Page 19 of The Bastard's Lily
"Is this what you want?" I growl, driving deeper.
"Shut up," she hisses, clawing at my shoulders, leaving marks I'll feel for days. "Just shut up."
The desk bangs against the wall with each thrust. Papers slide to the floor; a pen rolls off the edge. Her legs tighten around my waist, heels digging into my lower back, urging me on.
It's brutal. Desperate. Everything we can't say crashing between us with each movement. Her teeth find my shoulder, biting down hard enough that I curse, the pain sharpening everything.
"Harder," she demands, voice breaking. "Make me feel something else. Anything else."
I obey, one hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so I can see her face. The hatred in her eyes is real, but beneath it—God, beneath it is everything we've both been drowning in for five years.
I feel her tightening around me, her breath coming faster, shorter. Her eyes go wide, locked on mine like she's seeing a ghost.
"Don't you dare look away," I rasp, feeling my control slipping. "Don't you fucking look away from me."
She doesn't. Something breaks between us. Not just the tension but something deeper, a dam neither of us knew how to breach.Her body seizes around mine, her back arching off the desk as she comes apart, a broken sound tearing from her throat that's half sob, half my name.
It pulls me under too, the sight of her undoing becoming mine. I bury my face in her neck as I follow her over, cursing against her skin, my whole body shuddering with the force of it. For one blinding moment, there's nothing but this—her and me and five years of emptiness finally filled.
When I can breathe again, I realize she's crying. Silent tears track down her temples into her hair. I'm still inside her, both of us trembling in the aftermath.
“Fuck.”
A hard knock at the door rips us apart. I nearly fall backwards, catching myself on the edge of the desk as Calla scrambles to pull her clothes together.
"Rook? You in there?" Ash, our club president’s, voice carries through the door, authoritative and impatient. "Open up."
"Shit," I hiss, fumbling with my belt. "Just a minute!"
Calla's eyes are wide, panic replacing the heat from seconds ago. She yanks her torn shirt closed, crossing her arms over her chest to hold it together.
"Now, Rook." The doorknob rattles. "We need to chat."
I toss Calla my kutte. "Put this on," I whisper, watching as she slides her arms through it. It swallows her, but covers what needs covering.
Another impatient knock.
"Coming!" I shout, running a hand through my hair. I glance at Calla, who's wiping tears from her face with shaking hands. "You good?"
She nods, though she's anything but. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the scattered papers, the overturned picture frame, the evidence of what happened in here.
I open the door and there he is—Ash. Our fucking club pres. His gaze cuts to me. Then past me. To her. Calla. His brows lift, slow. Mouth pulls into a crooked smirk, more sarcastic than friendly.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, voice dry as gunpowder. “Little Calla Lily Blake. All grown up and wearin’ a kutte that ain’t hers.”
She stiffens behind me, and I feel it, her tension, the way her nails dig into her own arms like she’s holding back a scream. But she doesn’t say shit. Ash looks between us again. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to.
His tone shifts—low, flat. “You got five seconds to tell me why she’s here before I start drawing my own conclusions.”
“I got a son,” I grind out.
His expression doesn’t change. “No shit. He’s at the bar eatin’ fries with Grimm. I meantwhy she’s here.”
“She’s his mother.”
That wipes the smirk clean off his face.
Ash exhales slowly, scrubs a hand over his beard, then jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Get her cleaned up. And when you’re done playin’ house, we’re gonna talk. Like men.”
