I grab her by the waist and hoist her onto the heavy oak workbench. I sweep a row of steel calipers and schematics to the floor with a violent crash. I step between her thighs, my hands reaching for the buttons of my flannel she’s wearing. I don't unbutton them. I grip the collar and yank, the fabric shredding as the buttons fly across the concrete floor.
Her tits spill out, pale and beautiful in the dim light of the shop. I groan, my head dropping as I bury my face in her soft flesh, my tongue licking the valley between them. I can smell her drenched pussy now, the heavy, musky scent of a woman who is ready to be taken.
"Blake, please," she gasps, her hands frantically working at my belt.
I don't give her a choice, my hands moving in a frantic blur as I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and her soaked lace panties. I rip them down her legs with a single, violent tug, baring her to the freezing mountain air and my own scorching gaze.
She gasps, her thighs trembling as I help her out of the denim tangle before shedding my own jeans and boxers in a single motion. My cock snaps free, heavy and engorged, the head already weeping with the need to claim her. My cock is a rigid, pulsing weight, throbbing with the need to be inside her. I look at her, sitting on my workbench, her legs spread, wearing nothing but my ring and the remains of my shirt.
"You want the monster, Tiffany?" I growl. "You've got him."
I grab her thighs, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, and I drive home.
I hit her with everything I have, my entire length burying itself deep in her wet, hot pussy in one brutal thrust. She screams, her head snapping back as she grips the edge of the workbench, her body stretching to take all of me. I don't slow down. I begin to hammer into her, a rhythmic, punishing pace that makes the heavy wood of the bench groan and shift against the floor.
The sound of our bodies colliding—a wet, heavy thwack—echoes off the corrugated steel walls. I watch her face, watching her eyes roll back as her pussy clamps down on my shaft, milking me. She’s soaked, her juices running down my thighs as I bottom out, my balls slamming against her with every thrust.
"Mine," I snarl, my hand reaching out to grip her throat, not to hurt, but to anchor her as I fuck her senseless. "Whose pussy is this, Tiffany?"
"Yours!" she cries out, her body convulsing. "Only yours, Blake! Fuck me! Harder!"
I oblige, my movements becoming primal. I can smell her soaked pussy, the sharp scent of ozone, and the raw musk of my own testosterone. I reach down, my thumb finding her engorged clit, grinding against it as I drive into her.
She shatters. I feel the tremors start deep in her twitching walls, her inner walls rippling around my cock in a series of violent, exquisite contractions. She screams my name, a wrecked, beautiful sound that fills the workshop. The sight of her unraveling is the final straw. I roar, my body tensing as I deliver one last, devastating thrust. I feel the hot jets of my seed erupting inside her, flooding her womb, marking her from theinside out. I pump into her until I’m empty, my forehead resting against hers as our breath hitches in the quiet air.
I don't pull out. I stay buried deep, my heart drumming against her ribs. I look down at her hand, the Damascus ring glinting on her finger as she clutches my shoulder.
"I've got you, Tiffany Royce. Forever."
Outside, the sun begins to set over the peaks. I’ve won her, but Logan’s voice still rings in my head.
Ramon was a pawn, a noisy decoy to let the Costas move the markers on the North Ridge. The mission isn't over; the theater of war just shifted. But as I pull Tiffany tighter against my chest, I know one thing.
The Costas can move the lines all they want. They’ll never move me. I have my anchor. I have my heart. And God help the man who tries to break either one.
EPILOGUE
TIFFANY
The early morning sun hits the new steel scrolling on the front window of Sweet Pine Bakery, and for a moment, I just stand there, breathe in the scent of proofing dough, and marvel at the life I’ve been given. Long, intricate shadows stretch across the display case, the dark iron patterns dancing over the floorboards. It’s been fourteen months since Blake rebuilt this place. Fourteen months since the world found out exactly who I belong to.
He didn’t just repair the damage Ramon caused; he armored my existence. But being Blake, he didn’t just bolt ugly bars over the glass. Hand-forged vines of black iron twist and curl around the window frames, blooming with steel roses that look delicate until you touch the cold, unyielding metal. It’s beauty wrapped in brutality—just like him.
The scrolling is art, but the function is a fortress. Just like the man currently parking his massive black truck at the curb.
I finish arranging the tray of cinnamon twists, my fingers still dusted with flour. A deep, resonant chime rings above the door—a heavy, custom-forged bell that replaced the old tinny one. Blake changed that, too. He likes to know exactly when the air pressure in my space shifts. I don’t need to look up to know it’s him. The atmosphere in the room suddenly feels pressurized, weighted by the presence of a storm. The scent hits me a second later—motor oil, heated iron, pine, and the unique, musky spice of Blake’s skin.
"You're early," I say, my heart doing that familiar, frantic skip against my ribs. I keep my back to him, sliding the tray into the glass case, enjoying the way my skin prickles as he closes the distance.
"Finished the job at the Clubhouse early," Blake’s voice rumbles, a low, gravelly vibration that I feel in the soles of my feet. "Came to check the perimeter. Make sure no one’s been lingering too long at the window."
I turn, leaning my hips against the counter. He fills the doorway, a wall of leather and scarred muscle. His Broken Halos patch is stark against his vest, and there’s a smear of grease across his jaw that makes me want to lick it off. His dark eyes are already doing a tactical sweep of the room, checking the corners, the back exit, and then finally, inevitably, locking onto me. He doesn't stalk me from the shadows anymore, but the intensity of his gaze hasn't changed. He looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters, and the only thing he’s willing to kill for.
"The perimeter is fine, Blake. It’s a Tuesday morning. The most dangerous thing out there is a line of hungry tourists."
He grunts, stepping closer until he’s invading my personal space. He stops on the other side of the counter, his massive, calloused hands gripping the edge. The Damascus steel ring on my finger glints as I reach out to touch his hand.
"You're wearing that dress," he growls, his gaze dropping to the neckline of my floral sundress. It’s modest by most standards, but to Blake, any skin showing is an invitation he wants to rescind. "Three guys were staring when I pulled up. I almost got out and broke their jaws."
