Denis’s chest ached, a swell of emotion rising like a tide. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Cherry’s collarbone, away from the bruises, tasting salt and skin. “I was scared,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Waiting here, not knowing...I love you, Cherry. God, I love you so much it hurts.”
Cherry froze for a heartbeat, then his fingers threaded into Denis’s hair, pulling him up for a kiss that was slow and deep, like they were breathing each other in. “You’re mine, lawyer man,” Cherry rasped against his lips, his free hand clutching Denis’s shirt. “Love you too. Been fightin’ it, but...yeah. Love you.”
The words hung between them, raw and real, and Denis felt tears prick his eyes. He kissed Cherry again, softer this time, mindful of the wounds, his hands mapping the familiar planes of Cherry’s chest with care. He eased Cherry back onto the bed, propping pillows behind him to keep pressure off his side. “Let me take care of you,” Denis whispered, grabbing a fresh towel from the warmer and the first-aid kit he’d stashed nearby.
Cherry’s breath hitched as Denis gently peeled away the old gauze, cleaning the wound with antiseptic wipes, his touch feather-light. “Feels good,” Cherry murmured, eyes locked on Denis’s face, the vulnerability there stripping away the enforcer’s armor. Denis applied fresh ointment, rebandaging it with steady hands, then kissed the edge of the dressing, trailing his lips up Cherry’s ribs, over unmarred skin.
“You’re beautiful,” Denis said, voice breaking a little as he stripped off his own shirt, needing the closeness. He straddled Cherry carefully, thighs bracketing his hips without putting weight on the injured side. Their kisses deepened, slow and languid, tongues exploring with a tenderness that built like a quiet storm. Cherry’s hands roamed Denis’s back, calluses rough against smooth skin, pulling him closer.
Denis reached for the lube on the nightstand, warming it between his fingers before sliding a hand down, undoing Cherry’s jeans with deliberate slowness. Cherry groaned softly, lifting his hips just enough, his hardness freed into Denis’s palm. “Easy,” Denis soothed, stroking him gently, watching Cherry’s face for any sign of pain. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“Only hurts when you’re not touching me,” Cherry replied, his voice gravelly with need. He tugged at Denis’s pants, helping shove them down, and soon they were skin to skin, bodies aligning in a careful rhythm. Denis prepared himself first, then Cherry, fingers gliding up and down with aching slowness, drawing out gasps and whispers of “please” from the biker beneath him.
When Denis finally sank down onto Cherry, it was inch by inch, gaze never leaving each other’s. Cherry’s hands gripped his hips, guiding but not rushing, their breaths syncing in the dim light. “Love you,” Cherry whispered again, like a mantra, as Denis rocked slowly, the motion intimate, emotional, every thrust a confession. Tears slipped down Denis’s cheeks, mingling with sweat, and Cherry thumbed them away, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like salt and forever.
They moved together, unhurried, the build-up a sweet ache that crested in waves. It was Cherry’s release spilling between them first, his body arching just enough to pull at the wound but not enough to stop. Denis followed, shuddering, collapsing carefully onto Cherry’s good side, their limbs tangled.
In the quiet after, Denis traced patterns on Cherry’s chest, listening to his heartbeat steady. “Stay with me,” he murmured. “Always.”
“Always,” Cherry echoed, kissing his forehead. “Home’s right here.”
“Oh, we’re seeing a doctor in the morning. If I’m keeping you, I’m keeping you healthy.”
Cherry’s laughter rattled Denis’ head. But he simply said, “Betcha Jinx already called it in. Doc will probably be here by seven or so.”
?Chapter Twenty-Three
Cherry
The late afternoon sun dipped low over the Louisiana bayou, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple as Cherry guided the motorcycle down the winding backroads towards the Incoherent MC clubhouse. The engine thrummed beneath them, a steady rumble that vibrated through his bones and soul. Heat grew from where Denis’s chest pressed close behind him. Cherry’s hands gripped the handlebars with easy confidence, but every now and then, he’d reach back with one gloved hand to squeeze Denis’s thigh, a silent reminder that this—them—was real.
Weeks had passed since that blood-soaked night, the one where Cherry had come home to Denis battered and raw, whispering confessions in the dim light of their bedroom. Months of healing, not just the knife wound that had scarred his side but the deeper cuts to his soul, the ones he’d carried for decades.
The wind whipped past, and Cherry felt peace settle over him like the warm leather of his cut. The IMC had thrived in the aftermath. The ASMC’s remnants had been absorbed or scattered, their colors burned in a bonfire that had lit up the night like a promise kept. LaBlanc had vanished into the night with Simba from Azrael’s Scimitars stepping up and taking out the trash. For the men he’d been working with, they quickly found cops and feds closing in after documents Myron and Pony unearthed hit the right desks.
No loose ends, no blowback.
