"For what?"
"For this. For being gentle when you needed to be and rough when I wanted you to be. For making me feel..." I trail off, not sure how to articulate it.
"Feel what?"
"Wanted. Desired. Like I matter."
His arms tighten around me. "You do matter. And you are wanted. Make no mistake about that."
I believe him. For the first time in a long time, I actually believe someone when they tell me I matter.
"Ryan?"
"Yeah?"
"What happens tomorrow? When we have to face reality?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Tomorrow we deal with Pope and the club. We figure out a plan to keep you safe. We make sure Derek never gets near you again."
"And after that?"
"After that, we take it one day at a time. But Savannah?" He tilts my face up so I'm looking at him. "I meant what I said earlier. I'm not leaving. Not unless you tell me to."
"I'm not going to tell you to."
"Good. Because I'm not done with you yet. Not even close."
He kisses me again, slower this time, and I can already feel him getting hard again against my thigh.
Round two is definitely happening soon.
And I'm absolutely not complaining.
Chapter 8 - Knuckles
The knocking drags me out of the best sleep I've had in years.
For a second, I'm disoriented. Not sure where I am or why there's a warm, soft body pressed against mine. Then everything comes rushing back. Savannah. The wedding dress. The casino. The best fucking night of my life.
We fucked two more times after that first round. Against the wall with her legs wrapped around my waist, her back pressed against the paint while I pounded into her and she bit my shoulder to muffle her screams. Prone bone with her flat on her stomach and me covering her completely, fucking her deep and slow until she was begging.
I filled her every single time. Watched my cum drip out of her and felt something primal and possessive roar through me. Mine. She's mine now.
We finally passed out around five in the morning, tangled together, covered in sweat and completely satisfied. Now someone's knocking on my door and I have no fucking idea what time it is.
The knock comes again, harder this time. Insistent.
"Knuckles. Open the fucking door."
Fuck.
That's Pope's voice. And he doesn't sound happy.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Nine-thirty. We've been asleep for maybe four hours. Savannah stirs next to me, making a small sound of protest as I start to pull away from her.
"Someone's here," I tell her.
"Who?" Her voice is sleepy, rough from all the screaming she did last night.
