I unbuckle my seatbelt, the metal clicking loudly in the quiet cab. Savannah presses herself back against the passenger door, herbreath fogging the cold window. She doesn't tremble with fear. I know the difference between terror and arousal, and right now, she radiates heat.
"Come here," I command.
She hesitates, biting her lip. "Logan, we’re on the side of the road. Anyone could?—"
"No one comes up here but us," I cut her off, my voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. I reach across the center console, my hand engulfing her knee. "And I don’t give a fuck if the whole world watches. I need to feel you."
Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the hazel. "Right now?"
"Right fucking now."
I don't wait for permission. I’ve already claimed her. I took her in my bed, marked her skin with my beard burn, and filled her with my seed. But the civilized world down in the valley tried to claw her back today.
They tried to make her doubt.
I reach for her, my fingers digging into the denim of her thighs as I haul her across the wide bench seat. There is no console to block me, only the open space of the cab that I intend to fill with the scent of her arousal. I hitch her up until she’s straddling my lap, her back slamming against the steering wheel as I cage her. The horn blares a short, sharp blast under the weight of her spine, a loud, violent announcement of my claim.
I’m hard as the granite peaks surrounding us, my thick cock straining against the fly of my heavy denim work pants. I don’t just want her; I want to colonize her. I grind my hips upward, the brutal ridge of my shaft buried against her soaking pussythrough the fabric. She gasps, her head falling back against the wheel, her internal muscles clenching around the phantom sensation of me filling her.
I can feel the dampness of her heat seeping through her jeans, a sticky invitation that makes me want to rip the zipper out and claim her right here on the shoulder of the road.
She gasps, her head falling back against the roof of the cab with a soft thump.
"You're mine," I say, the words rough like gravel. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she breathes, her pulse fluttering wild against her throat where my thumb rests.
"Damn right." I kiss her, hard and bruising, swallowing her sigh. I want to take her here. I want to strip these jeans off and ruin her for anyone else, leave my mark so deep she never forgets. But not here. Not rushing on the side of the road like we're hiding.
I pull back, my chest heaving. "We're going home. I have something for you."
She nods weakly, her lips swollen from my mouth. "Okay."
I lift her back to the passenger seat, buckling her in. She leans her head against the window, watching me with a mixture of exhaustion and adoration that makes my chest ache.
I start the truck. The engine roars to life, echoing the beast inside me that has been temporarily soothed, but never silenced.
The drive to the clubhouse is short, but by the time we pass the reinforced steel gate and roll onto the gravel lot of Broken Halos, I have a plan.
Austin and Tristan are already parked, their bikes—which they must have swapped for in the garage—lined up in front of the main building. They stand on the porch, smoking, watching as I pull up.
I kill the engine and get out, rounding the hood to open Savannah’s door before she can move. She slides out, her legs wobbling when her boots hit the ground. I wrap an arm around her waist, taking her weight.
"You good, Boss?" Austin calls out, flicking his cigarette butt into the snow. His eyes flick to Savannah, noting her flushed cheeks, and a smirk touches his mouth.
"Fine," I grunt. "Get the boys inside. Church in ten. But I need a minute first."
"You got it," Austin says, slapping Tristan’s shoulder. They disappear inside the heavy oak doors.
I steer Savannah away from the main clubhouse entrance, taking her through the private breezeway that connects the back of the hall to my personal cabin. This is my sanctuary within the compound—the only place on the mountain where the President doesn't have to answer the door.
The air inside is heavy with the scent of our previous night. I lead her into the living area where the rug is still bunched from whereI had her on her knees before the fire. She looks around, her eyes landing on her discarded lace panties and my heavy work shirt scattered on the floorboards from our final, desperate round this morning before Austin and Tristan arrived. A dark, heated blush stains her cheeks at the reminder of how thoroughly I used her.
"Stay," I order.
I go to the closet—a heavy, locked armoire made of ironwood. I pull the key from the chain around my neck and unlock it. Inside aren't clothes. It’s the club’s history. The charters. The cash reserves. And the spare cuts.
I bypass the standard leather vests. I reach for the hanger in the back.
