Page 18 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

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.

He gave it to me, hips slamming, hands clamped on my shoulders.

Every thrust hit bone, driving the breath out of my lungs and the memory of every weak-ass man I’d tried to replace him with.

None of them could fuck, not like this. None of them could break me down and build me up at the same time.

I twisted my head around and bit his bicep, tasted salt and the metallic tang of an old tattoo.

He groaned, low and feral, then reached around and found my clit, rubbing slow and mean.

“You always were greedy,” he said, voice hoarse.

I laughed, a bitter little sound. “Takes one to know one.”

He fucked me through it, never letting up, never slowing down, until I was shaking so hard I couldn’t hold the table anymore.

My knees buckled, but he caught me, spun me around, and hoisted me onto the table edge.

I locked my legs around his waist, dragged him in close, and rode him for all I was worth.

We came together, loud and angry and alive, sweat slicking our bodies and the whole cabin echoing with it.

The table actually cracked under the strain, a jagged splinter running right down the center.

I let myself collapse, boneless and numb, but he wasn’t done.

He carried me to the floor, dropped me on the old rug, and fucked me again—this time slower, deeper, the anger fading into something I couldn’t name.

I traced his scars while he moved inside me, mapping out the stories I thought I’d forgotten.

The bullet wound at his hip, the knife slice under his ribs, the burn from the night we’d set a rival’s car on fire and watched it melt into the road.

I kissed each one, tasting old battles and old regrets.

He cupped my face with both hands, thumb grazing my cheek. “You still hate me?” he asked, voice almost tender.

“Not enough,” I whispered, and pulled him back in.

We did it again, and again, shifting from rug to bed in a delirious blur of limbs and sweat and desperate need.

Every time I thought I was empty, he found another place to fill.

Every time I thought I could let go, he made me want to hold on tighter.

By the time the sun started leaking through the dirt-streaked window, we were tangled together, sheets twisted, my hair glued to his chest with a mix of spit and blood and whatever else we’d managed to shed in the night.

We didn’t say anything. We just lay there, listening to the fire crackle and the distant howl of coyotes. I let myself believe, for just a minute, that maybe there was still something left to save. But the minute passed. And all that was left was the ache.

###

I woke to sunlight knifing through the cabin window, slicing straight across the bed and landing on the mess of sheets and limbs we’d made of ourselves.

For a while, I kept my eyes closed, listening to the fire’s last sputters and the grind of wind in the trees.

I thought about pretending to sleep, but Damron was already awake.

He lay on his back, hands folded over his chest, staring up at the ceiling like he could see through to the sky.

We didn’t touch. Not after all that. It was almost funny, how two people could spend the night biting and clawing and fucking each other raw, then wake up afraid to so much as brush elbows.

After a few minutes, he swung his feet to the floor and stood, naked as the day he was born.

He didn’t bother with pants, just padded barefoot to the wood stove and opened it, checking the coals.

I watched the muscles in his back ripple as he leaned over.

There were new tattoos—script along his spine, a blacked-out cross on the shoulder, something geometric where his hip had once been clean.

There were new scars, too, one on his thigh that looked like it came from a bullet and a thick white line just under his ribs.

“Nice ink,” I said, voice croaky with sleep and disuse.

He didn’t look back. “Had to keep busy.” He found a battered tin coffee pot, filled it at the sink, and set it on the stove to boil.

I propped myself up, pulling the sheet to my chest even though modesty was laughable by now. “You should eat something. All that cardio’s gonna kill you.”

He snorted. “Been killed before.” The coffee started to hiss and pop. He poured a mug and brought it to me, then sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands.

I sipped, grimacing. “Still tastes like motor oil.”

“Better than most things you’ve said to me,” he replied, but his voice was softer than last night’s bark.

We sat like that, staring at everything except each other, the silence thickening with every passing second. Finally, I broke. “You’re going to pretend none of this happened, aren’t you?”

He looked up. “Is that what you want?”

I shrugged, but it felt like a lie. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know if there’s a want left in me.”

He laughed, rough and short. “You always did.” He reached over, brushed a stray hair from my face, and let his hand linger on my cheek. “But you never wanted me. Not the real me. Just the piece that looked good on paper.”

I caught his wrist, held it for a second longer than I should. “That’s not true.”

He pulled away, the contact gone cold. “Doesn’t change anything, Carly.” He stood, finally digging for his pants, and slid them on with practiced indifference. “We still have to go back.”

I nodded, draining the rest of the coffee. When he handed me a second mug, our fingers brushed, and it felt like static. I wanted to hold on, but I let it go.

He turned his back, busied himself with packing up, tossing my ruined clothes onto the bed. I dressed in silence, cobbling together something half-presentable from the carnage of the night before.

The ride back was different. Slower. No sense of panic or urgency, just two people holding on to the moment before the world crashed in again.

I sat behind him, arms wrapped tighter than necessary, cheek pressed to the heat of his back.

I closed my eyes and pretended we could keep going forever, that the road never had to end.

But it did. It always did. By the time we crested the hill overlooking the city, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I checked the screen: three missed calls from the campaign, two from the FBI, and a text from Nitro that just read, “You good?”

I looked at Damron, but he kept his eyes on the horizon, jaw set.

I typed back, “Yeah,” then added, “We’re coming in.”

He felt my arms tighten and covered my hands with his for a second, squeezing just once. Then he gunned the bike, and we hurtled down the hill, into the glare and the chaos and everything we thought we’d left behind. But I was still holding on. And this time, I didn’t plan to let go.