Chapter 5
five
. . .
Arrow
I know the night I’m going to take her. I’ve known for days.
Maybe since the first time I put my mouth on her and she came apart with my name on her lips.
I lie beside her in the dark, her small body curled against mine, and I can feel it like a countdown—the patience running out, the need becoming something I can’t fucking control anymore.
She’s asleep. Peaceful. One hand resting on my chest like she owns the space. Her hair is loose, dark strands spread across my pillow, and in the faint light from the barred window I can see the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her lashes against her skin. Innocent. Mine.
I wake her with my mouth on her neck. Gentle bites along her throat, my hand sliding beneath the t-shirt she sleeps in—my t-shirt—to palm her breast. She stirs, makes a soft sound, and her hips shift against mine.
“Arrow?” Her voice is sleep-rough, sweet.
“Time, little dove.” I kiss her jaw. Her mouth. Her lips part under mine and I taste her—warm, sleepy, willing. “I’m going to fuck you tonight. Slow. Then deep. And I’m not stopping until you’re full of me.”
She whimpers. Not fear. Hunger. Her hand finds my cock through my boxers and squeezes, and I groan against her mouth.
“Please,” she whispers. “I’m ready. I’ve been ready.”
I strip her. Slow. The t-shirt over her head, her panties down her legs, and she lies naked on my sheets, small tits rising with each quick breath, thighs pressed together like she’s shy even now.
I kiss my way down her body—throat, collarbone, the valley between her breasts.
I suck a nipple into my mouth and she arches, a broken sound escaping her, and my cock throbs so hard I see stars.
I need to prepare her. She’s tiny. I’m not.
I’ve had my fingers inside her—two, sometimes three—but my cock is thicker than my fist and the thought of hurting her makes my stomach turn.
I push her thighs apart and lower my head, tongue flat against her pussy, and she cries out.
I work her slow, building her up, lapping at her clit until she’s writhing, until her hips are chasing my mouth and her fingers are tangled in my hair.
“Enough,” I growl against her wet folds. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
I strip my boxers. My cock springs free, thick and angry, pre-come beading at the tip. I stroke myself once, twice, and her eyes fix on my hand, her lips parting on a shaky breath.
“You’re so big,” she whispers. There’s fear there. Honest fear. And something hotter underneath.
“I’ll go slow.” I position myself between her thighs, the head of my cock nudging her entrance, and she’s wet—soaking—but tight. So fucking tight. I push in. Just the tip. And she gasps, her body tensing, her hands flying to my shoulders.
“Breathe,” I murmur. My hand comes up to cradle her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “Breathe through it, baby. Daddy’s got you.”
She breathes. Slow, shuddering. Her pussy grips the head of my cock like a vise, hot and pulsing, and I push deeper. Another inch. She whimpers, a sound of pain mixed with pleasure, and I stop. Hold still. Let her adjust.
“That’s it,” I whisper, dropping kisses along her jaw. “Take me. Your tight little pussy was made for my cock. Made to be stretched. Made to be filled.” I push deeper. Another inch. Her nails dig into my shoulders and I groan. “Fuck, Kiera. So tight. So fucking perfect.”
I’m halfway in when the resistance gives. Her body opens, accepting me, and I sink deeper with a groan that tears from my chest. She’s shaking. Trembling. Her pussy clenches around me in rhythmic pulses, adjusting, and I hold still, my forehead pressed to hers, our breaths mingling.
“You okay?” My voice is wrecked. Rough.
She nods. Her eyes are wet. “More. Please, Daddy. More.”
I lose it. The control. The restraint. I thrust deep, burying myself to the hilt, and she cries out—loud, broken, her back arching off the bed. Her pussy grips me like a fist, hot and pulsing, and I bottom out inside her with a groan that feels like it’s been ripped from my soul.
“Fuck.” My hand fists in her hair, holding her still while I start to move.
Slow at first. Deep, measured strokes that have her whimpering with each thrust. “This cunt. This sweet, tight, virgin cunt belongs to me now. Nobody else gets this. Ever.” I thrust harder.
Deeper. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me in, and the pace builds—faster, harder, my hips pistoning into her with a force that shakes the bed.
“Gonna fill you up,” I growl against her mouth. “Gonna pump this pussy so full of come you’ll be dripping for days. Gonna breed you. Stuff this innocent belly until you’re round with my kid?—”
She comes. Violently. Her pussy clenches around my cock in rhythmic pulses, milking me, and I feel every spasm, every flutter, and it’s too much.
My orgasm crashes through me—thick, hot ropes of come flooding her, pumping into her deepest parts, and I groan her name against her throat as I empty myself inside her.
I don’t pull out. Can’t. My cock stays buried inside her, pulsing, still half-hard, and I collapse beside her, pulling her against my chest. Our bodies are glued together—sweat, come, the evidence of what we’ve done—and I hold her like she’s made of something precious.
My hand strokes her hair. My lips find her forehead.
“You’re the only pure thing I’ve ever touched,” I whisper, the words raw and honest in a way that terrifies me. “The only thing in twenty years of dirt that’s ever been clean. And I’m never giving you back, Kiera. Never.”
She’s quiet. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, slow and thoughtful, and the high of what we just did is still buzzing through my system when she speaks.
“I’m scared.”
Two words. Simple. Devastating. My heart stutters.
“Of me?” I ask. My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
She shakes her head against my chest. “Of your world. It’s going to swallow me whole, Arrow. I’m not…I’m not built for this. For guns and fights and men who solve problems with their fists. I make coffee. I read books. I’ve never even been in a fight.”
The truth of it lands like a fist to the gut. She’s right. She’s so fucking right it hurts. My world is violence and dirt and blood on my knuckles that never quite washes off. And she’s—Christ, she’s sunlight. She’s vanilla and coffee and soft hands that have never held anything heavier than a mug.
For the first time in my life, the big bad biker king looks afraid. Genuinely, bone-deep afraid. Not of death. Not of pain. Of losing the one girl who makes him soft.
“I’ll keep you safe,” I say. The promise feels hollow even as it leaves my mouth. How can I keep her safe when my world is the thing she needs protection from?
She looks up at me. Eyes wide, wet, honest. “I know you’ll try.”
It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s all I have, and the fear of losing her sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and I hold her tighter because it’s the only thing I know how to do.