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"Duke doesn't have to know," I whispered, the suggestion hanging between us like a lit match over gasoline.

"He'll kill me." But his hand was already reaching up, thumb brushing my cheekbone with reverent care. "Literally. Thor will help hide the body."

"Worth it?" I leaned into his touch, shameless.

"You have no idea." Then his mouth was on mine, and thought became impossible.

This kiss was different from the desperate collision in the storage room. Deliberate. Decisive. He kissed me like he'd made a choice and damn the consequences. His hands framed my face, holding me steady while he took me apart with lips and tongue and careful teeth.

I melted into him, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like coffee and danger, like safety and rebellion all mixed together. A whimper escaped when he angled my head, deepening the kiss until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

"Bedroom," I gasped against his mouth.

He lifted me like I weighed nothing, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, trusting him to navigate. My apartment was tiny—five steps to the hallway, three to my door. But he kissed me the whole way, like he couldn't stand even seconds without my mouth on his.

We fell onto my unmade bed in a tangle of need and want and too many clothes. His weight pressed me into the mattress, perfect and overwhelming. I arched under him, desperate for more contact, more skin, more everything.

His hands were everywhere—waist, hips, the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder that made me gasp. He mapped me like territory to be claimed, thorough and possessive. I fumbled with his vest, needing it gone, needing to feel him.

"Wait." The word came out tortured. He pulled back, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.

"If you stop now, I'll be the one that murders you," I threatened, meaning it.

"If we do this, we do it right." His thumb traced my lower lip, eyes serious despite the heat in them. "I need . . . we need rules. Structure. A contract."

"A contract?" I was incredulous, aroused, frustrated, all of it.

"You’re a Little, Lena. We’ll have clear terms. What you need, what I need. Limits. Safe words." His hand cupped my face, gentle despite the intensity. "I need to know I'm not . . . that this isn't like him."

Understanding hit like cold water. He needed to know he wasn't becoming Cruz. That my submission, if I gave it, was freely chosen. That the control came from care, not manipulation. That I wanted this—wanted him—not because I had to but because I chose to.

"Okay," I said softly.

"But Duke—"

"Can't know. This stays between us until after the wedding. Then we'll figure out the rest." The timeline felt both eternal and too short.

Despite my frustration at being cockblocked by logistics, excitement bubbled up. A secret. Our secret. Something just for us in a world where the club knew everything.

"A secret contract?" I grinned, already imagining the negotiations.

"Our secret," he confirmed, sealing it with a kiss that promised everything.

"Then let's negotiate terms, Soldier Boy."

Chapter 7

Lena

Itracedtherimofmy coffee mug with one finger, watching the steam curl up between us. Tyson sat across my tiny kitchen table looking unfairly good for someone who'd spent the night on my lumpy couch. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his jaw held that perfect amount of stubble that made my fingers itch to touch. But it was the hickey on his neck—the one I'd definitely put there—that made my stomach flip.

Memories crashed over me in waves. The way he'd carried me to my bedroom like I weighed nothing. His hands mapping every curve while his mouth did wicked things to my neck. The heat in his eyes when he'd pressed me into the mattress, all that controlled strength focused entirely on me. I'd been so ready, trembling with want, when he'd pulled back.

"If we do this, we do it right."

Those words had hit different in the moment. Frustrating as hell when all I wanted was his weight on me, his hands everywhere, that careful control finally snapping. But lying therewatching him force himself to step back, to put my needs above what we both desperately wanted—that was new.

Cruz would never have stopped. He would have taken what he wanted with some degrading comment about little girls needing to learn their place. Tyson stopping, even though it was annoying as hell, was also just abotu the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me.