Too much second-guessing.
The cartel is pushing boundaries they know damn well I’ll hold.
Saint watching me like he’s counting how many times I choose containment over conclusion.
And Crimson is waiting for something to happen so he can make a move in the fucking aftermath.
By the time the meeting breaks, I don’t want blood. I want silence. I don’t go to Raven’s room because I’m entitled to her. I go because she’s the only place the noise doesn’t follow.
Her door isn’t locked. That tells me she wants to be interrupted or she’s not thinking about safety at all. But I knock anyway.
“Jesus Christ,” she calls. “If that’s another meeting, I swear...”
I open the door. She looks up from the bed, boots off, shirt half unbuttoned like she abandoned the effort halfway through. Her eyes sharpen when she sees me.
“Fuck,” she breathes. “You look wrecked.”
“Don’t try to fix me,” I say hoarsely.
She smiles slowly. “I wasn’t planning to.”
I shut the door behind me and lean back against it, exhaling like I’ve been holding my breath all damn day.
“Say it,” she says.
“Say what?”
“What you need.”
I laugh once, harsh. “That’s a dangerous question.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m not fragile.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “That’s the problem.”
She stands and crosses the room without hesitation. No ceremony. No checking in. She knows exactly how much space she’s taking and doesn’t apologize for it.
She stops right in front of me.
“You’re vibrating,” she says. “Sit.”
It’s not a command. It’s an assessment.
I push off the door and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my knees, head tipped forward like gravity finally won. She steps between my knees and tips my chin up with two fingers.
“There you are,” she murmurs.
I curse under my breath.
Her mouth is on mine before I can say anything else, hard and impatient, like she’s cutting through the noise instead of soothing it. I kiss her back just as roughly, hands sliding to her hips, fingers digging in.
“Fuck,” she breathes against my mouth. “You’re wound tight.”
“You have no idea,” I growl.
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “Then shut up and let me help.”
I don’t argue. That’s the thing, when I stop thinking, I stop resisting.
She pushes me back against the mattress, not gently but not rough either. She is purposeful. Like this is a task she knows how to do well. I lean back on my hands, watching her with something close to reverence.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“I like watching you decide things.”
Her mouth curves. “Good.”
She drops to her knees between my legs and the room tilts off center.
I drag a hand through my hair and curse again, louder this time. “Raven.”
“Relax,” she says. “I’ve got you.”
That should scare me. It doesn’t.
Her hands are sure. Confident. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease. She knows this isn’t about edging, it’s about release, about pressure bleeding off somewhere safe. Her mouth is hot and wet around my length, the suction perfect on the crown.
She works her head up and down, moving at a measured pace while I feel like my fucking head may explode from the fucking pleasure. I tip my head back, jaw tight, breath coming uneven as she works up and down my length. Her long fingers fondle my balls, rubbing along my taint and driving me crazy.
My hips shoot off the bed, thrusting deeper into her mouth and she hums, like that’s exactly what she wants.
The heat, the focus, the way my body starts responding without permission, it’s all there.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “Fuck, that’s...”
“Yeah?” she says softly when she pulls away, smug and satisfied that she is pushing me to the brink of losing control. “Tell me.” She replaces her mouth with her hand, fisting my length harshly but keeping the tempo even.
I laugh once, breathless and wrecked. “You’re a menace.”
Her mouth curves against my thigh. “You came here.”
I curse again, louder, my hands fisting in the sheets as the edge creeps up fast and unforgiving. I don’t hold back the sounds. I don’t pretend control I don’t have.
She glances up at me, eyes dark, watching me unravel like it’s something she enjoys cataloging.
“Goddamn,” I grit out. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Everything I do is on purpose,” she replies before taking my length in her mouth again.
That nearly does me in. I reach out, fingers tangling in her hair, not pulling, just anchoring. She lets me. Encourages it.
“Don’t stop,” I warn, and she doesn’t.
My release hits hard and fast, ripping through me like something finally snapping clean instead of splintering. I groan, curse, and lose whatever dignity I had left as my cum fills her mouth and she swallows around my length.
She stays there, steady and unbothered, until my breathing evens out and the shaking fades. Then she leans back on her heels and looks at me like she’s just solved a problem.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
I laugh, low and hoarse. “You’re going to get me killed.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “I just saved lives.”
I lean forward and pull her up into my lap, foreheads touching.
“That helped,” I admit.
“I know.”
“This can’t always be how I decompress.”
She shrugs. “Pity.”
I kiss her slowly and deliberate, tasting myself on her mouth without shame. She doesn’t flinch. She never does. The moment stretches giving me a sense of peace I didn’t even know was possible.
The radio on my belt crackles. “Pres.”
I freeze. Raven stills too, eyes flicking to the radio like she might personally murder it.
“Savage,” Saint’s voice cuts in. “We’ve got movement on the east side. Now.”
I close my eyes.
“Of course we do,” Raven mutters.
I rest my forehead against hers for a brief second. “I have to go.”
She nods immediately. No sulking. No guilt. “I know.”
I stand, adjusting my clothes, grounding myself back into leadership mode like flipping a switch. She rises too, smoothing her shirt, expression already sharp again.
“This doesn’t disappear,” she says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
I pause at the door and glance back at her. “Thank you.”
She smirks. “Anytime you need to swear and fall apart.”
I leave before I say something reckless.
The yard is loud again. Engines. Orders. Motion. But the pressure inside me is gone. For now. And as I move back into the chaos, one thing is painfully clear. Raven isn’t a distraction. She’s a release valve, a safe space, and somewhere I don’t have to constantly be ‘on.’
And that might be the most dangerous thing in my world.