Page 34 of July 27

"You'd never hurt me." She gasped. "It feels...good."

He quickened his pace. She tentatively arched up to meet each thrust, becoming bolder as her body accepted his size. He shifted, and her body recovered from its earlier release. She grasped his face.

She exploded, squeezing his cock as she quivered. He grunted, holding himself still above her.

He growled, and it was that sound of satisfaction, of ownership, of pleasure that pierced her heart.

She panted, trying to slow her racing heart. Her chest pulsed against his.

He visibly tensed when he eased out of her. She moaned in disappointment, already missing his body in her.

He strolled naked into the bathroom. She curled onto her side and counted the seconds until he came back to her.

When he returned to her, he sat on the edge of the bed. She rubbed his back. He tensed under her touch.

"What's wrong?" she whispered.

"I should never have touched you." He braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands over his face.

She sat up in bed. A chill went down her spine.

"Wh-what are you saying?" Her throat spasmed.

Did he regret what happened between them? She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart pained her. She couldn't lose him.

Chapter Seventeen

The hurt in Rachel's voice, questioning him, killed him. He burst off the bed and latched his hands behind his head. His muscles constricted, wanting to punch or tear something apart, but he feared scaring her.

He'd already done enough.

"Didn't you like it?" she asked.

He closed his eyes. The worry and desperation in her question were worse than any beating he'd ever taken.

Staying on the other side of the room would have prevented him from hurting her more. He was unable to explain how being with her was a bad idea. She had her whole life ahead of her.

Life with him was a dead end.

One day, she'll look around and want more than he could give her. His life was with Havlin Motorcycle Club. There were only so many things a felon who spent eighteen years in prison for murder could do—and ninety-nine percent of them were illegal.

Outside, a rumble grew louder. A rider approached.

He grabbed his jeans, put them on, and then shrugged into his vest without putting on a shirt. In his peripheral vision, Rachel stood from the bed, arms wrapped around her middle, unaware of her nakedness.

She wanted answers but wouldn't like what he had to say.

"Ruger?"

He slipped the pistol underneath his belt and stepped toward the door. "I need to see who arrived."

He slipped out of the room, patting his pocket for his pack of smokes. Popping a cigarette in his mouth, he walked outside and shut the door behind him. He lit the end without missing a step.

Jagger rolled to a stop, followed by Dio. They shut off the headlights on their motorcycles.

He took a drag off his smoke, waiting for them to tell him what was going on. They came to him, so something must be going down. Otherwise, it was his night off.

"We had a visitor tonight at the clubhouse, looking for you." Jagger widened his stance and put his hands in his vest pockets.

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