He stops inches from me. The scent of him—motor oil, expensive leather, cold mountain air, and that raw masculine musk—hits me like a physical blow. My pulse jumps under his gaze, and I don't even try to hide the fact that I am already drenched for him.
He reaches out, his rough, calloused thumb tracing my jawline. He pauses at a smudge of blue paint on my collarbone, rubbing it firmly until the skin reddens. "You're a mess, Bee."
"Creative expression," I tease, though my breath hitches as his hand slides down to cup the back of my neck. His grip is firm, possessive, his thumb resting right over my carotid artery. He can feel the frantic, wet thrum of my heart.
"You're mine," he murmurs. It is his mantra. He says it when we wake up, when he leaves for the clubhouse, and the second he returns. It is the anchor that keeps me from drifting back into the gray girl I used to be.
He doesn't lead me to the kitchen. He turns and leads me toward the back door, heading for the detached garage. He punches the code into the keypad, and the heavy door rolls up with a mechanical grind.
"Rule one is dead, Bee," he grunts, pulling me inside.
The garage is a temple of steel and grease, but one corner has been transformed. A professional-grade studio setup sits next to his workbench—high-end easels, racks of premium canvases,and a ventilation system that smells of success. It is his way of telling me that my world and his are now inseparable.
"This is your space," he says, pinning me against the wall next to a fresh canvas. "Right next to mine. So I can watch you while I work. So I know exactly where you are."
"I'm yours, Shane," I whisper, the words a vow.
His pupils blow wide until the gray of his irises is just a thin, jagged line. He doesn't kiss me gently. He captures my mouth in a searing, territorial claim that tastes of grit and work. I open for him instantly, my hands tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, wanting the weight of him to crush me.
He groans, a low, guttural sound of hunger, and hooks his fingers into the waistband of my shorts. He doesn't bother with the button. He rips the denim, the sound of tearing fabric echoing against the metal roof of the garage. He wants me raw. He wants me now.
"God, I miss you," he growls against my lips. "Four hours at the shop and all I can think about is the way you felt on the rug last night. All I can smell is your pussy on my skin."
"You were only gone for four hours," I gasp as he lifts me, my legs locking around his waist.
"Too long."
He frees his cock, thick and heavy, already thrumming with a need that matches my own. He doesn't tease. He lines his thick, twitching cock up with my drenched pussy and rams it home in one powerful, bone-deep thrust.
I scream, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he begins to pound into me. He is massive, occupying every inch of my depth, stretching my walls until I am soaked and weeping with my own juices. He isn't just fucking me; he is marking his territory in the middle of the afternoon, with the sun still high, proving to the mountain and to me that I am his property.
"Mine," he rasps, his hips setting a brutal, relentless pace that has me clawing at the leather of his cut. "Tell me who owns this pussy, Bianca."
He slams his full weight into me, his thick cock bottoming out with a force that makes the heavy wooden bench groan. I toss my head back, my spine arching as the rough timber of the wall scrapes against my sensitized skin, my breath hitching as the raw, punishing friction of his heavy balls slaps against my soaked thighs.
"You," I sob, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Only you, Shane. I’m yours."
He drives into me harder, his balls slap against my thighs with a wet, visceral rhythm. He is filling me, his thickness stretching me to the limit as he hits that sweet spot deep inside over and over again. I feel the orgasm building like a storm over the ridge—violent, inevitable, and all-consuming.
I shatter, my inner muscles clamping around his cock in a desperate, milking rhythm. Shane roars, his body going rigid as he buries himself hilt-deep. I feel the scorching, rhythmic pulse of his release as he pumps his heavy seed deep into my pussy, coating my walls with his hot, thick cum until I’m overflowing with his claim.
He holds the connection for a long time, his forehead resting against mine, our breath coming in ragged, synchronized gasps. He doesn't withdraw. He stays inside me, his weight a protective shield, as he kisses the tears of pleasure from my cheeks.
Slowly, he pulls back, the loss of his heat making me whimper. He reaches into the pocket of his cut and pulls out a small, heavy object wrapped in a shop rag. He unwraps it slowly to reveal a ring.
It isn't a diamond. It is a band of dark, hammered titanium, inset with a vein of crushed turquoise that perfectly matches the paint on my latest canvas. It is industrial, raw, and unbreakable.
"Blake made it at the shop. I told him what I wanted. Something that wouldn't snap under pressure. Something that lasts as long as this mountain." He takes my left hand, his grease-stained fingers contrasting sharply against my pale skin, and slides the ring onto my finger. It is a perfect, heavy fit.
"I don't do speeches, Bianca. You know what I am. I’m a man of violence. I’ve done things I can’t wash off. But with you... the noise in my head stops. The rage quiets. You’re the only peace I’ve ever known."
He looks up, the intensity in his eyes pinning me to the wall more effectively than his body ever could.
"You're wearing this because you are Property of the Sergeant at Arms. You are my family. My life. And I will burn this entire valley to ash before I let anyone take you from me. You understand?"
"I love you, you big brute," I choke out, a single tear tracking through the paint on my cheek.
He smirks, that rare, crooked expression that still makes my knees buckle after all these months. "I know. Now, get changed. The whole club is heading to the Lodge for dinner. Logan has summoned a full table."
