Candace gasps. Then she moves, sliding down my body, palms dragging across my chest, her hair falling in a curtain over my stomach. The scent of her hair, clean, warm, faintly citrus, wraps around me with the weight of something sacred. Her breathleaves trails of heat as she kisses the line beneath my ribs. Then lower, her mouth hot, wet, unforgiving.
She hooks her fingers into the waistband of my boxers first, glancing up at me with a look that asks permission, needing to know I’m just as undone as she is. I nod, breath caught somewhere in my throat, and she tugs them down slowly, deliberately, freeing me with a quiet exhale.
When her lips wrap around me, my entire body locks up. Candace doesn’t ease into it. She devours me, slow and deep, the hunger in her movements unmistakable. Her hands grip my thighs, keeping me pinned, mouth working me with that perfect mix of softness and precision. Every breath punches out of me as if I’ve been knocked out cold.
I curse her name. She moans around me. And that sound? It nearly finishes me. A low, feral growl claws up my throat, my fists tangled in the sheets, holding on to keep from unraveling completely.
“Fuck, Candace,” I growl, fisting the sheets as her tongue flicks and circles.
She pulls back with a wet pop just to look up at me, lips swollen, eyes dark with need. The sight of her gazing up, wordlessly owning me, brands itself into my memory.
“Want you to lose control,” she whispers. “I want to feel it.” She’s not just teasing. She’s daring me. And I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.
Just like that, I snap. Something primal takes over, clawing up from the deep, old places I try to keep buried.
I flip her, dragging her beneath me, covering her body with mine. She’s wearing a thong, barely there, and I’m too impatient to take it off. I push it aside, fingers sliding through her heat, then she whimpers, needy and wrecked. Her hands curl into my shoulders, her back arching under me, chasing contact.
“You were already wet for me,” I murmur against her throat, kissing down to her chest, sucking a bruise into her skin. “Did sucking my cock do that, baby?”
She nods, breathless. “Yes. God, yes.” The raw honesty in her voice hits me somewhere I can’t name.
I guide myself to her entrance and push in, slow, thick, deep, making us both groan. She’s tight. Wet. Silken heat wrapping around me with a grip that threatens to undo everything. Her legs wrap around my waist, her back arches, and I bottom out with a roll of my hips that has her gasping my name.
Candace’s fingers claw down my back, desperate and grounding. Every inch of her is slick and hot, pulsing around me, her body welcoming mine with a familiarity that steals my breath.
I stay there, buried to the hilt, not moving. Just feeling. Every pulse. Every twitch. The way she clenches around me when I breathe her name.
Her eyes flutter shut, unable to hold the weight of what’s passing between us; too much and not nearly enough.
Then I fuck her, deep, slow, savoring the drag of every stroke, pouring everything I’ve been holding back into the rhythm. Her nails carve into my skin. Her teeth graze my shoulder. When she begs me not to stop, I slam into her harder, hand gripping her thigh, forcing it higher to hit deeper. Deeper than I’ve ever gone with anyone. Because it’s her.
The sound of her falling apart beneath me—the way her breath breaks, the way her body trembles and pulls me closer—wrecks me more than any scream ever could.
“Mine,” I growl, voice low and raw.
“Yours,” she moans, breaking apart again, body shaking beneath me. The word rips through me with absolution. With the ache of worship.
When we come, together, it’s not gentle. It’s not clean. It’s devastating. Holy. Our bodies knew before we did that this was the only way we’d ever survive each other.
We collapse in a tangle of limbs, breath, and skin. I bury my face in her neck, her fingers still knotted in my hair. And I don’t let go. She smells like sex, lemon shampoo, and something I’ll never be able to name but will crave for the rest of my life.
Neither of us says a word. Because nothing needs to be said. She stayed. Now I know what it feels like to have her. And I don’t ever want to know what it feels like to lose her.
Theclubhousecarriesthescent of coffee, gun oil, and vengeance. I sit at the head of the long table in the war room, arms crossed over my chest, jaw locked tight. The patched members of the Outsiders surround me—Knox, East, Nash, Kyle, James, and Victor, who had shown up an hour ago with barely a word, just a nod that saidI heard.
Darla’s bruised face hadn’t left any of their minds. None of them had slept. Not really.
“She say anything else?” Knox asks, voice low, steady, always the tactician. His arm is slung casually over the back of the chair, but there’s no mistaking the tension in his shoulders.
East answers without looking up. He’d been grinding his knuckles into his palm the entire time. “Just that she heard her dad tell Trent he’d be ‘taking care of the disobedience once and for all.’ Bastard didn’t even mean the auction as the endgame. He wanted her married, and he didn’t care what it took.”
My jaw twitches. “Trent won’t be a problem for a while. He’s in the ICU with a gunshot wound and what’s left of his pride.”
“Yeah,” Nash mutters dryly, “word is the nurses are calling him ‘Ken Doll’ now.”
The room doesn’t laugh. Not really. But we’re all proud of Darla for not going down without a fight.
Victor leans forward, eyes sharp. “Winston set this up, but Trent was the executioner. Donovan—he’s been working with both of them. I’d bet money on it.”
