He reaches between us, finding my still-sensitive clit, circling it with practiced skill. "Come again for me," he demands. "Let me feel that sweet pussy squeeze my cock."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the forbidden thrill of being taken on a dinner table under the stars pushes me over the edge again. I convulse around him, nails digging into his forearms, his name a prayer on my lips.
He follows immediately, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, his release pulsing hot inside me. For long moments we stay joined, panting, the night air cooling our overheated skin.
When he finally pulls out, he gathers me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as if I might break.
"I don't deserve you," he murmurs into my hair, a rare moment of vulnerability from this mountain of a man.
"You don't get to decide that," I tell him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I do. And I say you deserve every bit of me."
Later, dressed again and wrapped in a blanket he produced from the truck, we lie on the tailgate and watch the stars. His arm around me feels like home—not the small town I left behind, but a new home, one I've chosen with eyes wide open.
"Thank you," I say softly.
"For what? The dinner? The orgasms?" His chest rumbles with quiet laughter beneath my cheek.
"For finding me in Vegas," I clarify. "For being stubborn enough not to let me run away."
He's quiet for a moment, his hand stroking my hair. "Knew from the moment I saw you," he says finally. "Some things you just know."
And lying there under the vast desert sky, wrapped in the arms of a man who kills for me, who loves for me, who would burn the world down to keep me safe, I realize I know it too. Some things are fated, written in the stars now glittering above us. This unlikely love—a librarian and an president, beauty and beast—is one of them.
Against all odds, against all reason, against all my careful plans for a quiet, ordinary life, I have found my place. And it's right here, in the arms of the most dangerous man I've ever known.
thirteen
. . .
Vance
Six weeks since Vegas.Six weeks since I claimed the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and made her mine. The initial urgency—the constant need to possess, to mark, to ensure she wouldn't leave—has evolved into something deeper, more permanent. She's not just under my skin anymore; she's in my blood, my bones, woven into the fabric of who I am. The Vegas wedding was a tactical move, a way to secure what I knew was mine from the moment I saw her. But now I want more. I want to give her the real thing—a ceremony she'll remember, vows she chooses with clear eyes and full knowledge of exactly what kind of man she's binding herself to.
The ring burns a hole in my pocket as I watch her move around our kitchen, humming softly to herself as she prepares dinner. She's adapted to this life with a grace that still amazes me. From small-town librarian to biker's wife, she's transformed without losing that essential sweetness that drew me to her in the first place. The club respects her now, not just as my woman but as a force in her own right—gentle but steel-spined when necessary.
I've never been good with words unless they're whispered against her skin in our most private moments. But for this, I need to find the right ones.
"Wynter," I say, my voice rougher than intended. She turns, wooden spoon in hand, eyebrow raised in question. "Come here for a minute."
She sets the spoon down and approaches, a small smile playing at her lips. "What's wrong? You look serious."
I take her hands in mine, struck again by how small and delicate they appear against my scarred, tattooed mitts. "Nothing's wrong. Just thinking."
"Dangerous," she teases, but her eyes are attentive, focused on me.
"Our wedding," I begin, then correct myself. "The Vegas wedding. It wasn't fair to you."
Her expression shifts to concern. "Vance?—"
"Let me finish," I cut in gently. "I don't regret it. Not for a second. Claiming you was the best decision I've ever made. But you deserve better than a drunken ceremony you can't remember."
Understanding dawns in her eyes as I drop to one knee before her, still holding her hands in mine. It's an absurd image—a man like me, with blood on his hands and darkness in his soul, assuming this traditional posture of supplication. But for her, I'd do far more ridiculous things.
"I want to marry you again," I tell her, pulling the ring from my pocket—a simple band of platinum with a single diamond, elegant rather than flashy. "Properly this time. With you fully aware of what you're getting into. Who you're getting into it with."
Her eyes fill with tears, but she's smiling. "Are you proposing to your own wife?"
"I'm proposing to the woman I love," I correct her, surprising myself with the emotion thickening my voice. "The woman who saw the monster in me and chose to stay anyway. Will you marry me again, baby doll? This time with your eyes wide open?"
