Page 23 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

I drag her closer, one hand sliding under the oversized t-shirt she wore to bed, the other gripping her thigh hard enough to leave marks.

She bites my lower lip, the sharp pain shooting straight to my groin.

I groan, a sound I barely recognize as my own.

After keeping my hands to myself the last few days, this is absolute bliss.

Without breaking the kiss, her fingers tear at my clothes with frantic urgency.

She shucks my shirt and reaches for my boxers.

I stop her by wrestling her t-shirt over her head.

Tossing it blindly behind me, I turn to find her nearly naked.

Her tiny breasts rise and fall with her breath, and all I want to do is suck on them. So, I do.

Pulling one plump nipple into my mouth, I lap at the little bud. She tosses her head back, moaning and clutching my shoulders. As she presses against my mouth, my cock pokes at the fabric of my boxers. I should have let her take them off earlier.

The underwear must go. Mine first. Then hers. And now, we’re completely exposed, hot and wanting, staring at each other like we’ve never seen another naked body before, but I’m sure that’s not true. She doesn’t strike me as a virgin, which is good. Who wants to deal with that drama? Not me.

I scan her body like I’m memorizing code—the constellation of freckles across her collarbone, the curve of her waist, the small scar below her left breast. She’s beautiful in a way that defies nature, all dangerous curves and hidden valleys.

The one between her soft thighs draws my attention, but I don’t shoot straight for her molten center.

No, this shouldn’t even be happening, but it is, so I’m going to make the most of it.

To keep from losing control too soon, I drag my mouth down her neck, tasting salt and heat, my teeth grazing her collarbone.

She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders, scoring my skin.

The pain is exquisite, a counterpoint to the pleasure building in my cock.

I’ve always prided myself on control—methodical, measured, precise—but she burns through me, consuming every ounce of self-control I possess.

I pin her wrists to the pillow with one hand, sliding down her body with the other, my stubble scraping against the inside of her thigh as I taste her.

She’s wet and hot against my tongue, and I hold her hips steady as she writhes beneath me.

Her body’s a live circuit, ready to spark at a moment’s notice.

Licking and tasting and sucking, I find all the secret spots. Driving her wild, I coax her to the brink before slowing to lap up her sweetness.

“Stop teasing me,” she begs.

I grin against her wetness and delve back in, giving it to her until her toes curl. When she comes, she muffles her cry with the heel of her hand, her entire body arching off the bed.

Before she can recover, I flip her onto her back, positioning myself between her thighs. My back stings where her nails have left their mark, a physical record of her pleasure, one I’ll wear like a badge of honor.

I enter her in one smooth thrust, the sensation so intense I nearly lose myself immediately.

The bed frame groans beneath us, keeping erratic time with our movements, every thrust sending the cheap headboard slamming against the wall.

The yellow lamp flickers with the impact, casting strange shadows across her skin, turning sweat into liquid gold.

I watch her face as I move inside her, cataloging every reaction, every hitched breath and bitten lip.

Her hands slide up my chest to grab my face.

She force my mouth back to hers, and we devour each other—no tenderness, just raw need and heat.

I say her name between gasps, the syllables broken and desperate.

She claws at my ass, urging me deeper, harder, and I comply, losing the last threads of my carefully maintained restraint.

“Fuck, Mina,” I pant against her neck, feeling the pressure building at the base of my spine. “You feel so good.”

Her only response is to wrap her legs tighter around my waist, changing the angle in a way that makes stars explode behind my eyes.

The intensity builds beyond anything I’ve experienced, beyond what I thought physically possible, and when I finally come, it’s with a force that shakes me to my core, pleasure radiating through every nerve ending.

She follows immediately, her body clenching around me, her nails digging half-moons into my shoulders as she cries out.

We collapse together, a tangle of sweaty limbs and ragged breathing.

My mind, usually a constant stream of calculations and contingencies, is blissfully, terrifyingly blank.

I hold her against me, feeling her heartbeat gradually slow to match mine, her hair stuck to the sweat on her forehead.

The yellow glow of the lamp makes her skin look like amber, something precious, and I find myself tracing patterns across her back, coding a message I don’t have words for.

“Fuck,” I manage finally, my voice hoarse and strange to my own ears. “If I’d known it would be like that…”

She turns her head toward me, a gorgeous smile on her face. “Yeah.”

We lie there, cooling in the inadequate air conditioning, her body fitted against mine like a missing component.

For a few minutes, I allow myself this—just this.

Not thinking about tomorrow, about Puerto Escondido, about going AWOL from the club and Vapor, about everything at stake.

Just Mina in my arms, her breath against my skin, her heartbeat syncing with mine in perfect, temporary harmony.

I kiss her again, gentler this time, memorizing the softness of her lips, the taste of her mouth.

Tomorrow we’ll return to our assigned roles—the hacker and the enforcer, focused on the mission.

But tonight, just for these few stolen hours, we’re allowed to be something else.

Something simpler. Just a man and a woman in erotic harmony.

I pull her closer, feeling her relax against me, and for once, I don’t analyze, don’t calculate, don’t plan. I just feel.

As silence stretches between us, I stare at the water stains on the ceiling, mapping constellations in their irregular patterns.

My breathing gradually slows. Next to me, Mina is a study in stillness, her body no longer pressed against mine but still close enough that I feel her warmth.

Sweat cools on my skin, and with it comes the gradual return of rational thought, of consequences, of tomorrow’s mission parameters.

The heat of desire gives way to something more complicated—an uncomfortable warmth in my chest that feels dangerously like attachment.

Outside, Mexico City continues its nocturnal pulse.

A siren wails in the distance, cars honk, music thumps from some distant club.

Inside our shabby room, only the irregular drip of the faucet marks time passing.

The sheets beneath us are damp with sweat.

The cheap mattress sags in the middle, making it hard to maintain the small distance we’ve created.

I’m acutely aware of every place our skin almost touches—the near-brush of shoulders, the proximity of her thigh to mine, the occasional drift of her hair against my arm when she breathes.

My glasses sit on the nightstand, the world slightly blurred without them, but Mina remains in perfect focus—the curve of her hip beneath the rumpled sheet, the marks my mouth left on her neck, the rise and fall of her chest. I’ve spent my life recognizing patterns, identifying vulnerabilities in systems, but nothing has prepared me for the complexity of what just happened between us. What it means. What it can’t mean.

The silence becomes unbearable.

“This was…” I begin, then stop, uncertain. My voice sounds strange, stripped of its usual confidence. I flex my fingers against my stomach, a nervous gesture designed to release some of the building tension.

Mina turns her head to look at me. Her eyes search mine, but I have no idea what she’s looking for. I want to reach for her, to pull her back against me, to forget about tomorrow and its demands. The desire surprises me with its intensity.

“A one-time thing,” she finishes for me, her voice steady despite the flush still visible on her skin. “It was stress and adrenaline and proximity. Nothing more.”

Something collapses in my chest. I nod once. “Right. Of course.”

But my body betrays me—pupils dilating, pulse accelerating, skin warming where she looks at me. It’s a physiological response I can’t override. The conflict must show in my eyes because she looks away quickly, as if she’s seen too much.

She sits up abruptly, pulling the tangled sheet around her body. The barrier is physical but signifies something deeper. The distance she creates is deliberate and necessary. She’s not wrong to pull back this way. I just wish I felt the same.

“We have more important things to focus on,” she says, scanning the floor for her scattered clothes. “Puerto Escondido. Rory. The extraction plan.”

I watch as she locates her underwear near the foot of the bed. My rational mind processes her words, acknowledging their accuracy. She’s right. We should keep our focus on getting Rory out of the cartel’s grasp. After all, that’s our number one priority.

Yet another part of me—a part I’ve spent years repressing—rejects this assessment.

That part wants to tell her that nothing about what just happened felt irrelevant.

What just happened between us was something else entirely.

I feel as if I’ve finally found a missing piece of code that suddenly makes the program I call “life” run more efficiently.

I’ve never wanted a relationship with any one woman before, but I’ve never met anyone like her either.

But, instead of blathering on like a lovesick fool, I close the door to these unwelcome feelings. My voice returns to its normal controlled cadence. “The plane leaves in a couple of hours,” I say, watching her gather her clothes. “We should get going.”

She nods, clutching the borrowed clothes to her chest. “I’ll shower first,” she says, already moving toward the bathroom.

As the bathroom door closes behind her, I exhale slowly, allowing myself a moment of unfiltered reaction.

The shower sputters to life, water pipes complaining in the walls.

I reach for my glasses, sliding them onto my face, and the world coming back into sharp focus.

The room looks different now—details becoming clear.

The stain on the carpet. The crack in the lampshade.

The rumpled evidence of what we just did scattered across the bed. Reality returns with a vengeance.

I sit up, running a hand through my hair, feeling the scratch of Mina’s nails still burning across my shoulders.

The marks will fade in a day or two, leaving no trace of this night.

It’s for the best. Attachments are vulnerabilities in our line of work—entry points for enemies to exploit.

That’s part of why I’ve never tried to be in any kind of romantic relationship.

I can get sex without strings, but this was nothing like those meaningless romps.

Still, I can’t get distracted right now, so I’m going to have to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

By the time Mina emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a threadbare towel, I’ve reassembled most of my defenses.

Her skin is rosy from the shower. Wet hair clings to her neck in tendrils.

For a moment, I allow myself to memorize this image—Mina with her guard temporarily lowered, beautiful in an ethereal way.

“Your turn,” she says, gesturing toward the bathroom.

I nod and rise, careful to maintain distance as I pass her. The bathroom door clicks shut behind me. I lean against it for a moment, eyes closed.

Eventually, I get into the shower. Its lukewarm spray washes away the physical evidence of what happened between us, but not the memory of what it felt like to be inside her hot, sensual body.

Shaking my head, I scrub methodically, cleansing myself while trying to ignore the war going on in my head.

When I emerge, she’s fully dressed in clean clothes from her pack, sitting at the small desk where I left my laptop. I join her, careful not to brush against her.

“We’ll need transportation when we arrive.” I power on my computer and navigate to a rental car company. “Something inconspicuous that can handle the coastal roads.”

She nods, focusing on the screen instead of meeting my eyes. “Get the most generic car you can find.”

“On it.”

We fall into planning mode, the familiar rhythm creating a buffer zone between us.

It’s almost possible to pretend nothing has changed, that we’re still just reluctant allies bound by a common goal.

Almost, but not quite—because beneath the seemingly casual conversation, awareness pulses.

Even after we leave the motel, my body still humming with the memory of her touch.

Outside, the city glows with the watery light of early dawn, casting long shadows across cracked pavement and smog-streaked windows.

We load our gear in silence, the weight of our mission a convenient shield against everything left unsaid.

When our eyes meet across the roof of the car, something flickers—recognition, regret, maybe even longing—but it vanishes before I can grasp it.

We nod, almost in sync, then slide into the car and drive toward the airport, toward danger, toward whatever comes next.

Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing safe left to say.

The hum of the tires on asphalt fills the space between us.

I focus on the road, not on the girl in the passenger seat who tastes like molten honey.

We’re partners on a mission, forged together for a purpose.

But somewhere along the way, we broke protocol.

I don’t know what this is between us—if it will survive the mission, or if it even should—but for now, it’s a phantom echo in my chest, impossible to ignore, yet that’s exactly what I need to do. Breaking focus could get us killed. I can’t allow that to happen.