“Dead.” Stone’s voice is flat. Certain. “If Steel didn’t get him, the FBI did. And if neither of them did, I’ll find him myself.”
“He’s dead.” I cover his hand with mine. “I saw him go down in the chaos. It’s over.”
“I put Steel in that position.” He closes his eyes. “I ordered him to take a shot that?—”
“That saved my life.” I pull his forehead down to mine. “You saved my life. Both of you. Don’t you dare feel guilty about that.”
“I would have killed them all.” His hands grip my hips, hard enough to bruise. “Every single one of them. Without hesitation. Without regret. Does that scare you?”
I should probably say yes. A normal woman would be terrified, would run from a man capable of that kind of violence.
But I’m not a normal woman. And he’s not a normal man.
“No,” I whisper. “It doesn’t scare me.”
“Josie—”
“I knew what I was signing up for.” I hold his gaze. “I’m not some naive girl who thought dating an MC president would be quiet Sunday brunches. I knew there would be danger. I knew there would be moments like tonight. And I chose you anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re worth it.” I pull him down until our foreheads touch. “All of it. The danger, the fear, the 2am emergencies and the cancelled plans and the constant worry. It’s worth it to be yours.”
Something breaks in him—I can feel it, the last of his walls crumbling.
“I might get annoyed sometimes,” I continue. “When Church runs long or you disappear without warning. I’ll probably roll my eyes and mutter under my breath and give you hell for it later.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“But I’ll get over it. Because this—you, the club, all of it—is home. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He kisses me then—desperate and hungry and raw.
“I need you,” he groans against my mouth. “Right now. I need to feel you, make sure you’re real, make sure you’re still?—”
“I’m here.” I pull at his shirt. “I’m real. Take what you need.”
He does.
There’s nothing gentle about it.
He strips me with shaking hands, his mouth following every inch of skin he reveals—pausing at each bruise, each mark they left on me, pressing kisses like he can heal them with his lips alone. I’m tearing at his clothes just as desperately, needing skin against skin, needing to feel his heartbeat against mine.
“Bed,” I manage between kisses. “Now.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me across the room, laying me down on sheets that smell like us. And then he’sover me, around me, inside me—one long thrust that drives the breath from my lungs.
“God—” He buries his face in my neck. “Josie?—”
“Move.” I wrap my legs around him. “Please, Boone, I need?—”
He moves.
Hard and fast and desperate, like he’s trying to crawl inside my skin. I cling to him, nails raking down his back, matching his intensity with my own. This isn’t making love. This is claiming. Reassuring. Proving to ourselves that we’re both still here, still alive, still together.
“I love you.” He pants the words against my throat. “I love you so goddamn much.”
“I love you too.” I arch into him. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
