Page 55 of Haunted By the Storm
I tighten my arm around her, overwhelmed by the unexpected insight; by the way she sees through me to truths I've kept hidden even from myself.
"Get some sleep," I tell her, my voice rough with emotion. "We've got a big day tomorrow."
"Mmm," she agrees sleepily. "What's happening tomorrow?"
I smile, thinking of the plans already forming in my mind: bringing Emily home from her sleepover, telling her we're going to be a family, figuring out the logistics of our new life together.
"Everything," I say simply. "Everything begins tomorrow."
As Camryn drifts off to sleep in my arms, I stay awake a little longer watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, marveling at the turn my life has taken. A month ago, I was alone; content enough with my brothers and the club, never imagining what I was missing.
Now, I have Camryn. Emily. A future that looks nothing like my past—brighter and fuller than anything I could have envisioned for myself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
camryn
Morning light filters through the curtains. Storm's arm is draped heavily across my waist, his breathing deep and even against my neck. I can feel the steady thump of his heart against my back, a rhythm that's become oddly comforting in such a short time.
Last night changed everything. Not just physically, though my body bears the pleasant ache of rediscovery, of being thoroughly loved after years of self-imposed celibacy. But emotionally, the barriers I've maintained since Eric, the walls I built to protect myself and Emily, have crumbled beneath Storm's determined gentleness.
He wants us. Permanently. A family.
The thought sends a flutter of both excitement and anxiety through my chest. It's everything I never knew I wanted, presented in a package I never would have chosen for myself. A biker called Storm, a man of violence and loyalty in equal measure, a man who could kill without remorse to protect what's his.
And somehow, amazingly, that now includes Emily and me.
Storm stirs behind me, his arm tightening briefly around my waist before relaxing. "You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
I smile despite myself. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, then to my neck, making me shiver. "What's going on in that beautiful brain of yours this morning?"
I roll over to face him, taking in the sight of him in the morning light, dark hair rumpled, stubble shadowing his jaw, blue eyes still soft with sleep. It strikes me again how different he looks in these private moments; how the hardness that he presents to the world melts away when it's just us.
"Just processing," I admit. "Everything we talked about last night, everything it means. It's a lot to take in."
He nods, a flash of concern crossing his features. "Having second thoughts?"
"No," I say quickly, realizing how my words must have sounded. "Not second thoughts. Just... thinking about the logistics, I guess. How we make this work in the real world."
His expression softens with relief. "The real world can wait," he says, pulling me closer. "At least for another hour or two."
I laugh as he nuzzles my neck, his stubble pleasantly rough against my skin. "Emily will be back soon," I remind him, even as I tilt my head to give him better access.
"Mmm," he acknowledges, trailing kisses down my throat to my collarbone. "Then we should make the most of our time, shouldn't we?"
All thoughts of planning fly from my mind the moment his hand slides up my thigh, his fingers, warm and sure, slipping beneath the hem of my robe. I’m already wet for him, just the sight of him in the morning, sleep-rough and shirtless, did that to me. He knows it too. His fingers brush over me, and I shudder, hips lifting into his touch like it’s instinct.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my neck, voice low, still thick with sleep. “You’re soaked, baby.”
I don’t even try to answer. My head falls back against the pillows, eyes slipping shut as he circles his fingers over my clit, slow and patient—the same way he was last night. Storm isn’t rushed. He learns my body with the same focus he gives everything else, thorough, deliberate, obsessed.
Last night was… God, it was more than sex. It was worship. He took his time, memorizing every sound I made, every spot that made me clench around him, cry out for him. He was relentless in the best way.
This morning? It’s softer, and somehow hotter for it.
He takes his time again, kissing my shoulder as his fingers work me, sliding down to tease my entrance, spreading me open. He watches me the entire time, eyes dark and heavy with want. I can’t look away from him.
