"To the clubhouse?"
"To your room." I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "I'm done waiting, Axel. I want you."
Something wild flared in his expression—desire and fear and need all tangled together.
"Kai, I don't—I haven't?—"
"I know." I kissed him again, softer. "We go at your pace. Whatever you're comfortable with."
"And if I don't know what I'm comfortable with?"
"Then we figure it out together."
He stared at me for a long moment. The city glittered below us, indifferent to the seismic shift happening on this cliff edge.
Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bike.
The ride back was faster. More urgent. His body was tense against mine—not with fear, but with anticipation. I could feel his heart pounding through his leather jacket, could feel the way his breath came shorter when my hands splayed across his abs.
By the time we pulled into the clubhouse garage, I was half-hard and aching.
He killed the engine. Neither of us moved.
"Last chance to back out," he said.
"Not a chance in hell."
He was off the bike and pulling me toward the stairs before I could draw another breath.
We stumbled through the clubhouse, past the few members still awake—Irish wolf-whistled, Tank just smiled—and up the stairs to his room. The door slammed behind us.
And then his mouth was on mine, and there was nothing else.
He kissed like he was trying to memorize me. Deep, thorough, consuming. His hands found the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head, and I heard his breath catch as his palms slid over my bare chest.
"You're—" He traced the lines of my abs, the definition I'd earned through years of swimming and gym work. "You're beautiful."
"Your turn."
I tugged at his cut, and he shrugged it off. Then his shirt, revealing the landscape of muscle and scar tissue I'd glimpsed that first night. I let myself look. Let myselfwant.
He was magnificent. Broad shoulders, thick chest, abs that could have been carved from stone. The bandage from his stabwound was gone now, replaced by a pink scar I wanted to trace with my tongue.
"Kai." His voice was strained. "The way you're looking at me?—"
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like you want to devour me."
"Maybe I do."
I pushed him toward the bed. He went—sat on the edge, looking up at me with an expression I'd never seen on him before. Vulnerable. Open.Waiting.
I straddled his lap, knees bracketing his hips, and felt the hard evidence of his desire pressing against me. His hands gripped my thighs, fingers digging in.
"Tell me what you want," I murmured against his mouth.
"I want—" He groaned as I rolled my hips. "I want to touch you. All of you. I want to taste—" He broke off, cheeks flushing.
