Page 80 of Ruger's Rage

"Fuck," he growls, his rhythm faltering as my body milks him. "I'm gonna come inside you, fill you up?—"

The raw possessiveness in his voice sends another shock of pleasure through me.

I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him to me.

"Yes," I urge. "Inside me. Please."

His hips slam against mine, a primal sound tearing from his throat as he empties himself deep inside me.

I feel each pulse, each throb, as his release triggers aftershocks of my own.

He collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest as we both struggle to catch our breath.

His hand traces lazy patterns on my skin, unwilling to break contact even as our heartbeats slow.

"Holy shit," he murmurs against my hair. "That was?—"

"Yeah," I agree, too dazed to form an actual sentence. "It was."

We lie tangled together, his release warm between my thighs, a physical reminder of our connection, of what we do to each other.

"I've never..." he starts, then trails off.

I turn to look at him. "Never what?"

"Felt like this," he admits, vulnerability flashing across his face. "Like I'd burn the whole world down just to keep you safe. Like nothing matters butthis—us."

The confession steals my breath.

In Marco's world, sex was about control, about ownership.

With Ruger, it feels like a connection, like finding home in another person's arms.

He pulls me closer against his chest, one hand stroking my hair as our breathing gradually slows.

The silence between us feels comfortable, weighted with unspoken emotion.

"Who are we kidding, Tildie?" he says suddenly, his voice rumbling against my ear. "Just be my ol' lady. You're already here in every other sense, and I want you in my life for as long as you want to be in it."

The request—so straightforward, so Ruger—makes me laugh. "Is that how you usually ask women to be in a relationship? 'Who are we kidding?'"

A smile tugs at his lips. "Nothing about us is usual, darlin'."

He's right.

"Your ol' lady," I repeat, testing how the words feel. "What does that even mean, really?"

"It means you're mine. I'm yours. Officially. In the club, outside the club." His eyes search mine. "It means no one touches what's mine without consequences."

"I'm not property, Ruger." The words come automatically, a defense against old fears.

"Never said you were." His hand traces patterns on my bare shoulder. "Being my ol' lady isn't about ownership. It's about protection, partnership, standin’ together against whatever comes."

Put that way, it sounds less like the cage I've feared and more like the shelter I've always craved.

"Yes," I say finally. "I'll be your ol' lady."

His smile transforms his face, years falling away to reveal the man beneath the President's patch.

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