Six months later
So much has changed since that night on the cliff.
The compound now feels like home in a way I never imagined possible. Grams is thriving at Sunrise Manor—her episodes are fewer, and Chaos and I visit regularly. (As does Zeus, who the entire staff now calls Robert Redford.)
The club dealt swiftly with the aftermath of Fiend's betrayal, clearing his belongings from the compound, removing every trace of him from the clubhouse, and never speaking his name again. It's like he never existed.
Zeus took it hardest. For weeks, he barely spoke, just moped around, angry and sullen, spending hours alone in the garage working on bikes. But gradually, he healed. With a little help—but that’s a story for another time.
I aced my pharmacology midterms, thanks to my old man footing the bill for private tutoring. Jace is fully recovered, the scar on his chest a badge he wears with pride, a reminder of the night he took a bullet for his ol’ lady. Yeah, he actually brags about that. Alpha men, amiright?
Tonight, the clubhouse is quiet for once—no rowdy parties. We've just finished eating dinner in our room—steak and potatoes from the kitchen, eaten picnic-style on the bed with wine that tastes like a kind of luxury I never knew existed. The plates are cleared and the candles flicker low, casting shadows that dance across Jace’s cut muscles and tattooed skin.
I’m sitting cross-legged in front of him, my oversized t-shirt—his, of course—riding up my thighs.
His hand captures mine, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that lingers, his beard scraping my knuckles. "You're beautiful." His voice is gravelly, low, and rough, sending heat pooling between my legs. Those blue-green eyes lock on mine, dark with intent. "Been thinking about this all day. You, under me. Moaning my name."
My breath hitches. Even after all this time, the man unravels me with mere words alone.
"Jace..." It's half-protest, half-plea, because I know what's coming, and my body is already aching for it.
He doesn't let me finish. In one fluid move, he hauls me forward, flipping our positions so I'm straddling his lap, the hard ridge of his cock pressing insistently against my core through his sweatpants. I gasp, grinding down instinctively, the friction sparking fire through my veins. His hands grip my hips, guiding me harder, rougher, his fingers digging into my flesh like he can't get close enough.
"Fuck, baby," he growls, nipping at my neck, his breath hot and ragged. "Feel how hard you make me? My cock's been leaking for you since breakfast. All day, I been imagining burying myself deep in your tight little cunt.” His dirty words hit like a lightning strike, making my pussy clench, my panties already soaked.
I rock against him, chasing the pressure, my hands fisting his t-shirt. A raw, needy moan escapes my lips. My hunger isbuilding fast, a desperation for him that never dulls. He's ruined me for anyone else—taught me what it means to crave him, to burn for him.
He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. “What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me. Use your words." One hand slides up my thigh, under the shirt, calloused fingers teasing the edge of my panties. He hooks them aside, dipping one thick finger into my wetness, circling my clit with agonizing slowness. I whimper, hips bucking, but he holds me still, controlling the pace.
"I need you," I gasp, my voice breaking. “I-I want you inside me. Now."
His eyes flash with possession, that feral edge that makes me feel claimed, cherished, owned. "That's my good girl. So wet for me, dripping all over my fingers. This pussy's mine, Rowan. Every slick inch. Mine.” He thrusts two fingers deep, rubbing that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as he pumps harder, his thumb massaging my clit.
The pleasure coils tight, raw and unrelenting, but it's not enough. I need more—need his cock filling me, stretching me until I can't think. "Jace...fuck me. Please."
He withdraws his fingers abruptly, leaving me aching and empty, and I whine in protest. But then he's shoving his sweatpants down, freeing his cock—thick, veined, and still intimidating, even after months of this, but I want it, crave the burn of him fucking me, claiming me. He strokes himself once, twice, his eyes never leaving mine. "You want this dick? Beg for it."
The command sends a thrill through me, dirty and lewd. "Please, Jace. Please let me have your cock. Fuck me hard. Make me yours."
His growl is primal, pure alpha, as he yanks my panties aside and positions me over him. "Damn right you're mine. Gonna pump you so full of my cum you'll feel me for days." He thrusts up in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt, and I scream, the stretch burning sweet fire through my core.
He's huge, splitting me, every inch owning me as my walls clench around him. We both still for a heartbeat, panting, foreheads pressed together. "So fucking tight," he rasps, hands gripping my ass, spreading me wider. "Like you were made for my cock. Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.”
I nod, rocking my hips experimentally, the fullness intense, perfect. He groans, low and tortured, and then we're moving—me riding him slowly at first, grinding down to take him deeper, his hands guiding me, bruising in their intensity. But slow doesn't last. Primal need takes over, and I bounce harder, chasing the edge, my clit rubbing against his pelvis with every slam.
"Fuck, yes," he grunts, thrusting up to meet me, our bodies slapping together in a frantic rhythm. Sweat slicks our skin, the air thick with the scent of our lovemaking. His mouth latches onto my breast through the shirt, sucking hard on my nipple, teeth biting down until I arch, pleasure-pain shooting straight to my core. "These tits bounce so pretty when you're riding my dick. Look at you—my perfect little slut, taking every inch like you were born for it."
His words—filthy and possessive—push me higher, the coil tightening unbearably. I lean back, hands on his thighs for leverage, giving him a view that makes his eyes darken to storm clouds. "I'm close, Jace. Oh god, don't stop."
“I ain’t stoppin’,” he vows, one hand snaking between us to pinch my clit, rolling it roughly. "Come on my cock, baby. Milk me dry. Show me how much you love being filled by your man." The pressure's too much—the stretch of him, the rub ofhis fingers, the raw need in his voice—and I shatter, my orgasm crashing over me. My pussy spasms around him, pulling him deeper as I cry out, waves of bliss ripping through me. My toes curl. My vision blurs.
He doesn't let up, pounding through my release, prolonging it until I'm trembling, oversensitive and gasping.
"That's it, sweetheart. So fucking good. Now turn around. I wanna fuck that ass from behind."
Dazed, I obey, lifting off him with a wet suction sound that makes us both groan. He maneuvers me onto all fours, knees on the bed, ass up—exposed, vulnerable, but safe with him. His hands spread my cheeks, thumbs smearing my juices over my back entrance just above where I'm still fluttering and leaking arousal.
"Look at this pretty little puckered hole. Gonna stretch it with my big cock. Gonna fuck you raw, baby. Fill you up until you're dripping my cum."
