“Parker,” he breathes, half plea, half warning.
“I need you,” I whisper, tugging my tank top overhead and tossing it aside into the shadows. “Please.”
He curves around me, every movement charged. I feel the hard length of him pressing against me, and when he finds my center, a thrill of warmth blossoms between my legs. The cold concrete floor presses against my back, but his body vaults over me, shielding me from the chill. His mouth trails from my neck to my collarbone, each kiss a promise and an absolution.
He moves inside me with one slow, intentional thrust—enough to take my breath away. I arch against him, fingers sinking into his shoulders. He holds still for a moment, as if drawing strength from our closeness, then begins to move. First deliberate and precise, his hips rocking in measured strokes, letting me feel every inch. Then, as need overtakes restraint, his pace quickens—each thrust heavier, angrier, as though he’s driving his vengeance into every backward pull.
The concrete cold against my spine, the darkness encasing us, heightens every sensation: the slick friction, the faint scrape of metal beneath me, the echo of our breaths in the empty garage. He grips my hips, guiding me, grounding me to him.
But suddenly he stills. His voice, when he speaks, is a broken whisper. “Not here. Not on the ground.”
Before I can answer, he lifts me clear, breath warm on my ear. I gasp as the world shifts beneath us, and then I’m lowered onto something solid and curved. A shiver races through me as cold steel presses into the small of my back. His bike.
The engine’s gearshift digs into me, a delicious sting. He straddles me, thighs tight against mine, and locks the brake so the bike won’t roll. One hand reaches up to cradle my throat—gentle enough that I still breathe, firm enough that I can’t pull away. The other settles on my hip, anchoring us both.
“Ride me,” he commands, voice husky with edge and velvet heat.
I slide down onto him, adjusting until his length fills me. The metal presses through my tank top and shorts, a contrast to the fire he ignites inside me. I lean back, pressing my palms against his forearms, and begin to move—slow at first, savoring the stretch and the metallic press against my flesh. Then faster, deeper, each tilt of my hips coaxing a low growl from his throat.
He holds me close with that unwavering grip at my throat, setting a pace that’s devotion and desperation entwined. The narrow seat shifts under us, clattering softly against the concrete as we find our rhythm. My hair falls over his shoulder, catching the faint red glow of the dash display. I taste him in every breath: musk, blood, adrenaline.
His hand leaves my throat to find my breast, fingers brushing a path of heat up to my collarbone. I arch, neon sparks dancing in my mind as my world narrows to the curve of his jaw leaning into my neck, the press of his chest to mine, the intoxicating scrape of metal through cloth.
“God, Parker,” he rasps, “you drive me insane.”
He catches my hip and spins me forward, flipping me off the seat so my belly presses against the bike’s leather saddle. My palms slide to the handlebars for balance, knuckles white. His callused fingers ghost over my spine, down to cup my hips before that same fierce length of him finds me again. He guides the next slide in, slow and grounded, a devasting contrast to the pounding of my pulse.
I cling to the bike, to him, my breath coming in ragged bursts as pleasure and pain fuse into one. The sharp edge of the gear lever against my thighs, the hollow hum of the garage around us—every sense sharpened. He holds me there, his palm brushing my clit in tight, indelible circles until I quake, a soft cry slipping from me.
When I come, it crashes through me like thunder, and he follows—deep inside me, body shuddering, voice raw as he spills into me. For a moment we’re suspended together in the dark, riding out a storm of our own making.
When our breaths level, he gathers me up in his arms again, sliding me back onto the seat facing him. His jacket—once discarded, now a shield—wraps around us both as he folds me against his chest. The bike’s cool metal beneath us and his heartbeat beneath my ear anchor me to this fierce ease of safety and surrender.
His lips brush my forehead. “You came out here for me,” he whispers, voice trembling. “And I came home for you.”
46
CAL
The debriefing happened in Charles’s office at the main house—all of us crowded into the space that somehow felt too small despite its size. Charles behind his desk, Sienna curled in one of the armchairs looking exhausted, Parker on the couch between Jace and me, Silas leaning against the wall near the window.
Charles laid out everything Silas and he learned from Diego. The network Ryan and Aria built. The assets they recruited from multiple families. The coordinated attack as “phase one” of whatever the fuck they’re planning.
Sienna went pale when Charles explained how professional the operation was. How the snipers had clear shots and chose not to take them. How this was psychological warfare, not assassination.
“They wanted to prove they could get to us,” Charles said, his voice tight with controlled fury. “To the children specifically. Show that our protection isn’t as solid as we claim.”
“So what do we do?” Sienna asked quietly.
“We move the children somewhere safe,” Charles said. “Somewhere remote, heavily secured, away from the city while we dismantle Ryan and Aria’s network and find them.”
Which is how we ended up here, two hours later, standing in Charles’s living room while Maria and Evelyn coordinate logistics for taking Sienna, Jimmy, and Lottie to Maria’s estate in Martha’s Vineyard.
“It’s completely secure,” Maria is saying, pulling up photos on her tablet. “Private beach, gated property, security team I’ve personally vetted. The children can play outside, swim, be kids without looking over their shoulders.”
“How long?” Sienna asks, her hand unconsciously going to her stomach—a protective gesture even though Jimmy and Lottie are across the room playing with blocks under the watchful eyes of two security guards.
“As long as it takes,” Charles says firmly. “A few days minimum. Maybe a week. Until we’ve neutralized the immediate threat.”
