5. Chapter 5
June
Razor’s name does him no favors.
If someone told me a man called Razor was about to examine my shoulder inside a motorcycle clubhouse, I’d expect a folding table, questionable lighting, and maybe a bottle of whiskey for anesthesia.
Instead, the medical room looks better equipped than some urgent-care clinics I’ve seen on medical TV shows.
Razor himself is broad, tattooed, and unsmiling, but his hands are careful as he checks my shoulder and upper arm.
“Nothing broken,” he says. “You’ll be sore for a few days, but you’re fine.”
Striker stands near the door with his arms crossed, watching closely enough that I’m surprised Razor doesn’t charge him for assisting.
I look at him.
He looks back.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Razor gives a quiet huff that might be a laugh.
I point at him. “You’re supposed to be neutral.”
“No such thing in this building.”
Striker’s mouth twitches.
A few minutes later, we step into the main room with his hand resting at my lower back. I notice the touch because I notice every time he touches me now, and that is becoming a problem.
The clubhouse isn’t what I imagined. There’s noise and enough leather to outfit a small army, but it feels more lived-in than dangerous. Men crowd the bar, argue across the room, and insult each other with the easy familiarity of people who have been doing it for years.
One of them looks at Striker’s hand on me and grins.
Striker gives him a stare.
The grin disappears.
I bite back a smile. “Subtle.”
“Works.”
A man near the bar turns toward us.
I know immediately he’s important. Tall, dark-haired, scarred, with a quiet presence that pulls attention without demanding it.
Striker follows my gaze.
“Grim. Prez.”
Before I can study him too closely, a woman walks up beside him.
Grim changes the second he sees her. He still looks dangerous enough to make bad decisions reconsider themselves, but his hand settles at her waist, pulling her against his side, and his attention shifts to her like everyone else just became background noise.
She looks at me and smiles.
“You must be the woman he guarded all night.”
I slowly turn toward Striker.
He looks entirely unrepentant.
“You told them?”
“Yes.”
Grim glances at me. “Enforcer disappears all night, his Prez gets to know where the hell he went.”
I look back at Striker. “Enforcer?”
“Yeah.”
Of course he is.
The woman laughs. “I’m McKenna.”
“June.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
Her eyes flick briefly toward my bruises, then away. No questions. I like her for that.
She checks the time on her phone.
“I have to go.”
Grim’s arm tightens around her. “You’ve got a few minutes.”
“I had a few minutes ten minutes ago.”
“You still ate.”
“You made sure of that.”
Something warm passes between them. He looks like a man who could terrify half the town without raising his voice, yet with her, everything about him settles.
I glance at Striker.
He catches me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow, but McKenna smiles like she understands something I don’t.
I ask, “Where are you going?”
“Women’s shelter. I work there.”
My expression must change because hers does too.
Striker answers for me. “Her sister’s with a guy who’s hurting her.”
I look at him, then back at McKenna.
“She won’t admit it.”
McKenna nods once. “If she ever wants help, give her this.”
She pulls a card from her bag and hands it to me.
“She doesn’t think she needs any.”
“Then keep it until she does.”
I slip the card into my pocket.
“Thank you.”
Grim brushes his mouth over McKenna’s temple.
“Now you’re late.”
She gives him a look. “You are unbelievable.”
He looks completely unconcerned.
Striker’s hand slides from my back to my hip.
“Come on.”
I look up. “Where?”
“My place.”
“Why?”
His gaze moves over the room, then comes back to me.
“Because you need food, and I’ve had enough of the whole damn clubhouse watching you.”
My stomach flips.
“Watching me?”
His fingers tighten slightly against my hip.
“Yeah.”
“And this bothers you?”
His eyes hold mine.
“More than it should.”
That lands somewhere low and warm.
“Possessive.”
“Probably.”
He tips his head toward the door.
I hesitate just long enough to know I should make a better decision.
Then I go anyway.
It seems that I’m making excellent decisions today.
His cabin is quieter than the clubhouse, tucked far enough away to feel private. Inside, it’s clean without looking staged. Boots by the door. A jacket over the back of a chair. A couple of mugs beside the sink. The kind of place that belongs to someone instead of waiting for them.
Striker hangs his cut near the door, leaving him in jeans and a dark T-shirt.
The shirt is a problem.
I decide not to look long enough to make it mine.
He heads for the kitchen and starts pulling things from the fridge.
I lean against the counter. “You actually cook?”
His eyes flick to me. “That sounded insulting.”
“It was cautious.”
“I’ve kept myself alive this long.”
“That is still not the same thing.”
“Sit down, Rebel.”
I should probably object to the nickname again.
Instead, I sit.
Mostly because I want to see this.
A few minutes later, Striker is standing at the stove flipping burgers while fries cook beside him, and the whole thing feels strangely intimate.
Striker.
The Damned Sinners’ Enforcer.
Making me dinner in his kitchen like this is normal.
I don’t know why that gets to me.
It does.
He glances over. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
I smile. “You’re very domestic for someone named Striker.”
His mouth twitches.
“Careful.”
“With what?”
His eyes hold mine.
“Keep looking at me like that and you’re gonna find out how domestic I’m not.”
Heat slides low through my stomach.
Well.
There goes normal.
We eat at the small kitchen table, talking about Ruth and Thomas until the edge left over from the clubhouse finally eases.
When we finish, Striker picks up both plates and carries them to the sink.
I watch him rinse them.
“You cook. You clean.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You taking notes?”
“Maybe.”
“Planning to grade me?”
My gaze drifts over the width of his shoulders before I can stop it.
“I haven’t decided.”
That gets his full attention.
He turns.
The teasing leaves his face.
He sets the plate down.
Then he comes toward me.
“Still deciding?”
My breath catches.
“About what?”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Whether I pass.”
Heat climbs into my cheeks.
There is absolutely no point pretending.
“You’re doing pretty well.”
His hand closes around my waist.
The kiss hits hard enough to wipe out every smart answer I might have had left.
I grab his shirt and kiss him back. His mouth turns rougher immediately, one hand sliding into my hair while the other pulls me flush against him.
Then he lifts me.
I gasp against his lips. “Striker.”
“Got you.”
He carries me into the living room and settles me across his lap on the couch. For one second, I’m too aware of my weight, the softness of my hips and thighs, and how much of me is pressed against him.
Then his arm tightens around my waist and pulls me closer.
Like he wants all of it.
Like the thought of me being too much has never crossed his mind.
That shuts down the little voice in my head surprisingly fast.
His mouth finds my neck while his hand slides up my thigh, and suddenly all I can think about is exactly where I am.
In his cabin.
Wrapped around Striker.
And very aware that his hand is getting closer to somewhere no man has ever touched me.
His fingers slip beneath my T-shirt.
I shiver when his palm finds bare skin.
His eyes meet mine.
I nod.
His hand closes around my breast through my bra, then slips beneath the cup. The first stroke of his thumb over my nipple pulls a sound from me before I can stop it.
“Fuck,” he murmurs.
The hunger in his voice does something ridiculous to my stomach.
He does it again, watching my face while his mouth moves along my throat.
“Striker.”
“Like hearing you say my name.”
He catches my nipple between his fingers, just enough pressure to make my back arch.
His mouth curves against my skin.
“You like that too.”
“Maybe.”
“Liar.”
I kiss him before he can get any more pleased with himself.
His hand leaves my breast and travels down my stomach.
When it slips beneath my waistband, uncertainty hits hard enough that I stiffen.
Striker stops immediately.
His eyes lift to mine.
“What?”
I swallow.
“I haven’t done this before.”
His brow tightens.
“This?”
“Any of it.”
He goes still.
“June.”
There’s no graceful way to say it, so I don’t try.
“I’m a virgin.”
For a second, he just looks at me.
Then something in his expression changes.
Not shock.
Something darker.
Possessive enough that my pulse jumps.
“You’ve never had a man touch you?”
I shake my head.
His hand cups the back of my neck.
“And you want me to?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
My breath catches.
“I want you to touch me.”
His eyes stay locked on mine.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The word comes out rough.
His mouth covers mine, and his hand slips lower.
His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my jeans, slipping past the lace of my panties. I gasp, my back arching as he finds me.
He pauses when he feels how wet I am, and something in his breathing changes.
“God, Rebel,” he growls against my mouth. “You’re soaking.”
Heat floods my face.
There is something mortifying about him knowing exactly what he does to me.
Unfortunately, the way he sounds when he says it only makes everything worse.
Or better.
Definitely one of those.
He pulls back just enough to open my jeans.
“Up.”
I lift off his lap, and he pushes the denim down over my hips, taking my panties with them. I help kick both free before settling back against him.
His eyes drop over me.
“Shirt.”
That single word sends another pulse of heat through me.
I grab the hem and pull it over my head. Striker reaches behind me, unhooks my bra, and slides the straps down my arms.
Suddenly I’m naked on his lap while he’s still fully dressed.
That seems wildly unfair.
It also seems to be doing something for him.
His gaze moves over me with absolutely no attempt to hide what he’s thinking.
Every insecurity I had five seconds ago gets quieter.
“Fuck, June.”
Apparently that is all it takes.
His palm cups my pussy, and I suck in a breath.
He begins to rub my clit with steady pressure, and my hands lock around his shoulders.
“Look at me,” he says.
I force my eyes open.
He slides one finger inside me.
I stiffen, a sharp breath hissing between my teeth. The stretch is unfamiliar, almost too much at first.
Striker freezes instantly.
“You okay?”
“It’s just... a lot.”
“I’ve got you. Breathe for me.”
He stays still while his thumb continues moving over my clit, keeping the pleasure there while my body gets used to the feeling.
Slowly, the tension in my hips eases.
The discomfort gives way to a heavy ache that makes me shift against him without thinking.
His eyes darken.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
A dark smile touches his mouth.
“Greedy girl.”
His finger begins moving again, and this time the sensation is completely different. Heat spreads through me with every stroke.
When he adds a second finger, I gasp.
The stretch makes my thighs tighten around his hand, but the pleasure comes with it now, sharper and deeper.
“Striker.”
“Yeah, little rebel.”
His fingers move faster, curling inside me until he hits a spot that makes my entire body jerk.
“Oh, God.”
His gaze locks on my face.
“There?”
I don’t have enough breath left to answer.
He keeps hitting that same place, and the pressure inside me builds so quickly that my fingers dig into his shoulders.
“Striker, please.”
His thumb works my clit while his fingers move inside me, and suddenly there is nowhere for the pleasure to go.
The orgasm crashes over me.
I cry out his name, my whole body tightening around his fingers as waves of pleasure roll through me. I collapse against him, panting into his neck while my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest.
I barely have time to realize I survived before Striker shifts.
“Wait.”
He moves off the couch and guides me down onto the rug.
My brain catches up just as he settles between my legs and pushes my thighs apart.
Oh.
My face burns.
“Striker.”
He looks up at me.
Whatever protest I might have had disappears when his mouth touches me.
The first stroke of his tongue sends a shock through my entire body.
I jump.
He does it again.
My fingers grab the rug.
Then his mouth focuses on my clit, his tongue circling and flicking until I can’t decide whether I want to crawl away or drag him closer.
Closer wins.
Especially when he slides two fingers back inside me.
“Jesus.”
The combination is too much.
I grab his hair.
That earns me a rough sound against my pussy that makes my hips jerk.
“Yes. Right there.”
He doesn’t stop.
His fingers move inside me while his mouth works my clit, and I’m already too sensitive from the first orgasm to have any chance of controlling this one.
“Striker, please.”
He gives me exactly what I’m asking for.
The tension coils hard and fast.
My back arches off the rug.
Then everything breaks again.
I scream his name, my body shaking beneath him while the second orgasm tears through me harder than the first.
By the time it finally releases me, I’m completely wrecked.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to figure out whether normal people are supposed to be able to feel their legs after something like that.
Striker rises above me.
The hunger in his eyes hasn’t gone anywhere.
That seems deeply unfair considering I’m fairly certain he just killed me twice.
Then he reaches for the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head.
My attention sharpens immediately.
He stands and strips out of his jeans and briefs.
My breath catches.
Every nervous thought I’ve ever had about eventually losing my virginity suddenly feels completely reasonable.
He’s thick, hard, and intimidating enough that I look from him to his face and back again.
Striker notices.
His mouth curves.
He reaches down, takes my hand, and guides it toward him.
“Touch me, June.”