The word breaks the dam.
I crash my mouth onto hers. This isn't gentle. I kiss her like a starving man finally sitting down to a feast. I devour her, tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her sweetness, demanding everything she has. She moans, a vibration that rewires my nervous system, and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer.
I shift my hips, pressing upward, letting her feel the steel of my want through the denim. She bucks against me, her drenched heat soaking into my jeans as she grinds her pussy against my cock.
"Fuck," I curse, tearing my mouth away to trail hot, wet kisses along her jawline. "You feel so good. So soft. I want to rip this sweater off and see if you’re still purple from where I gripped you last night."
"Maybe I am," she teased, her voice a wrecked honey. "Maybe you should check."
My hand slides under the hem of her sweater, and her skin is hot to the touch. Her stomach quivers under my palm. I map the warmth of her, moving my hand up to palm the heat of her ribcage, just beneath the curve of her breast. She arches her back, pressing into my touch, offering herself to me.
"Please," she whispers.
"Mine," I growl against her ear, biting the lobe gently. "You understand? You’re in my house, in my lap, with my hands onyou. You belong to me, Bianca. Every artist in Philly can forget your name, because you’re mine now."
"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, Shane."
Her submission unleashes something feral in me. I want to mark her. I want to leave deep, dark bruises on those tits and thighs so the rest of the world knows she’s my fucking property. I want to tear these clothes off, spread her wide, and bury my cock so deep in her soaked pussy that she forgets how to breathe. I want to pound into her until I’m cumming hilt-deep, filling her until she’s dripping with my seed.
But I stop.
I stop because her hand comes up and cups my face. Her thumb traces the scar running down my cheek—the one I got in a knife fight three years ago. The one most women flinch at. She traces it like it’s precious art. Like I’m something worth keeping.
Tenderness douses the fire with a bucket of ice water. It doesn't kill the heat, but it changes it. It makes it heavy. Real. I pull back just an inch, breathing hard, our foreheads resting together again. My hand remains under her shirt, thumb stroking the underside of her breast, feeling the thrum of her pulse.
"You have no idea how dangerous I am," I whisper, the confession scraping my throat. "The things I’ve done to keep this mountain. The things I’ll have to do to keep you."
"I see you," she says, voice steady now. "I see the man who’s afraid to be happy because he thinks the world will take it away again. But I’m not Rina, Shane. I’m not going anywhere."
"I can't let you go," I tell her. It’s a warning. "Even if it gets bad. Even if the club... even if the Costas come to the door. I’m not letting you go. I’ll burn the valley before I let them touch you."
"I'm not going anywhere," she promises.
We sit there for a long time as the fire dies down to embers. The storm rages outside, whipping the trees, burying the mountain in snow. But in here, with her weight on my lap and her pulse syncing with mine, the noise in my head finally goes quiet. I shift my hand, rubbing soothing circles on her back. She relaxes against me, head on my shoulder.
"Shane?"
"Yeah."
"You need to sleep. You look like you haven't closed your eyes since the Reagan administration."
"Can't." Insomnia is my oldest friend. It keeps me sharp.
"You can," she insists. She shifts, pulling back to look at me. "Come upstairs. Not... not for that. I know you're tired, and I know your head is full of club business. Just sleep. I’ll sit with you."
I should say no. I have rules. The bedroom is off-limits. My bed is a solitary confinement cell. But the thought of her leaving, of going back to the cold empty room alone, tightens my chest again.
"You stay," I say, voice devoid of room for argument. "In my bed. You stay with me. If I wake up and you're gone, I'm going to be a problem."
Her breath hitches. "Okay. I can handle you being a problem."
I stand up, lifting her with me. She wraps her legs around my waist effortlessly, light as a feather. I carry her up the stairs, past Maddie’s room, to the end of the hall. My room is stark. Grey sheets, black furniture, no decorations. A monk’s cell.
I set her down on the edge of the mattress. I don't turn on the light. The moonlight reflecting off the snow outside provides enough illumination. I strip off my t-shirt, tossing it into the corner. Her eyes track the movement, roaming over the ink on my chest, the scars on my ribs. She reaches out, fingers ghosting over the patch tattoo over my heart—the reaper.
"Does it hurt?" she asks softly.
"Everything hurts," I answer honestly. "Until now."
