Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Kiera
I stay. The decision settles into my bones like something that was always there, waiting to be acknowledged.
That envelope of cash sits on the dresser, untouched, and every time Arrow’s eyes drift to it there’s a flicker of something—relief, wonder, a kind of ragged gratitude—that makes my chest ache in the best possible way.
Something shifts between us. Subtle. Profound.
The desperation that used to hum under his skin—the constant, vibrating need to possess, to claim, to keep—quiets into something steadier.
He still watches me like I might vanish.
Still growls at brothers who look too long.
But his hand on the small of my back is surer now.
His voice, when he calls me little dove, has lost its edge of panic.
We’re in his room. Our room, I suppose, though neither of us has said it aloud.
The barred window lets in a strip of moonlight across the bed, and Arrow is sitting in the chair by the dresser, one boot propped on his knee, cleaning a gun with methodical precision.
His hands move with the ease of long practice—field strip, clean, reassemble—and I watch the play of muscle in his forearms, the concentration in his profile, and something warm unfurls in my belly.
Not lust. Something quieter. Something that feels dangerously like love.
I cross the room. He doesn’t look up—he’s focused on the weapon, his big hands careful, almost tender—until I step between his spread knees and his eyes snap to mine, dark and questioning.
“Hi,” I say. Soft. Simple.
His mouth curves. Just a little. The closest thing to a smile I’ve ever seen from him. “Hi, little dove.”
I climb into his lap. One knee on either side of his thighs, settling my weight against him, and his hands—gun forgotten on the dresser—come to rest on my hips. His thumbs stroke idle circles through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt, and the heat of him seeps through to my skin.
“I want to tell you something,” I say. My hands find his face—rough stubble, strong jaw, the scar above his eyebrow that I still don’t know the story behind. “And I need you to listen. Really listen.”
He goes still. His eyes on mine, steady, present in a way that makes my throat tight.
“The only place I’ve ever felt truly safe,” I say, each word careful, measured, “is on the back of your bike. In your arms. In this room with the door locked and your body between me and the world.” I swallow.
His thumbs have stopped moving on my hips.
He’s holding his breath. “I want your patch, Arrow. I want your name. I want your baby in my belly and your ring on my finger and every dirty, violent, beautiful piece of you that you’re willing to give me.
Not because you claimed me. Because I’m claiming you right back. ”
Something breaks in his expression. Raw. Open. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest hurt. His hands tighten on my hips, fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll float away, and when he speaks his voice is wrecked.
“Kiera—”
“Don’t talk.” I kiss him. Slow. Deep. Nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses we’ve shared before. This is deliberate. Tender. My tongue slides against his and he makes a sound—half groan, half surrender—and his arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his chest.
I rock against him. Slow rolls of my hips that have his cock hardening beneath me, thick and eager against my core through the thin cotton of my panties.
His breath comes faster. His hands slide up under my shirt, palms rough against the soft skin of my back, and when he breaks the kiss his forehead presses to mine, our breath mingling.
“Let me,” I whisper. “Let me have you. Let me take you the way you’ve been taking me.”
He nods. Once. Rough. His hands fall to my thighs, holding me steady as I reach between us and push his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip.
I’m soaking. Have been since I climbed into his lap.
My panties are a lost cause, and I shove them aside, positioning myself above him, the head of his cock nudging my entrance.
I sink down. Slow. So slow it burns, my body stretching to take him, and his hands grip my thighs hard enough to leave bruises.
His eyes never leave mine. Dark, intense, watching every flicker of sensation cross my face as I lower myself onto him inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt inside me, my thighs trembling, his cock pulsing against my deepest parts.
“Fuck,” he breathes. His voice is ragged. “You feel—Christ, Kiera, you feel?—“
“I know.” I rock against him. Small, gentle movements that have us both gasping. “I know, Daddy. I’ve got you.”
The word—Daddy—does something to him. His hips buck upward, driving deeper, and a groan tears from his chest that I feel in my bones.
His hands find my face, cupping my cheeks, thumbs brushing my lips, and the tenderness in the gesture contrasts so violently with the filthy words that spill from his mouth that I whimper.
“That’s it, baby. Take all of me. This sweet cunt was made for my cock.
Made to be stretched. Made to be filled.
” His hips roll upward, grinding against something deep that makes my vision blur.
“Gonna breed you. Gonna pump this pussy so full of come you’ll be dripping for days.
Gonna put a baby in this belly and keep you round and full and mine forever?—”
“I want it,” I gasp, riding him now, my hips finding a rhythm that has us both panting. “I want your baby. I want your come. I want everything, Arrow. Everything.”
His control shatters. His hands grip my hips, guiding me, setting a pace that’s deep and relentless and has me crying out with each thrust. My clit grinds against the base of his cock with every roll of my hips, pleasure building sharp and urgent, and when his thumb finds my clit and circles hard, the orgasm crashes through me without warning—violent, blinding, my pussy clenching around his cock in rhythmic pulses that milk him, drag him deeper, and he groans my name against my throat as he comes.
He trembles. Actually trembles—this big, hard man shaking in my arms as he empties himself inside me, hot pulses flooding my deepest parts, and the vulnerability of it—Arrow, who breaks jaws without blinking, trembling as he comes inside me—undoes something in my chest that I didn’t know was still holding together.
I collapse against him. His arms wrap around me, holding me close, his face buried in my hair, and we sit there in the moonlight, joined, his cock still half-hard inside me, his come leaking down my thighs, and neither of us moves for a long time.
“Kiera.” My name in his mouth is rough. Reverent.
“I love you. Christ, I love you. I have since that alley. Since the first time I laid eyes on you. I didn’t know what it was.
Didn’t have a name for it. But it’s love.
It’s fucking love, and it terrifies me more than any gun ever pointed at my head. ”
The words land like something I’ve been waiting to hear my whole life. Not the filthy promises, not the possession—though God knows I love those too—but this. This raw, honest, terrified admission from a man who doesn’t know how to be vulnerable and is doing it anyway, for me.
“I love you too,” I whisper against his throat. “My monster. My man. Mine.”
He holds me tighter. His hand strokes my hair, gentle, tender, and the obsession that used to feel like desperation now feels like something else—something solid, something that could last, something that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with the way his heart hammers against my chest, steady and sure and ours.
Forever starts here. In this chair. In his arms. With his come inside me and his love in my mouth and the certainty that I have never, in my entire life, been more exactly where I’m supposed to be.