He steps back for half a second, just enough to look at me.
“Jesus Christ, Candace.” His voice is hoarse. Worshipful. A sound that treats me like a miracle he never believed he’d get to keep. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
I do. I know exactly how long. Because I’ve wanted it just as long.
He leans in and mouths along my throat, down the line of my collarbone. His hand reaches around, unclasps my bra, and it slides down my arms with the softness of a sigh. He watches as it drops. Watches me with focus that tries to memorize everything.
“Say you’re mine,” he rasps.
“I’ve always been yours.”
That’s all it takes.
He drops to his knees on the grass and pulls me to the end of the bike seat, spreading my legs wide as his hands run up my thighs. The denim digs into my hips as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs, slow, deliberate, until the shorts are gone, left dangling from one of the handlebars. He kisses the inside of my knee. Then higher. Higher.
When his mouth finds me, everything inside me snaps. A raw, unfiltered jolt of pleasure rushes through me, stealing my breath and every coherent thought I had left. His tongue moves with ruthless precision, a growl vibrating against me as I cry out. The sound is swallowed by the trees and the hush of the night.
I fist his hair, anchoring myself to him, my thighs trembling around his shoulders. My back arches off the seat, spine bowed, every stroke of his mouth coaxing out another moan, another broken plea. I’m unraveling under him, undone and consumed, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. He devours me with the hunger of a man starved. Determined to taste every moment I ever spent denying myself this.
He groans against me, tongue still working me open as he rasps, “You taste like sin, baby. Something I’ll never get enough of.” He kisses the inside of my thigh, then growls lower, rougher, “This is where you belong. Over my mouth. At my mercy. Falling apart just for me.”
The filth of it, the hunger, the worship in his voice, it sets fire to every nerve in my body. I moan louder, my body begging for more. For all of it. I feel myself tipping, unraveling at the edge he’s so carefully pushed me toward.
When the orgasm hits, it’s blinding. A full-body quake that shatters me into pieces I don’t want to put back together.
When he finally rises, mouth glistening, eyes dark and feral, I’m already reaching for his belt like I’ve forgotten how to breathe without him.
“I want you inside me,” I breathe. “Here. Like this. I don’t care who sees.”
“No one’s seeing you this way but me,” he grits out, yanking down his jeans and pulling me flush against him. “You understand me, Sour Patch? No one.”
He lines himself up and sinks in all at once, and I cry out. Loud. Needy. Completely undone.
My back arches, fingers digging into his shoulders as he starts to move, slow and deep. The bike rocks slightly with every thrust, making the metal frame creak beneath us. The leather burns beneath my thighs. His hands grip my hips with a desperation that tethers him to the earth. And I feel it; this is how he stays human.
His mouth finds mine again, sloppy, breathless, then my neck, then my chest, worshipping every inch of skin he can reach.
“You’re not running anymore,” he growls against my skin. “You’re not hiding. You’re mine.”
“I don’t want to run,” I gasp. “Not from you.”
He grits out something that sounds like my name and presses his forehead against mine. That’s when it changes, when it shifts from hungry to devastating.
Malachi slows, every movement drawn out in a way that feels intentional, as though he’s memorizing the moment, savoring it. He lingers in every touch, every kiss, every breath we share. Hemakes love to me with the desperation of someone terrified it could be the last time, even while he holds me with the certainty of someone who knows it won’t be.
I feel everything. Every thrust, every heartbeat, and every soft groan he tries to bury in my skin. I fall apart again, this time with my name on his lips and his arms locked around me, holding me as if I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.
When we both shatter, him with a quiet, wrecked growl against my mouth, we fall forward together, foreheads pressed, hearts racing.
The night settles around us while the engine cools. The air is thick with sweat and the scent of leather, pine, sex, and something heavier. Love.
He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and kisses the space just beneath my eye. It’s the kind of kiss that holds more weight than any words could carry.
“You’re it for me, Candace,” he whispers, voice low and wrecked. Like saying it out loud costs him something. Because it matters that much.
My breath hitches, chest too full to speak at first. Then I meet his eyes, those storm-dark eyes that have haunted and held me, and I let it all fall away. Every wall, every scar, and every fight I tried to win against him.
“I know,” I whisper back, brushing my fingers along his jaw. “And you’re it for me too, Malachi. You always have been.”
