He stands long enough to strip, and I hate how badly I watch. The jeans go. The belt hits the floor. He is all hard lines, tattooed skin, scars, muscle, and that bandage at his side reminding me he came here hurt and still looks like sin built a man out of bad intentions.
His cock is hard and thick in his hand, and my mouth goes dry.
His eyes catch mine. “Still with me?”
I swallow. “Do I look like I left?”
“You look like you are thinking about biting me.”
“I am.”
“Anywhere specific?”
“Do not get hopeful.”
“Too late.”
He rolls the condom on with shaking hands, then comes over me, braced on his arms, waiting. That waiting nearly ruins me. A biker like Shady, all muscle and mouth and murder in his eyes, holding himself still because I have not given him the next yes yet.
The pause is infuriating. Beautiful. Terrible.
I hook my leg over his hip. “Now.”
He pushes in slow enough to make both of us curse. Slow is worse than rough. Slow makes me feel every inch of his cock, every tremor in his arms, every place my body opens for the man my heart still does not trust.
My eyes sting.
Not from pain.
From too much.
He fills me with his body, with truth, with all his rushed promises hanging over us like dangerous weather. For one second, we are still. His forehead presses to mine. His breath breaks.
“I love you, baby,” he says again.
“Move.”
He laughs, broken and rough.
Then he moves.
The first stroke steals my air. The second gives it back wrong. He fucks like he talks when he isn’t hiding. Dirty. Direct. No pretty lies. His hips snap into mine, then slow when mybreath catches near a bruise, then hard again when I dig my nails into his back and demand it.
The headboard hits the wall, once, twice, a dirty little rhythm under our breathing. He lowers his mouth to mine and makes me taste every groan I drag out of him.
“That what you need?” he growls.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I need it.”
His eyes flash.
“I need you rough,” I breathe. “But keep looking at me.”
His control frays. I see it happen. Feel it in the way his hips drive deeper, in the way his hand grips the sheet beside my head instead of my wrists, in the way he gives me exactly what I asked for and still watches my face like my yes is the only road he knows how to follow.
