Chapter 4
four
. . .
Kiera
Days inside the clubhouse blur into something that feels like both a dream and a trap.
I wake up in Arrow’s bed—he stopped sleeping on the floor after that first night, though he keeps his boxers on and his hands to myself, which is its own kind of torture.
I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.
I eat meals at a table full of men who call me “little dove” because their president does, and nobody questions why I’m here or how long I’m staying.
The question hangs in the air anyway. Heavy. Unanswered.
Arrow brings me coffee every morning. Not just any coffee—he brings it exactly how I like it.
Two sugars, splash of cream, in a mug that says PROPERTY OF ARROW in block letters across the side.
He sets it on the nightstand and watches me take the first sip, his eyes dark and satisfied when I hum in pleasure.
“How did you know?” I asked him the first time.
“Watched you make it for yourself at the shop.” No apology. No embarrassment. Just the flat statement of a man who pays attention to things he wants to keep.
He growls at any brother who looks at me too long.
There’s a big one called Reaper with a scar across his throat who made the mistake of staring at my ass when I bent to pick up a dropped napkin.
Arrow had him pinned against the wall before I could blink, one hand around his throat, voice so low and deadly I felt it in my bones.
“Eyes to yourself.”
Reaper nodded. Didn’t fight. Didn’t argue. Just dropped his gaze and muttered “sorry, Pres” like it was the most natural thing in the world to be manhandled by his president over a civilian barista.
But the real test comes on Wednesday, when they have what they call “church.” I thought it was a joke at first. Church.
In a biker clubhouse that smells like whiskey and gun oil.
But it’s not a joke. It’s serious business—the table, the gavel, the patches arranged in some hierarchy I don’t understand.
And Arrow, sitting at the head of it all, looking more like a king than a man.
He pats his thigh. “Come here.”
Every head turns. The room goes quiet. I’m standing by the door in one of his t-shirts that hangs to my mid-thigh, bare legs, hair in a messy bun, and twenty hardened bikers are watching me with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright shock.
“Arrow,” I whisper, mortified. “I can just sit?—”
“On my lap,” he says. Not asking. His eyes don’t leave mine. “Now, Kiera.”
I cross the room on shaky legs. Twenty pairs of eyes track my movement.
When I settle onto his thigh, his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me tight against his side, and the hardness of his cock presses against my ass through his jeans.
He doesn’t adjust. Doesn’t apologize. Just rests his palm on my bare thigh, thumb stroking idle circles on my skin, and calls the meeting to order like there’s nothing unusual about having a woman on his lap while he discusses club business that sounds suspiciously like felonies.
I should be horrified. I am horrified. But there’s something else—something hot and dizzying that floods my system every time his thumb brushes my inner thigh, every time he leans down to murmur something in my ear during a lull in the conversation.
His breath is warm. His stubble scrapes my temple.
And the way the other men look at us—like they’re witnessing something rare and significant—makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
The pleasure is addictive. His mouth between my thighs that first time ruined me for anything else.
I lie awake at night remembering the scrape of his stubble on my inner thighs, the flat of his tongue against my clit, the way his fingers curled inside me and found spots I didn’t know existed.
He hasn’t taken me fully. Hasn’t pushed past the barrier of my virginity.
But he’s taken me to the edge so many times I’ve lost count, each orgasm more devastating than the last, each one accompanied by filthy promises that should make me run but instead make me ache.
Daddy’s gonna fill you up. Gonna stuff this sweet pussy until you’re dripping with me. Until you’re round and full of my baby.
The words echo. They heat my blood. They make my thighs clench and my core pulse with a hunger I have no name for.
But the conflict rises like a tide, unavoidable.
His world is loud. Dangerous. Full of men who solve problems with their fists and their guns.
I hear things through the walls—shouting matches, the crack of someone being backhanded, discussions about territory and rival crews that sound like they belong in a crime drama, not real life.
One night I wake to the sound of engines roaring out of the compound, and Arrow is gone.
He comes back at dawn, knuckles raw, blood on his cut that isn’t his, and when I reach for him he catches my wrist and holds me at arm’s length.
“Don’t,” he says, voice rough. “I’m dirty.”
“You’re always dirty,” I whisper back. “I don’t care.”
Something flashes in his eyes—pain, maybe, or fear—and he pulls me against his chest so hard I can’t breathe, his face buried in my hair, and he doesn’t let go for a long time.
Three days later, I try to say it. We’re in his room, late, the clubhouse quiet for once, and I’m sitting on the edge of the bed while he paces.
“I should go home,” I say. The words feel wrong even as they leave my mouth. Hollow. “My apartment—my things—I have a life, Arrow. I can’t just…disappear into your clubhouse forever.”
He stops pacing. Turns to me slowly. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes—something dark and possessive and hungry.
“Come here.”
I don’t move. “We need to talk about this?—“
“Kiera.” His voice drops. That voice. The one that makes my knees weak and my pussy wet. “Come. Here.”
I go to him. Because I always go to him. It’s already a reflex, my body responding to his command before my brain can catch up. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me across his lap in one smooth motion, my belly pressed to his thigh, ass in the air, and my breath catches.
“What are you?—”
His hand comes down on my ass. Hard. The slap echoes in the quiet room and I yelp, more from surprise than pain.
Then again. And again. Each spank lands on alternating cheeks, his palm covering the curve of my ass completely, and the sting blooms into something else—something hot and throbbing that radiates through my core and pools between my thighs.
“You don’t have a home,” he says, voice low and controlled, hand falling in a steady rhythm that has me squirming across his lap. “Not anymore. Your home is here. With me. On the back of my bike. In my bed.” Another slap, harder, and I gasp. “You understand me, little dove?”
I’m dripping. I can feel it—wetness soaking through my panties, my pussy clenching on nothing, and when his hand slides between my legs from behind and finds the slick evidence of my arousal, he groans.
“Fuck. Look at you.” His fingers stroke through my wetness, gathering it, then circling my clit with deliberate pressure. “Taking your spanking like a good girl and getting wet for Daddy. You’re made for this. Made for me.”
The word—Daddy—sends a bolt of heat through me so intense I cry out. His fingers work me faster, circling my clit while his other hand continues spanking my ass, and the combination is too much. Pleasure builds, sharp and urgent, and I’m so close, so fucking close?—
He stops. Lifts me off his lap. Turns me to face him. And then he’s on his knees between my spread thighs, his big hands holding my hips, and his mouth is on me—tongue flat against my clit, sucking hard, and I come apart with a sob that tears from my throat.
“Please,” I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair, holding him against me as he laps at my pulsing pussy. “Please, Daddy. Please?—”
He gentles. Slows. His tongue strokes through my folds, gathering my come, and when he lifts his head his mouth is glistening, his eyes black with need. He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, tender, reverent, and looks up at me with an expression that wrecks me completely.
“You’re already home, Kiera,” he says, his voice rough with something that sounds like love. “You just don’t know it yet.”
I believe him. God help me, I believe him.