Page 25 of Damron
“Because that’s the first place they’d look,” he said, voice flat. “And because the clubhouse is full of idiots who can’t keep their dicks in their pants or a secret past breakfast.”
“You trust them with your life, but not mine?” I spun on him, letting the old fire out.
He shrugged. “I know what they’ll die for. But you? You already left once.”
There it was. The thing we’d spent three years not saying.
I laughed, sharp and mean. “You never change, Damron. Still acting like you’re the only one who ever bled.”
He tossed another log on the fire, sparks climbing like angry bees. “Don’t talk to me about bleeding. I watched you walk out my front gate and not even look back. All that shit about wanting something better? You meant something cleaner.”
I closed the distance in two steps, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You think this is about fucking dirt? I left because I couldn’t keep patching you up and pretending it wasn’t killing us both. I didn’t want to see you die in a gutter with a club tattoo and a rap sheet for a headstone.”
He grabbed my wrist—gentle, but unyielding. “You didn’t care enough to stay.”
I wrenched away, voice cracking. “I cared too much, you asshole. I wanted you to want out. I wanted you to fight for something besides war.”
We were inches apart now, both breathing hard. The heat from the stove had nothing on what was happening in the room.
He spoke soft, but the words landed like buckshot. “You wanted the man, but not the life.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out all wrong. “You think you’re so noble? You think risking prison every day is romantic? You never gave a shit about how many people you pulled down with you. If I’d stayed, I’d be in a box or a witness stand by now.”
He advanced, slow and deliberate, until my back hit the wall. He braced one arm above my head and leaned in, eyes locked on mine. “Then why are you here now, Senator?” The word stung, but not as much as the way he said it: like he was spitting out a curse.
I tried to say something—anything—but the words got lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth. So I did the only thing that made sense in the moment. I grabbed the collar of his cut and yanked him down, slamming my mouth onto his.
For half a second he was all teeth and resistance, biting my lower lip until I tasted blood. Then he groaned, deep in his chest, and pushed me harder into the wall. I clawed at the buttons on his shirt, tearing two clean off, then raked my hands up under the hem until I found bare skin, hot and alive and scarred from all the years I’d missed.
He kissed the way he fought: desperate, bruising, determined to win even if he had to break the game. His hands roamed rough and urgent, one on my throat, the other already working the zipper of my ruined slacks. I made a fist in his hair and pulled, hard, loving the way he hissed against my mouth. We crashed sideways, knocking over a chair, then stumbled together toward the bed like we might actually kill each other before we got there.
“Shut up,” I gasped, tearing at his belt. “Just shut up and—”
He cut me off with a hand over my mouth and a knee between my legs. “You don’t get to give orders here,” he growled.
But I could see it in his eyes—the same hunger, the same pain, the same fucked-up hope that maybe this time, the wounds would heal instead of rot. I bit his hand and shoved him back, hard enough that he fell onto the bed. I straddled him, hands braced on his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart under my palms.
“You gonna throw me out again?” he said, breathless.
“Only if you don’t make it worth it,” I said, and reached down for what I really needed.
His hands were everywhere, nails digging in, teeth at my shoulder, voice low and dirty in my ear.
This wasn’t love. It was war. And for once, I was ready to fight.
We tore into each other like the last two animals left on earth. I got his belt off first, dragging it out with a snarl, then went after his jeans with both hands, ignoring the buttons that wouldn’t pop. He ripped my blouse straight down the front, buttons skittering across the floor like buckshot, then grabbed both my tits in his hands and squeezed until I almost screamed. I didn’t. He liked it when I made noise, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, not yet.
His hands slid up my thighs, palms hot and calloused. He found the bandage, hesitated for half a second, then ripped the ruined slacks from my hips and tossed them over his shoulder. I was left in a hospital-issue bra and nothing else. He bit the strap, hard, and yanked it down so fast it burned my skin. My nails raked up his ribs, finding every old scar and new tattoo. There was a bleeding skull on his left side, right over the heart, inked in red and black. I traced the teeth with my finger, remembering the night we’d gotten matching ones. Mine was gone, lasered off after the divorce, but his was still there, as permanent as the hate between us.
“You miss this?” he grunted, voice thick.
“Shut up and fuck me,” I growled. “Unless you’re too old for it now.”
He grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back, kissing me so hard I thought he’d split my lip. Then he flipped me, one fluid move, and slammed me face-down on the table. The wood creaked, a chair toppled, but neither of us cared. He shoved my legs apart and pressed himself in, thick and hot and brutal, no warning and no mercy.
I gasped, fists white-knuckled on the table edge. He leaned over me, teeth at my ear. “This what you missed in your clean little world? Some real fucking?”
I bucked against him, grinding back, loving the way he lost his rhythm for a second. “Harder, you bastard,” I spat.
