"You’ve been out here for three hours, Oliver." Her voice has changed; the soft, hesitant girl who arrived in the storm is gone, replaced by a woman with a confidence that makes my blood simmer.
I set the steel bracket down on the scarred oak of my workbench and turn. The sight of her hits me like a head-on collision, a wreck I never want to survive.
She’s standing in the doorway, the draft from the main house fluttering the hem of the black t-shirt she’s wearing. My shirt. The cotton hangs off her shoulder, exposing the pale, flawless curve of her neck and collarbone. It hits her mid-thigh, barely hiding the curve of her ass, her bare legs looking like silk against the dark, grimy gloom of my shop. Her feet are shoved into my thick wool socks, making her look small. Fragile. But those blue eyes lock onto mine with a hunger that matches the fire in my gut.
"Fixing the strike plate for your door." My voice is a rough scrape of gravel. I grab a rag and try to wipe the grease from my hands, but my eyes never leave her. "Needs to be stronger."
She navigates the maze of tool chests and lumber piles with an ease that tells me she’s finally claiming this space as her own.
She stops on the other side of the workbench, trailing a single finger through the dust on the wood. "The door is fine, Oliver. You replaced the entire frame yesterday. And the locks the day before. If you reinforce it any more, it’s going to be a bank vault."
"Good," I grunt, my jaw tightening as I watch her finger trace the oak. "Banks are safe."
"You can’t armor-plate the whole world." She quirks her lips in a smile that makes my chest ache.
"Watch me."
A low, throaty laugh vibrates from her and travels through the workbench, hitting my cock like a physical touch. She walks around the edge, encroaching on my territory until she’s standing right in front of me, forcing her to crane her neck to look up. I tower over her, a wall of corded muscle, sweat, and steel dust, yet she doesn't flinch.
"Take a break." She whispers it like a command, her warm palm settling on my chest. I can feel her heat through my flannel. She has no idea how close I am to snapping.
I look down at her hand—soft, unmarked—and then my gaze drops to her neck. The pulse there is fluttering like a trapped bird.
I drop the rag. It hits the floor with a wet slap.
"I don't want coffee." The growl rips from my throat. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the blue until her eyes are dark pools of need.
"What do you want, Oliver?"
I reach out, my large hands encompassing her waist. I can feel the scorching heat of her skin through the thin cotton. "I want to make sure you know exactly where you are."
I lift her. She gasps as I hoist her effortlessly, her weight nothing against my strength. I slam her onto the edge of the workbench. Tools rattle and a jar of brass screws tips over, spilling across the concrete in a chaotic clatter, but I don't give a damn. I step between her legs, forcing her knees wide with my thighs, burying myself in her space.
"Oliver—"
"Quiet." I lean in until our noses brush. I can smell her pussy now, a raw, heavy musk spiking sharp and sweet, mixing with the cedar and motor oil. "You walk in here, wearing my clothes, smelling like me... you think you're walking out?"
She shakes her head, eyes wide and glazed. "No."
"Good."
I frame her face with my hands. My thumbs trace her cheekbones, and I intentionally leave dark smudges of grease and grime on her perfect skin. I want to see the evidence of my touch on her. I want to brand her with the mess of my world. The thought makes my cock throb violently against my jeans. I want to leave marks. I want to leave evidence.
"I see the way the guys in town look at you," I snarl, my gut twisting with a dark, acidic possessiveness. "They think you're just some sweet city girl who got lost."
"I don't care about them," she whispers.
"I care." My hands slide down, my thumbs pressing against the soft line of her throat, just enough to feel her swallow. "They need to know. You need to know."
I raid her mouth, devouring her. My tongue sweeps in, tasting the coffee and the honeyed sweetness that is hers alone. She moans, her hands tangling in my beard to pull me closer as she wraps her legs around my waist, trying to fuse us together. I break the kiss and bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her until my lungs are full.
"You’re mine, Avery. Say it."
"I'm yours," she gasps. "I'm yours, Oliver."
"Damn right." I open my mouth and bite down on the muscle where her neck meets her shoulder. She cries out, a sharp, shocked sound, but she arches into the pain. I bite harder, sinking my teeth in to ensure a bruise forms. I suck at the tender skin, creating a dark, purple brand. Property of the Vanguard.
When I pull back, the mark is angry and red against her pale skin. Satisfaction roars through me. Primal. Dark. "Beautiful," I rasp.
