He does. He makes love to me — that's the only word for it — slow and sweet and devastating. He watches my face like he's memorising it. He kisses me like I'm something precious. He moves inside me like we have all the time in the world.
When I come, it's quiet. A soft cry, my body arching into his, my pussy fluttering around his cock. He follows me over a moment later, burying his face in my neck, groaning my name.
We lie there tangled together, breathing hard, neither of us willing to move.
"Ghost?" I say eventually.
"Yeah?"
"What's your real name?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Ghost."
I smile against his shoulder. "Stubborn."
"You keep asking."
"I'll keep asking until you tell me."
He presses a kiss to my temple. "We'll see."
An hour later, I need air.
Ghost had to meet with the brothers — something about tracking how Harris found me — and the walls of the clubhouse are starting to feel like they're closing in. I've been here for three days. I haven't been alone for more than five minutes. I'm grateful, I am, but I'm also starting to feel like I can't breathe.
I slip out the back door onto the porch. The yard behind the clubhouse is quiet — dusty and hot and empty. I sit on the stepsfor a while, letting the sun warm my face, trying to clear my head.
That's when I see the cat.
It's a scraggly tabby, sitting just outside the chain-link fence, watching me with pale green eyes. It meows — a pitiful, hungry sound — and my heart melts.
I glance around. No one's out here. The prospect who's supposed to be watching the back perimeter is nowhere in sight. And the cat's not far. Maybe ten feet past the fence, in the shade of a scraggly bush.
It's not reallyleaving. It's right there.
I walk to the fence, unlatch the gate, and step through. The cat meows again and I crouch down, holding out my hand.
"Hey, baby. You hungry? Come here."
The cat approaches cautiously. I scratch behind its ears and it starts to purr, pushing its head into my palm.
"There you go. Good kitty. You're sweet, aren't you? Just a little?—"
"Hello, India."
I freeze.
I know that voice. I know it intimately — three years of hearing it in my ear, telling me where to go, what to avoid, who to trust.
I stand up slowly and turn around.
Harris is standing five feet away from me. He looks the same as always — clean-cut, professional, the kind of face you'd trust to keep you safe. He's wearing a baseball cap and a plain jacket, nothing that would draw attention.
But his eyes. His eyes are wrong. Flat and hungry and fixed on me like I'm the only thing in the world.
"You look good," he says. "Rested. The biker must be taking care of you." His mouth twists. "For now."
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. The clubhouse is right there — twenty feet away — but it might as well be miles. I take a step back and he takes a step forward, closing the distance.
