"Why? I'm just some biker you hired."
"You stopped being 'just some biker' around the time you drove head-first through a zombie hoard to save my daughter." She catches my hand, holds it against her cheek. Her skin is warm, alive. "Maybe before that."
"Iris."
"Don't tell me this is complicated. Don't tell me it's dangerous or wrong." Her thumb traces my knuckles. "I know all of that. I'm tired of caring."
"The Wolves will keep coming. Bull doesn't forgive or forget."
"So we deal with them."
"I'm not a good man. The things I did before I left…"
"Did you kill families? Children?"
"No. But I rode with men who talked about it. Didn't leave until it was too late for Clearwater." I force myself to meet her eyes. "That's not better."
"No," she agrees quietly. "It's not. But you left. You're here now, fighting your former brothers to protect people you barely know." She leans into my palm. "That matters."
"Does it?"
"It matters to me." She rises onto her knees, cups my face in her hands. "Kiss me, Stephan."
I kiss her because words have never been enough. Because this woman, who has every reason to hate what I was, keeps looking at me like I'm worth saving.
The kiss turns desperate fast. Adrenaline still coursing through our veins, the fight too fresh, death too close. Her hands are in my hair, pulling, and mine grip her hips hard enough to bruise. When she pulls back, her eyes are wild, pupils blown.
"I need you," she says simply.
She straddles my lap before I can respond, mindful of my injured side. Her hands slide under my shirt and she helps me strip it off carefully, her fingers ghosting over the bruising already blooming across my ribs.
Then she's pulling off her own shirt. Her bra follows, and, hell, the sight of her bare in the lamplight makes my mouth go dry. Full breasts, nipples already hard, her skin flushed. I reach for her without thinking, cup the weight of her in my palms.
"Beautiful," I murmur, thumbing her nipples. She arches into the touch, her head falling back.
She stands long enough to strip off her jeans and panties, and I drink in every inch of her. The curve of her hips, the apex of her thighs already glistening. She climbs back onto my lap completely naked and my cock throbs painfully against my jeans.
She grinds down on the bulge and we both groan. The friction is maddening. I grip her hips, guide her movements, watching her face as she rocks against me. Her lips are parted, her eyes heavy-lidded, and fuck if she isn't the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen.
"Off," she says, tugging at my belt. "Need these off."
I lift my hips and she drags my jeans down. My cock springs free and she wraps her hand around it immediately. The touch nearly undoes me—her palm warm and soft, her grip firm as she strokes from base to tip.
"Iris."
She rises up on her knees, positions herself over me. I feel the heat of her hovering just above the head of my cock and it takes every ounce of self-control not to grab her hips and slam her down.
Then she sinks.
Slowly. So fucking slowly. Taking me inch by inch while I watch her face. Her mouth falls open as she stretches around me. Her eyes flutter closed. By the time her ass is pressed against my thighs, my cock buried to the hilt, we're both shaking.
"Fuck," I groan. "You feel incredible."
She doesn't answer. Just lifts up and sinks back down, experimenting with the angle. Finding what feels good. And Christ, watching her work herself on my cock is the hottest thing I've ever experienced.
She starts slow, rolling her hips, grinding her clit against my pelvis with each downstroke. The lamplight catches on her skin, highlights the flush spreading down her chest. Her breasts bounce with the movement and I can't help but reach up, cup them, thumb her nipples until she moans.
"That's it," I encourage. "Take what you need."
