The men of the Kings of Anarchy MC don’t use that word lightly. Bikers like him don’t say it unless they mean blood and consequence. Which mean people whispering my name again.
I take another step toward him, anyway.
“I want that,” I say, but I’m holding my breath.
He goes still. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.”
His eyes darken, something wild flickering there. “You think this is just about almost drowning? You think this is adrenaline?”
“No,” I whisper, and my voice doesn’t shake because I’m done being scared of my own want. “I think I’m tired of pretending.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek. His control is so thin I can see through it.
“You got any idea what it means if I put my hands on you like that?” he asks.
“I’ve had your hands on me.”
“Not like this.”
I close the last of the distance between us. I can feel the heat rolling off him. And leather and that unmistakable maleness that always makes my stomach flip. He's got the look of a man who's been starving and stayed quiet about it.
“I ain’t scared of you,” I say.
“You should be.”
“I ain’t.”
That’s when he moves.
It ain’t gentle or careful. It’s fucking inevitable.
His hand closes around my waist and in one swift motion he turns me, pressing my back against the tree. The bark bites through the thin cotton of his shirt, and I gasp at the scrape of rough wood against skin. His body pins mine hard and unapologetic, his weight telling my body what my mouth refuses to admit.
“Last chance,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“To what?”
“To walk back inside. Do this in a somewhat civilized manner or not at all.”
I grab his shoulders and pull him down.
He kisses me like he has been holding back for months instead of days. Like restraint has been a physical pain he finally got permission to stop enduring. His mouth is hot and ruthless. His hands roam, not tentative now, not careful, sliding up my thighs, gripping, lifting slightly until I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist.
The tree presses harder into my back.
He doesn’t seem to notice.
Or maybe he likes it.
“You’re gonna bruise,” he mutters, voice rough like the thought does something to him.
“Don’t stop.”
He makes a sound low in his throat at that, the kind that turns my knees weak. His mouth trails down my jaw, my neck,teeth grazing skin just enough to make me shiver. His hands slide under the hem of the shirt, his shirt, and grip my hips like he owns the right.
"You're wearing my clothes, dammit," he growls.
