Page 22 of Claimed By The Club
His large hand grips my hips, lifting me onto the barstool. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, raw emotion passes between us—vulnerability and need, tangled up together. It’s not just lust. Underneath the frantic desire is a sense that this matters.
“Elias,” I murmur, testing his real name on my tongue.
He mutters something incoherent, then kisses the hollow of my throat, drawing a soft moan from me. The swirl of sensations tightens in my stomach. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer until there’s no space left. The tension we’ve been ignoring for days roars to life, unstoppable.
His lips travel lower, grazing the sensitive skin above my collarbone. I thread my fingers through his short hair, urging him on. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out everything but the thudding of my heart and the rasp of his breath. Each touch is more desperate than the last, the bar fading from existence until there’s only him and me.
“God, Sierra,” he breathes, palms sliding beneath my shirt. “You’re driving me?—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, and I don’t need him to. I feel it in every trembling second. I surge forward, capturing his mouth again, letting the kiss devour me. His arms encircle my back, supporting my weight as I arch against him. When I nip at his lower lip, he groans, pressing into me in a way that leaves no question about how badly he wants this.
A fleeting worry about prying eyes flits through my head, but passion drowns it out. We’re past caring who might witness. My fingers skim over his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat matching my own. In this moment, we’re a tangled mess of shared hunger.
He abruptly lifts me off the stool, spinning us around until my back hits a wall in a hidden alcove. The shift knocks a gasp out of me, and I cling to his shoulders. Our mouths collide again, fierce and all-consuming. My pulse thrums out of control as I lose myself in the pressure of his body pinning me there.
For a brief, searing heartbeat, I consider how far we’re about to go. The chasm between us—President of the MC and the outsider he’s sworn to protect—looms large. But the craving surging through me brushes aside every concern. We shouldn’t do this in the middle of the bar. Yet I can’t deny the thrill scorching my veins.
He seems to realize the same thing. Our lips part, both of us breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and his tone is husky with restraint. “We need… a better place than this.”
I blink, chest heaving, and nod wordlessly. My mind buzzes as he carefully sets me on my feet. We share one more bruising kiss before pulling away, hearts still hammering. I press a trembling hand to my mouth, stunned by the intensity of what just happened.
Frost—Elias—cups my face gently, that storm of desire still glinting in his eyes. “We’ll continue this later,” he promises, voice thick. “But not in front of prying eyes.”
A shaky exhale leaves my lungs. “Okay,” I manage, trying to steady myself. “Yes, definitely later.”
He brushes a stray lock, tucking it behind my ear, lips curving into a faint, uncharacteristically tender smile. “You all right?”
My legs feel like jelly, my skin tingles with the imprint of his touch, and my heart won’t slow down. Yet beneath all the adrenaline is a burst of excitement. This might be the most reckless thing I’ve done in ages, but it feels so damn right. “I’m good,” I whisper, letting my hand linger on his chest for a beat longer.
Our gazes meet, heavy with unresolved sparks. Then, reality intrudes as footsteps approach from the outer hall. We step apart, hurrying to straighten clothes and calm the flush on our faces. When the sound draws closer, it turns out to be Knox, who glances at us suspiciously but doesn’t comment.
I pivot, determined to appear composed. “Everything okay, Knox?”
He arches a brow, noticing our disheveled hair. “Yeah, we got a new crate of supplies. Frost, you wanna check it?”
Frost nods curtly, already slipping back into his stoic posture. “On it. Sierra, I’ll see you tomorrow morning for that revamp discussion.” His voice stays firm, almost businesslike, but I catch the lingering heat in his gaze.
Knox shoulders the door open, leading Frost into the adjoining room. I stand there, heartbeat still racing, mind spinning in a thousand directions. The wave of longing coursing through me is impossible to ignore. My lips still burn from his kiss. This changes everything, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
After a moment, I force myself to exit the bar, stepping into the cooler corridor. My reflection in a dusty mirror reveals flushed cheeks and wide eyes that still hold a spark of disbelief. I’m not sure how we’ll deal with the fallout of crossing this line. We’re from different worlds, and I’m juggling an attraction to more than one man in this club—a fact that’s both confusing and undeniable.
But that’s a worry for later. Right now, I’m pulsing with raw energy, the memory of Elias’s touch etched into my skin. Maybe it’s reckless, but no part of me regrets it. Our partnership just shifted from professional to dangerously personal. My only hope is that we can survive the threats ahead—and the complications in our hearts.
Gathering the fragments of my composure, I head back outside. The sun is setting, painting the sky in amber and rose. Another day in this unpredictable new life draws to a close, but it feels like everything is just beginning. I don’t know what comes next. All I know is that I’m not backing down.
For the first time since arriving in Clearwater Springs, I feel something that looks a lot like genuine hope—and a spark of something deeper that might burn us all if we’re not careful. Only time will tell if we can handle the fire we’ve lit.
8
FROST
Iwake before dawn, body tight with lingering tension. Ever since last night, my mind has been hijacked by images of Sierra—her warmth, her wide eyes, the way her voice trembled when she gasped my real name. Now I’m supposed to snap back into my role as President of Renegade Cross, the methodical, composed leader who keeps everything under control. But a single memory of her face obliterates that veneer.
Pushing out of bed, I dig for a clean shirt in my locker. The old army cot in the back of the clubhouse has never felt so claustrophobic. I should find my own space, especially after crossing that line with Sierra, but living on-site helps me respond fast when trouble calls. And trouble is a constant shadow these days.
I head to the small bathroom down the hall, flipping on a single fluorescent light. My reflection stares back—a man with stubble, dark hair cropped neat, faint lines bracketing his mouth. I look the same, but my thoughts are miles away, back in that moment we collided at the bar, letting unspoken tension erupt into something neither of us could stop.
As water runs across my face, I replay the final moments of the night: Sierra slipping from my arms, breath shaky, cheeks flushed. We agreed to keep our connection quiet—no need to feed the rumor mill or invite unnecessary complications. I want to protect us both from prying eyes. The club has enough drama without throwing our personal lives into the fray.
