Page 56

"Don't sleep much." A ghost of his usual smile appeared. "Never have. Couple hours in the shop at night, few more on weekends. It's meditative, you know? Working with my hands, creating something beautiful. Better than therapy."

I thought about all those nights he'd tucked me in and then disappeared, claiming he needed to check on the bike or handle club business. Instead, he'd been out here in his secret workshop, carving toys for children he'd never meet.

"The shelter staff," I said slowly, "they all think Scout Craft is some rich philanthropist. Maybe a grandmother with too much time. They'd never guess . . ."

"That it's a tattooed biker who's killed men with his bare hands?" His laugh was bitter. "Yeah, wouldn't match the image. Better they imagine someone soft and safe. Someone who makes sense."

That's when I understood the real fear behind his nervousness.

He wasn't just sharing a hobby. He was showing me a part of himself that contradicted everything the world thought it knew about him.

The Road Captain who planned tactical strikes also carved tiny rocking chairs for dollhouse nurseries.

The enforcer who'd broken bones also spent hours painting delicate flowers on toy chests.

"Dex," I said, but he was already turning away, shutting down the way he did when he felt too exposed.

"I know it's not very alpha," he said to the wall of tools. "Grown man playing with toys. But I can't seem to stop. Every time I think about those kids at the shelter, kids like you were, having nothing beautiful . . ."

"Stop," I commanded, surprising us both with my firm tone. "Just stop."

"You're not disappointed?" he asked, vulnerability making his voice smaller than I'd ever heard it. "That your big, tough biker spends his nights making dollhouses and teddy bears?"

The question lit a fire in my chest. Disappointed? I wanted to grab him by his cut and shake sense into him. Instead, I stalked forward, watching his eyes widen as I backed him up against his workbench.

"Disappointed?" I repeated, caging him between my arms. "Dex, this is the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

His eyebrows shot up, confusion replacing vulnerability. "Sexy?"

"A man strong enough to break bones with his bare hands, who chooses to use those same hands to create toys for children?

" I pressed closer, feeling his body respond despite his confusion.

"Who spends hours carving perfect tiny furniture because he wants some little girl to have a beautiful dollhouse? "

His breathing changed, hands finding my waist automatically. The workbench edge dug into his back, tools rattling softly with our movement.

"A man who's been secretly taking care of an entire community's most vulnerable kids for years, never taking credit, never wanting recognition?" I continued, my voice dropping lower. "Who works all night in hidden workshops because the thought of children having nothing beautiful breaks his heart?"

"When you put it like that . . ." His hands tightened on my waist, and I could feel the exact moment his embarrassment started transforming into something else.

"That's not soft, Dex." I rolled my hips against him, drawing a sharp breath from us both.

"That's the most alpha thing I've ever heard of.

You're so confident in your masculinity that you don't need to prove it by being cruel or dismissive.

You can make teddy bears and still be the most dangerous man in any room. "

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his control snapped.

His hands fisted in my hair, dragging my mouth to his in a kiss that tasted like desperation and relief. Like I'd given him permission to be all of himself at once—the dangerous Road Captain and the gentle toymaker, the man who protected with violence and the one who created with love.

"Prove it," I gasped when we broke for air. "I need you to prove you haven't gone soft. Right here, right now, in your workshop."

A growl rumbled from his chest, primal and possessive. In one smooth motion, he spun us around, lifting me onto the workbench. Wood shavings scattered, the sweet scent of cedar rising around us as tools clattered to the floor.

"Careful what you ask for, little girl," he warned, but his hands were already busy with the buttons of my shirt.

"I'm asking for all of you," I replied, helping him with the stubborn middle button. "The biker and the artist. The protector and the creator. Every single piece."

My shirt hit the floor, followed quickly by his own.

The overhead lights cast shadows that turned his tattoos into living things, eagles and skulls and club insignia dancing across skin I'd mapped with my mouth a hundred times.

But here, surrounded by evidence of his secret gentleness, he looked different. More complete.

His hands—those talented, patient hands that could carve impossibly delicate details—skimmed over my skin with reverent precision. When he kissed me again, I tasted sawdust and possibility.

"Been wanting to take you here," he admitted against my throat. "Every time I worked on something for your room. Kept imagining you spread out on my workbench, all flushed and perfect."

"So take me," I challenged, nipping at his ear. "Show me what those hands can do when they're not carving toys."

I wrapped my legs around Dex, pulling him closer, feeling the tension in his body melt away as our bodies pressed together.

His kisses were hungry, possessive, like he was proving a point with every brush of his lips against mine.

The workbench creaked beneath us, a symphony of desire and urgency building between us.

His hands moved with skilled precision, unbuttoning my jeans, sliding them off with a reverent touch that sent shivers down my spine.

I arched into his touch, craving more of him, more of the man who held secrets and softness in equal measure.

He kissed a line down my neck, each press of his lips igniting a fire that consumed us both.

"Dex," I gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as he worked his way lower. His mouth found its destination with expert determination, sending sparks of pleasure through me with every flick of his tongue. The workshop around us faded away as we lost ourselves in each other.

His hands gripped my thighs firmly, holding me in place as he expertly guided me to the peak of ecstasy.

His tongue danced with precision over my sensitive folds, flicking and swirling with the same skill and patience he used to create his art.

His lips pressed against my clit, sucking gently and then with increasing intensity, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through my body.

I could feel the low growls vibrating from his throat against my skin, amplifying the sensations and sending waves of bliss crashing through me.

The room was filled with the sounds of our shared desire, my breathless gasps intertwining with his hungry groans.

His fingers joined the dance, sliding inside me with a deliberate slowness that made my back arch off the workbench.

Each stroke hit a spot that sent sparks dancing behind my eyes, his calloused fingertips adding a layer of friction that was pure, sweet torture.

He curled his fingers slightly, applying pressure to the place that made my breath hitch and my hips jerk against his mouth.

"Dex..." His name was a plea, a prayer, a demand for more. He responded with renewed fervor, his tongue lashing against my clit while his fingers moved faster, deeper, pushing me higher and higher until I was teetering on the edge of oblivion.

The orgasm crashed over me like a wave breaking against rocks, sharp and brutal and overwhelming. My body convulsed around his fingers, my thighs clamping tight against his ears as I cried out my release.

He didn't wait for me to come down, didn't give me time to catch my breath.

Instead, he surged up, his body covering mine as he captured my mouth in a fierce kiss.

I could taste myself on his lips, and it sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through me.

My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, feeling his hardness press against my entrance.

"Daddy," I gasped, tearing my mouth away from his. "Please—"

He paused, his cock poised right there, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that stole my breath. "Beg for it, little one," he growled softly. "Tell me how much you need me inside you."

My heart pounded in my chest, my body aching with desperation. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the promise of pleasure just a thrust away. "Please, Dex

"I need you, Daddy," I whimpered, my hips arching up to meet him, begging with my body as much as my words. "Need you to fill me. Take me right here, right now. Make me yours completely."

His eyes flared at the plea, and he didn't make me wait any longer. With a single, powerful thrust, he was inside me, stretching me, filling me so completely that I cried out from the sheer relief of it. My nails dug into his shoulders, holding on as he began to move with urgent, demanding strokes.

"Mine," he growled, hips setting a rhythm that made tools rattle on nearby shelves. "My perfect little girl who sees all of me."

"Yours," I agreed, then bit his shoulder to muffle my cry as he hit that perfect angle. "Your little girl who thinks you're even hotter with sawdust in your hair."

He laughed—actually laughed—while buried deep inside me. The sound transformed into a groan as I clenched around him, drawing him deeper.

"So fucking perfect," he panted, one hand braced beside my head while the other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. "Taking me so well in my workshop. Getting sawdust in all your pretty places."