I make it to the bed, dropping her on the mattress and following her down. Her jeans come off along with her underwear, and then I'm between her legs, tasting her, feeling her come apart under my tongue. She's loud, not even trying to be quiet, and the sounds she makes drive me insane.
"Mason, please. I need you inside me."
I shed the rest of my clothes and grab a condom from the nightstand, rolling it on with shaking hands. When I push inside her, we both groan at the sensation. She's tight and wet and perfect, and the way she clenches around me makes me see stars.
"Move," she demands, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Stop being gentle and fuck me."
I don't need to be told twice. My hips snap against hers with force that has the headboard slamming into the wall, and she meets every thrust with equal intensity. This isn't making love. This is claiming, possessing, marking each other in ways that'll leave bruises.
"Mine," I growl against her neck. "Say it."
"Yours." She arches beneath me. "And you're mine."
"Always."
The word's a vow, a promise I intend to keep no matter what comes next. My hand slides between us, finding her clit, and she shatters around me with a cry that probably carries through the entire clubhouse. I follow her over the edge, her name torn from my throat, and we collapse together in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
"Jesus," she breathes when she can speak again. "That was..."
"Overdue." I pull out carefully and dispose of the condom, then gather her against my side. "Been wanting to do that since you walked into the gym."
"Just since the gym? I'm insulted."
"Fine. Since you walked into the compound. Since you showed up at that garage. Since the moment I saw you standing up to those hired guns with nothing but pepper spray and attitude." I kiss her temple. "Better?"
"Much." She traces patterns on my chest, her touch light. "What happens when this is over? When Castellano's caught and the trafficking network's dismantled and I don't need protection anymore?"
It's the question I've been avoiding, the one that doesn't have an easy answer. When the danger's gone, what keeps her here? What keeps us together?
"What do you want to happen?" I ask instead of answering.
"I want this. Us. I want to wake up next to you and argue about whether I'm being reckless and have you brood protectively while I work." She props herself up on her elbow, looking down at me. "But I also want my career. Want to write stories that matter, expose corruption, make a difference. And I don't know if those two things are compatible."
"Why wouldn't they be?"
"Because you're an outlaw biker, Mason. You operate outside the law, deal in gray areas, do things that would make most people uncomfortable. And I'm a journalist whose job is to expose exactly those kinds of activities." Her expression is troubled. "Eventually, I'm going to write a story that puts me at odds with the club. What happens then?"
It's a fair concern, one I don't have a good answer for. The club's been my family for years, my brothers bound to me byloyalty and blood. But Ava's become something more, something I'm not willing to give up.
"Then we figure it out. Together." I pull her back down, wrapping my arms around her. "I'm not asking you to give up your career or compromise your integrity. And I'm not giving up the club. But maybe there's a middle ground where we can both do what we need to do without destroying what we've got."
"You really believe that?"
"I have to because the alternative's losing you, and that's not acceptable."
She's quiet for a long moment, then nods against my chest. "Okay. We'll figure it out."
"Together."
"Together."
We lie there in the fading afternoon light, wrapped around each other, and I let myself believe that maybe we can make this work. Maybe love's enough to bridge the gap between our worlds.
Or maybe I'm just an idiot falling for a woman who's going to break my heart.
Either way, I'm all in.
My phone buzzes, shattering the moment. Text from Vulture.
