Chapter 8 - Luna
I can't help but chuckle at King's admission about post-sex conversations.
"So I've discovered a weakness in the mighty King's armor—pillow talk." I add.
"One of many weaknesses you seem to be uncovering," he replies with that handsome half-smile.
I shift slightly, feeling his cum continuing to trickle down my inner thigh. "Can I use your bathroom to clean up? You've left quite a... deposit."
His eyes darken at my words, that primal satisfaction returning to his expression. "All yours," he says, gesturing to a door I hadn't noticed before. "Through there."
I slip into the small but surprisingly elegant bathroom and close the door behind me, finally allowing myself a moment to breathe. Holy shit. I'm in a biker clubhouse, having just had mind-blowing sex with the club president in his office. Just twenty-four hours ago, I was stepping off a bus in a town I barely remembered, and now I'm literally dripping with the cum of the most dangerous man in Blackwater Falls.
And it was incredible. Not just good, not just great, but fucking life-altering. So that's what it feels like to be thoroughly fucked by a real man—a man who cares about your pleasure as much as his own, who knows exactly how to use his body to make yours sing.
I clean myself up with a warm washcloth, wincing slightly at the tender feeling between my legs. King wasn't gentle, and I'll probably be feeling him for days. The thought sends another pulse of heat through me, and I have to take a deep breath tocalm myself. Apparently, my body hasn't quite gotten the memo that we've finished, at least for now.
Looking in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. My hair is a wild mess, lips swollen from his kisses, a flush still spread across my cheeks and chest. There's a small mark forming on my neck where he bit me during one particularly intense moment. I look... claimed. Thoroughly fucked. Happier than I've been in years.
I do my best to tame my hair and splash cold water on my face before heading back into the office. King is pulling up his jeans as I enter, and we share a small smile as we both get dressed in comfortable silence.
Once we're decent, he surprises me by sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, then patting the space beside him in invitation. I join him there, leaning against his broad shoulder as his arm comes around me. It feels surreal to be sitting like this—intimate, peaceful, safe—when just outside this room is a world of motorcycle clubs and territorial wars and violence.
In this moment, though, we're just a man and a woman in our own little bubble, basking in the afterglow of something that feels bigger than either of us is ready to admit.
I realize suddenly how tired I am of calling him King. It's a powerful name, commanding and appropriate for the leader he is, but I want to know the man underneath. The real person, not just the president of a motorcycle club.
"Will you tell me your real name now?" I ask softly, tilting my head to look up at him.
He's quiet for a long moment, and I worry I've pushed too far. But then he sighs, a sound of surrender rather than irritation.
"Not many people outside the club know it anymore," he admits. "It's Noah. Noah Bradley."
"Noah," I repeat, testing it on my tongue. It feels right, somehow softer than the hard edges of "King" but no less strong. "I like it."
"Most people just know me as King now," he says. "Have for years. Sometimes I almost forget there was a Noah before all this."
"Tell me about him," I encourage, settling more comfortably against his side. "About Noah before he became King."
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "Not much to tell. Grew up here in Blackwater Falls. Dad was a mean drunk, mom died giving birth to me. Spent most of my childhood either getting the shit kicked out of me or learning how to fight back."
The flatness in his voice can't hide the pain underneath. I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his. "That must have been awful," I say softly. "Being blamed for something that wasn't your fault."
His fingers tighten around mine. "How did you know?"
"The way you said it. Like you've been carrying your mother's death as your burden all these years."
King—Noah—is silent for a long moment. "My dad made sure I knew the cost of my existence," he finally says, voice rough with emotion he rarely shows. "Every birthday, he'd get blackout drunk and tell me exactly how she died. Every detail. Said if I was going to take her from him, I should at least know what I'd done."
The casual cruelty of it makes my chest ache. "You were a child. A baby. It wasn't your fault."
"In my head, I know that." He taps his temple. "But in here—" he touches his chest, "—those wounds never really heal."
I lift his hand and press my lips to his knuckles, the same hands that dealt such violence just hours ago. "Is that why you joined the military? To get away?"
"Left the day I turned eighteen. Figured anywhere was better than staying here." His voice takes on a distant quality. "Found purpose there. Structure. Excelled at things that would have gotten me arrested in civilian life."
"Like violence," I say, not a judgment but an understanding.
