Chapter 14 #2
The scent floods me, pulling me through years of grief, straight into this moment—the man with moss-green hair and a voice like prayer, who saw me when I thought I was invisible, who saved pieces of me I didn’t even realize I’d lost. The words scrape something raw inside me.
My father’s deals and the chains of the Raiders—none of it matters in the way Isaiah is looking at me now, like I’m not a burden but a miracle.
I realize, bone-deep and terrifying, that I want him.
Before the thought can terrify me, I move. The thermos clatters against the bike as I set it down, my hands catching the leather of his jacket and pulling him to me. Our mouths collide—hot, trembling, inevitable.
His groan breaks into the kiss, deep and rough, his palms branding my waist and hauling me closer until there’s no air, no space, just the wild press of him. He kisses like he’s starving, like every moment without me has been a drought, and I answer like I’ve been thirsty too.
When I finally break, gasping against his lips, I whisper the truth I can’t outrun anymore. “I want you, Isaiah.”
His forehead falls against mine, breath shuddering out of him like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. “Angel…you have me.”
“No,” I pull back, looking into his chocolate brown eyes. “I want you.”
Understanding ignites in his dark gaze. A slow, devastating burn that makes my knees tremble. His wavy green hair, lit by the rising sun, frames a face so serious, so full of want, that my breath hitches.
“Valentina.” My name is a prayer on his lips, a vow. He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He sees the certainty in my eyes, the raw, trembling need that mirrors his own.
His hands slide from my waist, skating down over the curve of my hips, the thin fabric of my leggings doing nothing to dull the heat of his touch. He grips the hem, his thumbs stroking my bare skin just above where the material begins. A question. A last chance to run.
I don't run. I just nod, my own fingers fisting in the soft leather of his jacket.
He moves then, a study in controlled intensity.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my leggings, and in one fluid, shockingly graceful motion, he peels them down my legs.
The morning air is cool against my newly bared skin, raising goosebumps.
I step out, one sneaker, then the other, leaving me standing in just his oversized top, the hem brushing the very tops of my thighs. Utterly exposed to him.
His eyes drink me in, a dark, possessive gaze that travels the entire length of my legs. He lets out a sharp, awed breath. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
The cold metal of the motorcycle seat presses against the backs of my thighs as he guides me to lean against it.
The shock of it makes me gasp, a tiny sound swallowed by the immensity of the moment.
He steps between my legs, his own jeans rough against my inner skin, and his hands cradle my face, his kiss returning, softer now.
Tender. A slow, deep exploration that promises everything.
I feel one of his hands trail down my neck, over the frantic pulse at my throat, down over the swell of my breast through the soft cotton of the top.
His thumb finds my nipple, circling it once, twice, through the fabric, until it’s a hard, aching peak.
A low moan escapes me, and he captures the sound with his mouth.
His other hand continues its journey south, skating over my stomach, my hip, and then his fingers are there, brushing through the soft curls, finding the sensitive, aching heart of me.
I jolt against the cold seat, a cry tearing from my throat. Oh god. His touch is impossibly gentle, a slow, circling pressure that has my head falling back against the bike’s handlebars.
“Isaiah…” It’s a plea, a prayer.
“I’ve got you, Angel,” he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. “Just feel. Just feel me.”
His finger glides through my wetness, a slow, torturous exploration that has me writhing against his hand. He finds a rhythm, a gentle, insistent circling that coils a tight, hot spring deep in my belly. My hips jerk, seeking more pressure, more friction, more him.
This is it. This is the precipice everyone talks about. I’m trembling on the edge, held there by the exquisite skill of his hand.
He withdraws his hand and I whimper at the loss, but the sound is cut short as I hear the urgent rasp of his zipper. He yanks down his jeans and kicks them away, and then he’s there, the hard, hot length of him pressing against my inner thigh. So much bigger than I imagined.
He looks into my eyes, his own dark with passion, with a tenderness that undoes me completely. “This might… it might hurt for a second,” he breathes, his voice thick.
“I don’t care,” I gasp, arching my body toward his. “I just need you. Now.”
He guides himself to my entrance, the broad head of him pressing there, a perfect, impossible pressure. He holds himself still, his entire body trembling with the effort. Waiting for me.
I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles at the small of his back, and pull. “Please.”
It’s all the permission he needs.
He pushes forward, a slow, inexorable invasion that steals the air from my lungs. There’s a sharp, burning stretch, a bright flash of pain that makes me cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders. He freezes instantly, his face a mask of concern.
“Valentina…”
“Don’t stop,” I beg, the pain already melting away, transmuting into a feeling of fullness. A completeness I’ve never known. “Don’t you dare stop.”
A groan rips from his chest and he pushes the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt inside me.
We both go utterly still, fused together, our ragged breaths mingling in the space between us.
I feel everything. The throb of him inside me.
The cold, unyielding metal of the bike against my back. The warm, rising sun on my face.
He begins to move. A slow, devastating withdrawal, then a smooth, deep thrust that makes me see stars. Oh. This is what it’s supposed to be. This primal, perfect rhythm. Each stroke is a revelation, a new wave of pleasure that washes away the last remnants of pain.
My moans become a continuous, breathy rhythm, matching his thrusts. I cling to him, my hands fisting in his green hair, pulling his mouth back to mine. We kiss, sloppy and desperate, as our bodies find their ancient, perfect cadence.
The world narrows to this. To the scent of leather and his skin. To the sound of our bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, a raw, honest sound in the quiet morning. To the feeling of him filling me, claiming me, over and over.
The coil in my belly tightens beyond bearing, a spring wound too tight. My back arches off the bike, a scream caught in my throat. “Isaiah, I’m… I’m going to…”
“Let go, Angel,” he grits out, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, losing their careful rhythm. “Come for me. Come on my cock.”
His words are the final trigger. The spring snaps, and a shattering, blinding wave of pleasure crashes over me.
My body convulses around his, clamping down on him in a series of intense, pulsing waves that seem to go on forever.
I cry out, a raw, broken sound that echoes against the canyon walls as the sunrise paints the sky in fire.
Feeling me clench around him, he lets out a guttural groan, his own control breaking. He drives into me one last, deep time, his body shuddering as he finds his own release. I feel the hot, pulsing rush of him inside me, and it wrings another, smaller climax from my oversensitive body.
He collapses against me, his head buried in the crook of my neck, his breath coming in harsh, hot pants against my skin.
The cold metal of the bike is a stark contrast to the slick, sweat-sheened heat of our bodies.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs, as the world slowly comes back into focus.
He shifts, just enough to look down at me, his dark eyes soft, sated, full of something that looks an awful lot like awe. He brushes a strand of my sweaty blonde hair from my forehead.
“My angel,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “My brave, beautiful angel.”
The words burrow under my skin, hotter than his touch, heavier than his body on mine. Angel. Brave. Beautiful. I don’t feel like any of those things—but in his eyes, I see them reflected back at me until I almost believe. And that’s when the truth hits, sudden and ruthless: I can’t let this go.
I need him. I need Isaiah with all his obsession and reverence, with the way he looks at me like I’m salvation carved in flesh.
But I need more too. I want Asher—the quiet storm, the tether that keeps me sharp, the steel spine of reason behind every blow he lands.
And Xavier…God help me, I want him too. With his consuming madness, his rage that mirrors my own, his fire that burns me raw and remakes me in the same breath.
It terrifies me, this hunger that stretches in every direction. But I can’t deny it. I don’t want to.
Isaiah’s lips brush my temple, and I let my eyes close against the rising sun.
I hope he understands, I think, with a prayer lodged in my throat.
Because I need all of them—the chaos, the cruelty, the comfort.
And if there’s any chance I can hold onto that, I’ll fight for it, claws bared and heart wide open.