5. Angel #2
I don’t want to show him. But I know he’s not going to let this go, so I hold out my arm.
The bruises are already forming—four distinct marks where his fingers dug in.
Rev stares at them. His whole body changes. The warmth drains out of his face, replaced by something cold and terrifying. His jaw is tight. His hands curl into fists on the table.
“I should have waited inside,” I say quickly. “I know I should have. I just—I was feeling good after the clubhouse, and I thought—”
“Stop.”
“It’s my fault. If I’d just—”
“Angel.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand—gentle, so gentle, even though I can see the rage vibrating through him. “This is not your fault. You understand me? You didn’t do anything wrong. He put his hands on you. That’s on him.”
“But if I’d waited—”
“Then he would have tried something else. Tomorrow, or next week, or whenever he caught you alone.” His grip tightens slightly. “This isn’t about what you did or didn’t do. This is about a man who won’t take no for an answer.”
My eyes sting. “I just keep thinking—”
“I know.” His voice cracks, just slightly.
“Believe me, I know. I spent months after Wheels died wondering if I could have done something different. If I’d checked his bike one more time, if I’d noticed something, if I’d just—” He stops.
Takes a breath. “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But I tortured myself anyway.”
I stare at him. He’s never talked about this before—not really. The guilt he carries, the what-ifs that must haunt him.
“If I’d gotten here ten minutes earlier,” he says quietly, “I could have been with you when you walked out. He never would have approached. But I wasn’t here. And I’ve been playing that same game in my head—the ‘if only’ game—for years. It doesn’t change anything. It just eats you alive.”
“Rev...”
“Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t let him make you think any of this is your fault.” He lifts my hand to his mouth, presses his lips to my knuckles. “The only person responsible for what he did is him.”
Something breaks loose in my chest. The tears I’ve been holding back spill over, and I’m crying—ugly crying, the kind I haven’t let myself do in months. Rev slides out of his side of the booth and into mine, pulling me against his chest, holding me while I fall apart.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
I don’t know how long we stay like that. Long enough for the tears to slow. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for the fear and the anger and the exhaustion to transform into something else entirely.
Need.
I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, intense, still simmering with barely-contained rage. But underneath that, I see something else. The same thing I’m feeling.
“I need you,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “Angel—”
“Please.” I press my palm against his chest, feel his heart pounding under my hand. “I need to feel something other than this. I need to feel you.”
“Here?”
“Here.”
Something shifts in his expression. The restraint he’s been holding onto cracks.
“Get up,” he says. Low. Commanding.
I slide out of the booth. He follows, backing me up until I hit the counter. His hands grip my hips, lifting me onto the surface, and then he’s standing between my thighs and his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is fierce. Possessive. He’s pouring all that rage into it, all that fear, and I take it willingly. My fingers fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
“He touched you,” Rev growls against my mouth. “Put his hands on what’s mine.”
“I’m here.” I yank at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. “I’m right here.”
He pulls back just long enough to strip off his shirt. Then his hands are at the button of my jeans, and he’s dragging them down my legs along with my underwear, and the cool air of the café hits my bare skin.
“Spread your legs.”
I do. He looks down at me—splayed open on my own counter, desperate and wanting—and I see hunger flash across his face.
“You’re already wet.” His fingers slide through my folds and I gasp. “Soaked for me, even after everything.”
“I need—”
“I know what you need.” He drops to his knees.
The first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out, my hand flying to his hair. He eats me like he’s angry about it—fast and relentless and so fucking good I can barely breathe. I’m gripping the edge of the counter with one hand, his hair with the other, riding his face without shame.
“Right there—fuck—don’t stop—”
He doesn’t stop. He works me with his tongue until I’m shaking, until I’m right on the edge, and then he pulls back.
“No—”
“Not yet.” He’s on his feet, unbuckling his belt, shoving his jeans down. “When you come, I want to feel it.”
He pulls me to the edge of the counter and thrusts inside me in one hard stroke.
I scream. The stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me completely—it’s overwhelming. He gives me half a second to adjust before he starts to move, fucking me with hard, deep strokes that shake the whole counter.
“This is mine,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re mine. Nobody else touches you. Nobody else gets to have you like this.”
“Yours,” I gasp. “Only yours.”
“That’s right.” He hitches my leg higher, changing the angle, hitting deeper. “Say my name.”
“Rev—”
“Louder.”
“Rev!” I’m close—so close—my whole body tightening around him. “Please, I need—”
“Come.” His thumb finds my clit, circling hard. “Come for me, Angel. Let me feel you.”
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me, wave after wave, and I’m screaming his name into the empty café. He fucks me through it, relentless, chasing his own release, and when he comes he buries himself deep and groans like it’s being ripped out of his soul.
We stay there, connected, both of us panting. His forehead drops to my shoulder.
“I love you,” he says.
The words hit me like a thunderbolt. I pull back to look at him—this man who showed up when I needed him, who held me together when I was falling apart, who just fucked me on my own counter and told me I was his.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
He kisses me. Soft this time. Tender.
Then he pulls back, and the tenderness is replaced by something harder. Colder. The rage that he banked while he was taking care of me—it’s still there. Still burning.
“I’m going to deal with him,” he says. “Once and for all.”
“Rev—”
“No.” He cups my face in his hands. “He put his hands on you. He doesn’t get to walk away from that. I don’t care what it takes or what it costs—he’s done.”
I should argue. Should tell him to let the cops handle it, or to be careful, or any of the reasonable things a reasonable person would say.
But I’m not feeling reasonable. I’m feeling loved, and protected, and utterly certain that this man will burn down the world for me if I ask him to.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Do what you need to do.”
He kisses my forehead. “I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”
And I believe him.