“O-oh fuck, Zack…I’m gonna—I’m gonna.” My voice is barely above a whisper as his voice settles through me. He knows my body like no man or woman ever has before to me.
“Fall for me baby, let go.” Zack curls his fingers as my walls clench around him. My back arches as the pleasure flowsthrough my entire body, and he keeps moving as I ride out my orgasm.
I throw my head back as the aftershock of what I can only describe as the best orgasm I have ever had settles. I’m a sweaty, panting mess, and he just smirks as he pulls his fingers out of me.
“That was by far the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, daisy. You…you’ve done it again, you know.” His voice is barely audible over my panting. My vision still somewhat blurry, but I look down to his lap where a dark patch sits square around his crotch.
“Did you?” I bite my lip, feeling way more proud of myself than I probably should.
“Come in my pants like a prepubescent teenager? Yeah, sweetheart, you’re gon’ be the death of me yet. I ain’t mad ‘bout it, either.” Zack’s dimples make an appearance. He laughs softly, shaking his head, and then everything slows. Zack reaches for me like it’s instinct, like taking care of me afterward is just as natural as breathing. He grabs a towel from the edge of the bed and moves with a tenderness that makes my chest ache more than anything else tonight. He cleans me up carefully, murmuring little reassurances under his breath, thumbs warm and steady, making sure I’m comfortable before anything else matters.
“Hey,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You good?”
I nod, still a little floaty, still riding the echo of it all. He helps me sit up, wraps the blanket around my shoulders, and pulls me into his chest. I fit there like I’ve always belonged, my head tucked under his chin, his hand tracing slow, absent circles along my arm.
We stay like that for a while. No rush. No pressure. Just breathing each other in.
Eventually, he chuckles softly. “You hungry?”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “Always.”
That earns me a grin, the kind that feels like home. We pull on clothes—comfortable ones—and wander into the kitchen together. This place is becoming a safe haven for us, a place where we feel connected to each other, still brushing shoulders, still touching without thinking. Zack opens the fridge, surveying what we’ve got like it’s a serious mission.
“I’m makin’ you real food,” he announces. “None of that sad, emergency-snack nonsense.”
I lean against the counter, watching him move around the kitchen with the same confidence he has everywhere else. He pulls out ingredients, already talking through it as he goes. “My mama used to make this when we needed somethin’ solid. Southern comfort food. Fixes most things.”
I end up beside him, chopping while he mans the stove, music low in the background, laughter slipping in between easy conversation. He steals a taste, then pretends not to notice when I steal one back. At one point he nudges my hip with his, mock-serious. “You’re fired if you burn that.”
“Yes, chef,” I say, grinning.
Dinner comes together warm, and simple, and perfect, the kitchen filled with good smells and the kind of quiet happiness that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking for it. We sit at the small table, knees touching, eating and laughing like the world isn’t heavy for once.
And tonight, while I’m wrapped in warmth, fed, safe, and held by someone that I think I’m truly starting to think is just more than some random tattooed biker. I for once feel comfortable, and it doesn’t feel like a fleeting moment.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
DEATH WISH LOVE
ZACK
Iforget, sometimes, what laughter sounds like when it isn’t forced.
The engine hums steady beneath us as the highway stretches out in long, forgiving lines, morning light spilling across the windshield like it doesn’t know or care what we’re carrying with us. Hazel’s feet are on the dash despite my very clear and very reasonable objection to that choice. Her sunglasses are crooked on her nose, hair styled down that makes each coil pop, each curl she took time on, that looks like it happened accidentally and absolutely did not. Hazel Matthis is not someone who does anything on accident, but is so effortless that I often forget that she’s been through so much. I will protect her with as much as I physically can. Nothing bad will ever happen to her again.
“You know,” she says, tapping the glass with her heel, “statistically speaking, road trips are how people bond. Or die. But mostly bond.”
“Get your feet down,” I tell her, but there’s no heat in it. I don’t even try to reach for them.
She grins wider. “Wow. That was almost playful. Are you feeling okay? Do you need medical attention?”
I snort before I can stop myself, the sound surprising both of us. She turns to look at me like she just won something.
“There it is,” she says triumphantly. “I knew you had one of those hidden in there.”
“One what?”
“A laugh. A personality. Joy.”
