Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
VIOLET
"Max, this man here doesn't actually make me tell people how we know each other," I laugh, taking the shot of tequila he places in front of me.
I down it without hesitation, feeling the liquid burn my throat in the most satisfying way possible.
The ice pack Santiago—or Whip, as they call him here—gave me is starting to numb my cheek, and between that and the tequila, the pain is already dulling.
"That right? You two got somethin' to hide?" Max raises a brow and shoots Santiago a knowing look.
"She's my sister's best friend," Santiago interjects, keeping his eyes focused on me. His gaze is intense, assessing, and I can't help but feel like he's taking in every inch of me. The air between us feels loaded with something I can't quite place.
"Ahh, little Ashley's friend," Max nods, recognition spreading across his weathered face. "Knew she was comin' to the city for a job. You work with her?"
"No, I work for a fashion magazine," I explain, feeling oddly at ease in this testosterone-filled environment. "I run their social media. You know, the posts that go out on X and Instagram? I create all the graphics, schedule them, all that fun stuff."
Max nods like he understands perfectly, though I doubt he's ever given a thought to social media marketing in his life. He's being kind, and I appreciate it more than he knows.
Santiago hasn't taken his eyes off me, and I feel a shiver run up my spine when he reaches out to adjust the ice pack on my face. His fingers brush my skin, just barely, but it's enough to make my breath catch.
"You wanna tell me what happened?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
I take a deep breath, knowing I can't avoid this conversation. "I went to get my things from the apartment. Derek was there with... with her."
Santiago's jaw tightens. "The woman he was with when you caught him?"
I nod. "She was wearing my underwear, Santiago. My fucking underwear. Who does that?" Tears spring to my eyes, and I hastily wipe them away, wincing when my fingers brush against my tender cheek.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, shaking his head. "So what happened with your face?"
"She grabbed me by my hair, and when I went to defend myself, Derek punched me." The words come out in a rush, and saying them aloud makes it all real again.
My hands start to shake. "He said he knew where I was staying and threatened to come teach me another lesson. I... I couldn't go back to Ashley's. What if he follows me there? What if–"
"Shh," Santiago soothes me, taking the empty shot glass from my trembling fingers. "You don't have to worry about him. Not anymore."
I see something dark flash in his eyes—something dangerous and primal that should frighten me but instead makes me feel protected.
"Another round, Max," Santiago calls without looking away from me. "Make it doubles."
Max slides two more shots our way, and Santiago hands one to me, raising his glass.
"To new beginnings," he says simply.
I clink my glass against his and down the shot, this one going down easier than the first. The tequila's warming me from the inside, taking the edge off my fear.
"Want a tour of the place?" Santiago asks after a moment. "Might help get your mind off things."
I nod, grateful for the distraction. Santiago helps me off the barstool, his hand resting at the small of my back as he guides me through the clubhouse. The space is surprisingly clean, with leather couches, pool tables, and a massive TV setup in the main area.
"The guys all have rooms upstairs," he explains, pointing to a staircase. "Some stay here full time, others just crash when they need to." He hesitates for a moment. "Want to see mine?"
Maybe it's the tequila, or maybe it's the way his eyes hold mine, but I find myself nodding. We climb the stairs, and I'm hyper aware of his hand still on my back, steadying me.
His room is at the end of the hallway, away from the others. When he opens the door, I'm surprised by how... normal it looks. Clean, minimalist, with a king-size bed covered in dark gray bedding, a desk in the corner, and framed motorcycle prints on the walls.
"Not what you expected?" Santiago asks, amusement in his voice.
"I don't know what I expected," I admit, stepping inside. "Maybe more leather and chains?"
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel heat rush to my face. Santiago's eyebrows shoot up, and a slow smile spreads across his lips.
"Those are in a different room entirely," he says, voice dropping an octave, and even though I know he's joking, something inside me tightens.
I look away, flustered, and walk over to his desk. There's a photo there of him, Ashley, and their mother, taken a few years ago. It's the only personal touch in the room.
"You know, I always thought you hated me," I say, not looking at him. "You kept your distance for so long."
I hear him move closer, feel the warmth of him behind me. "I never hated you, Vi. Not even close."
I turn around, and he's right there, inches away. Up close, I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw. His scent—leather and something clean, like sandalwood—surrounds me.
"Then why..." My words trail off as his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his fingertips grazing my uninjured cheek.
"Because you were my little sister's best friend," he says simply. "Because I was older, and you were younger, and there are lines you don't cross."
I swallow hard. "And now?"
His eyes darken. "Now you're all grown up, and I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
The air between us suddenly feels like I'm in the Sahara. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
"Santiago—"
"Say that again," he interrupts, his voice husky.
"Santiago," I whisper, and he groans softly.
"I've waited years to hear you say my name like that." His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I part my lips instinctively. "Tell me to stop, Violet, and I will. Right now."
But I don't want him to stop. Maybe it's the adrenaline from earlier, or the tequila, or the years of wondering what it would be like... whatever it is, I'm done fighting it.
"Don't stop," I breathe.
That's all it takes. His mouth is on mine in an instant, and it's nothing like any kiss I've experienced before.
Santiago kisses with absolute confidence, like a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it.
His hand slides around to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I melt against him.
He backs me against the desk, lifting me effortlessly to sit on its edge. His body presses between my thighs, and I can feel him, hard against me, as his lips trail down my neck.
"I've thought about this," he murmurs against my skin. "Thought about you, spread out on my bed, begging for me."
A rush of heat floods through me at his words. "Santiago—"
His hand tightens in my hair, just enough to tilt my head back, exposing more of my neck to him. "When we're like this," he says, voice rough, "you call me Whip."
The commanding tone sends a shiver down my spine. "Whip," I correct myself, and I'm rewarded with his teeth grazing the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder.
"Good girl," he praises, and something inside me responds to those words in a way I've never experienced before. I want to be good for him. I want to please him.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, and he draws back, looking into my eyes. "Can I take this off?"
I nod quickly, lifting my arms to help him pull the shirt over my head. The cool air hits my skin, and I'm suddenly self-conscious in just my bra, but the hunger in his eyes erases any doubt.
"Christ, you're beautiful," he says, hands skimming down my sides. "More beautiful than I imagined."
He bends to kiss the tops of my breasts where they swell above my bra, and I arch into him, craving more. His hands settle on my waist, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp.
"Tell me what you want," he says against my skin.
"I want you," I admit, heightened by desire and tequila. "I've always wanted you."
Something fierce flashes in his eyes. He captures my wrists in one hand, drawing them above my head and holding them there as he kisses me again, deeper this time, claiming.
"If we do this," he says, breaking the kiss to look at me intently, "I need you to understand something. I don't do half measures, Violet. If you're mine, you're mine completely."
There's something in his tone, something dominant and possessive that should send me running, especially after what I just went through with Derek. But this is different. Santiago—Whip—isn't trying to control me. He's offering me a choice.
"I understand," I tell him, and I mean it.
He studies my face for a moment, then releases my wrists. "Stand up," he says, stepping back to give me room.
I slide off the desk on shaky legs, confused by the sudden change. Has he changed his mind?
"Turn around," he instructs, voice gentle but firm.
I do as he says, and I feel him move behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His lips find my ear.
"I want to do this right," he murmurs. "Not when you're hurt and scared and running from something.
" His hands move up to cup my breasts through my bra, and I gasp, leaning back into him.
"When I finally have you in my bed, I want it to be because you walked in here with a clear head, knowing exactly what you were getting into. "
Part of me wants to argue with him—I know what I want, regardless of the day I've had—but another part appreciates how he can control himself. It's a kind of respect I'm not used to receiving.
He turns me in his arms, tilting my chin up with one finger. "That doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves a little tonight, though."