Page 25 of Charging Dodge

He steps back, his fingers brushing against mine as he lowers his hand. For a split second, that familiar look returns—his eyes narrowing as he mentally checks his gear, runs through his checklist, and evaluates the risks. The warmth between us evaporates just as quickly as it came, overtaken by the icy, calculated precision of the club president.

Then, as if he rethinks his actions, the tactical mask he wears as president of the club falls away, replaced by something far more dangerous. He stops moving with the efficiency of a soldier. Instead, he shifts. His shoulders roll back, his head tilts, and he begins to walk toward me. It’s a slow, predatory saunter that makes the air in the room feel thin. He moves like a lion closing the distance to his prey, but I don't feel the urge to run. I feel the urge to surrender. He doesn't take his eyes off me. The hunger there is absolute, a raw, unfiltered thing that strips away every defense I have left.

He stops directly in front of me, crowding my space until I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. The scent of him hits me first. Leather, gasoline, and the underlying warmth of skin that has been fighting for too long. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the skin of my arms before he slides his hands firmly under my knees and against my back.

I gasp as he lifts me. My world tilts, then rights itself against the hard wall of his chest. He doesn't ask. He doesn't hesitate. He just turns and carries me out of the living room, his stride long and purposeful. The house feels suddenly small, a cage I’m finally happy to be trapped in.

“Dodge,” I whisper, my voice catching on a sudden surge of panic. I look toward the den where I know the kids are settled. “The kids. They’ll hear us. They’re just down the hall.”

Without breaking his stride, he pushes open his bedroom door with his shoulder and carries me inside. He kicks it shut behind us, the deafening click sealing off the rest of the house. The space is shadowed, saved from total darkness by a single band of lamplight stretching across the hardwood. He sets me on the edge of the mattress, but his hands settle onto my waist, trapping me where I sit.

“This room is completely soundproof,” he mutters, his low, gravelly voice thrumming straight through the mattress and into my spine. “I framed it that way myself. You can scream or cry all you want, and not a single sound will make it past that door.”

That causes my breath to hitch. I know that once we give into each other, there’ll be no going back—for either of us.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dodge

The trepidation in her voice hits me harder than any physical blow I’ve taken in the ring when I’ve sparred with my brothers. She’s standing there, vulnerable and open, and the protective instinct that has governed my life since I joined the club flares into an all-consuming fire. I look at her, really look at her, and the weight of the coming night presses against my chest, but it does not crush me. It steadies me. It keeps the chaos of the outside world, the threat of Vance, and the grim reality of the warehouse completely at bay. I step closer, closing the final inch of space. She does not back away. She leans into me, and that simple action feels like a benediction.

I reach out, my hands cupping her face. Her skin is soft, almost feverish against my rough palms. I’m not a gentle man. The life I lead is built on violence and mayhem, but as I look at her, I force myself to slow down. I need to show her that I’m not just the president of this club. I’m not just a man who knows how to break people. However, I am the man who will burn the world down to keep her safe.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” I murmur, my voice catching.

I drop my hands to the collar of her shirt, moving with a steady deliberation, stripping away the layers until she is exposed to me. She’s breathtaking, a stark contrast to the darkness that usually surrounds me. I pull her down onto the mattress, and we tangle together in a mess of limbs and frantic, hungry kisses.

I want to mark her. I want to taste every inch of her skin until she belongs to me in a way nothing else in this life ever has. I draw back for a second, my chest heaving, and watch her eyes, noticing how they’ve dilated. They’re dark, wide, and entirely focused on me. I see the surrender there, and it hits me harder than any drug I’ve ever known.

I pin her gently to the mattress, taking total control of her movements so there's no doubt in her mind that she belongs to me. Slipping lower, I press my lips to the arch of her neck, savoring the wild, fluttering beat of her pulse against my tongue. I scatter kisses down across her chest, my palms tracing every contour of her waist and the fierce tension humming in her thighs. She lets out a drawn out gasp, winding her fingers through my hair and tugging me tightly against her.

I descend further, wanting to give her pleasure that wipes out every fear she’s ever harbored. When my mouth finds her, she cries out, a sound that’s drowned out by the soundproofed air of the room. She shifts beneath me, her hips arching, and the movement is a clear invitation. I take my time. I explore every inch of her, listening to the way her breath hitches and breaks, learning the exact rhythm that makes her lose control. When I make it to her pussy, I devour it like a man who’s been starved.

She’s frantic beneath me, her hands clutching at the sheets, her body vibrating with a tension that builds and builds. I don’t rush, savoring this moment, wanting her to feel the weight of my devotion in every touch and stroke of my fingers. When she finally breaks, it’s a violent, beautiful release. She goes rigid, her body shuddering against mine, and I hold her through it, grounding her until she is gasping for air.

I move up then, hovering over her, my eyes locking with hers. She looks shattered, and that is exactly how I want her to look. Entirely undone by me. She reaches up, her fingers grazing my lips, and she pulls me down for a kiss that tastes like her and feels like coming home.

“My turn,” she whispers, her voice breathless and weighted down with need.

I lie back, and the role reversal sends a jolt of fire straight through my gut. She moves with a confidence that surprises me. She’s not shy, and she’s not holding back. She treats me the way I treated her, with a reverence that feels sacred. She maps my body with her hands and her mouth, and the sensation is blinding. I’ve spent my entire life being the one in control, the one who initiates, the one who dictates the pace. Being on the receiving end of her touch is a revelation.

She takes her time, tracing the scars on my chest, the lines of my muscles. When she descends, I lose the ability to speak as her mouth wraps around my dick where she sucks it like it’s a popsicle. I clutch the headboard, my knuckles straining by the strength of the grip, my body tensing with every move she makes. She’s thorough, and she’s relentless. She knows exactly how to push me, exactly how to find the spots that make my restraint shatter.

I’m a man who prides himself on his discipline. I’m a man who can stay calm in the middle of a war zone. But with her, that discipline is a brittle thing. It cracks, then shatters completely. I groan, my head falling back against the pillows. I want to push her away, and I want to pull her closer. I want to keep this moment frozen in time, but the urge to possess her, to be inside her, becomes an ache that I can’t ignore.

I yank her up with all the gentleness I can muster. We collide again, mouths clashing, skin sliding against skin. I need to be inside her. I need to feel her surround me, to feel the tight, hot reality of her, and to know that she’s mine. I shift, settling between her legs, and watch her face as I push inside. She lets out a raspy breath, her eyes widening as she wraps her legs around my waist, anchoring me to her.

“Dodge,” she pants, her voice a plea and a demand all at once.

I start to move. I’m not gentle anymore. The desperation of the impending night, the knowledge that I have to walk out of this room and into the line of fire, drives me. I need to leave a piece of myself here. I need her to know that even if I don’t come back, I’m already hers.

We move in a frenzied, desperate rhythm. It is a collision of needs, of fears, of promises. Every thrust is a declaration. Every breath she takes, every sound she makes, is a piece of evidence that we are alive. I’m possessive, and I’m brutal in my need to claim her. I want her to feel me in every way, to know that I am the wall standing between her and the world, and that I’m the only one who gets to touch her like this.

I look at her while we move. I want to witness the exact moment she crosses the line and explodes in ecstasy. Her eyes cloud over, her lips part, and her body tense as the friction drives us both toward the edge of combustion. She’s magnificent. She’s the light in the dark, the reason I wake up in the morning, the reason I fight.

I push harder. The pace is relentless. I’m sweating, my muscles aching, but I don’t give a damn. I’m consumed by the friction, by the heat, by the way she grips me. I lean down, my voice a growl against her skin. “Say it,” I demand. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” she moans, her fingers digging into my back. “I'm yours. Only yours.”