Page 14 of Gonzo’s Grudge (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Dreadnought, NC #1)

The room was too loud for anyone to have heard her, and yet the words hung like a neon sign only I could see.

I knew I didn’t own Gonzo. I knew I had no claim.

I knew this was a world where bodies and histories wrapped into one another.

I had watched a woman draw the word nasty on her man’s abdomen with a marker and nobody blinked.

I had no right to feel what I felt. Except I couldn’t help it. Jealousy shot up my spine in a clean, white line. “Thanks for the tip,” I managed, amazed my voice worked.

Shay smiled tighter. “You’re welcome. It’s good to know the terrain when you’re a tourist.”

Something ugly and hot clawed its way out of my chest. I didn’t think. My hand moved before the rest of me did.

The slap cracked across her cheek like a gunshot.

Heads turned. Talk paused and then tumbled on.

Shay’s eyes blew wide, fingers flying to her face.

For half a heartbeat I thought she might pounce.

For half a heartbeat, I wanted her to, just so I could do something with the storm inside me.

I didn’t wait to find out if she would react.

I put the beer down too hard—the bottle clinked off the bar and sloshed—and I walked. No, I stomped. Then I ran.

The door sucked the sound out behind me. Cool night air slapped my cheeks. The lot spread in blacktop and chrome and spilled light. Engines pinged as they cooled. I folded at the waist with my hands on my knees and dragged for breath like I’d just outrun a siren.

What are you doing? The question felt like it came from far away and also from the center of my skull.

This wasn’t me. I didn’t slap people. I didn’t start fights with beautiful women in painted-on dresses over men who warned me right up front that they weren’t safe places to lay my head. I didn’t belong in there. I didn’t belong anywhere, either.

The door banged. Boots hit asphalt. I didn’t have to look to know. He moved like thunder. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Hey,” Gonzo said, and his hand wrapped gently around my elbow. “Stop. Stand up.”

I straightened because he asked. Not because he held me—he wasn’t embracing me. His touch was light, a question.

“What the hell was that?” His voice was low, not angry. Not yet. Concern, layered with steel.

“I lost my mind,” I sputtered out, and laughed a little then, stupid, breathless. “I—this isn’t who I am.”

He looked at me like he could read the things I didn’t say. Stared long enough that the night fell away and there was just the space between us and the sound of my heart as it calmed.

“Then who are you, IvaLeigh?” he asked.

The answer should’ve been easy. I’m the girl who studies.

I’m the girl who pays her bills on time.

I’m the girl who doesn’t get jealous, who doesn’t make scenes, who doesn’t chase men who smell like smoke and road all cloaked in danger.

But the words didn’t fit anymore. They slid off like a shirt that had shrunk in the wash.

“I don’t know,” I said, honest for once. It scared me, how true it felt. “I don’t know.”

He nodded like that was the right answer.

Like uncertainty was a place to stand, not a cliff to fall from.

His hand rose and brushed my cheekbone with his knuckles, rough and careful.

His thumb came away with a smear of lipstick that wasn’t mine—I didn’t wear any tonight.

My stomach flipped when I realized it was the red from the girl I slapped.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did.

Whatever he saw decided something in him. His fingers slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, warm and big. He pulled me in just enough that if I wanted to, I could have tipped back out. I didn’t. I went willingly, like a tide rolling in.

Then he kissed me.

Heat unspooled from the center of me like someone had lit a fuse.

It wasn’t the awkward, careful kissing of boys who are scared to want.

It wasn’t the greedy, sloppy claiming I’d watched through a hundred party doorways and told myself I didn’t want.

It was deep. It was sure. It was full. His mouth took and gave, his other hand bracing my hip, anchoring me against the cold air and the hot panic both.

I forgot Shay’s smirk and the slap and the roar inside the clubhouse. I forgot the girl I’d been ten minutes earlier and the one I was supposed to be tomorrow. The world narrowed to the shape of his mouth and the way my name would’ve sounded if he had said it right then.

When he lifted his head, my breath came in short, shocked bursts. He pressed his forehead to mine like a promise and let me hear his, steadier and slower, like he could absorb the chaos out of me by sheer will.

“Come with me,” he said, not a statement, not a question, maybe a request laced as a command.

I didn’t ask where. I didn’t need to. I nodded, because for the first time all night, nodding felt like knowing.

He laced our fingers but didn’t pull, waited for me to move first. I did.

We crossed the lot together, walking to the back of the place, the hum of the party behind us like a tide going out.

A couple of brothers outside smoking watched us go and didn’t say a word, but one of them—Disciple—touched two fingers to his temple in a salute that wasn’t for me and somehow felt like it was.

We stepped into the hallway that ran at the back of the building, quieter, the music thudding through walls like a heartbeat you could walk inside.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead. Old flyers curled on cork-board.

The carpet was ugly and clean. It looked like the backstage of a life.

This part of the building was clearly an addition as none of it matched the front.

He guided me down the hall passing rooms as we went before entering one of them. His door shut soft behind us, and the noise dropped to a hum.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

The party faded like a dream I’d already started to forget.

“Yes,” I said, and felt myself mean it all the way through.

The door clicked shut behind us, muffling the party into a low, distant heartbeat.

I stood in the center of his room, pulse racing, fingers clenched at my sides like I wasn’t sure what to do with them.

The space wasn’t what I expected—bare walls, a dresser, a lamp with a crooked shade, the bedspread in simple dark sheets.

No posters, no clutter, no trophies. Just clean, sturdy, unpretentious. A man’s room.

I felt his presence more than I saw him—broad, steady, filling the doorway. My skin prickled like the air itself knew who he was.

“Are you sure?” His voice was low, gravel sliding over steel.

I knew what he was asking, but I couldn’t get focused beyond the heat running through me. I turned to face him. My throat tightened, but I didn’t falter. “Yes.”

His eyes searched mine. Not lust—though it was there, burning. Something else. Concern. Patience. “IvaLeigh,” he said again, slower. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I repeated, firmer this time because I was more than ready to feel the heat of this passion between us. “I’m sure.”

Only then did he move.

The first kiss had been fire outside, fueled by jealousy and rage. This one was different. He crossed the room slow, deliberate, like every step was permission for me to step back. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

When his mouth touched mine again, it was gentler, coaxing. My lips parted, and the warmth of him flooded through me until I trembled. His hand cupped the back of my neck, thumb brushing slow circles against my skin.

“Still sure?” he murmured against my mouth.

“Yes,” I whispered, barely holding air.

Clothes came off piece by piece, not ripped, not rushed. Each button, each zipper, was a question. And every time, I answered with my hands tugging his shirt, with my eyes locking on his, with the steady rhythm of desire for more.

My heart pounded loud enough I was sure he could hear it. When I stood bare before him, heat flooded my face, shame and desire colliding. But his gaze—steady, reverent, hungry but not greedy—burned all the shame away.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, rough and certain.

The words made my knees weak.

The first touch was careful, his palm brushing my arm like he was memorizing me. Then, the feel of his calloused fingers against my soft flesh sent heat through me. Then the dip of my waist. Every inch of skin he claimed felt like it belonged to me for the first time.

When his mouth traced down my throat, I gasped, clutching at his shoulders. He steadied me, his muscles solid under my fingers.

“Are you sure?” he asked again, breath warm against my ear.

“Yes,” I said, desperate now, shaking with want.

And only then did he ease me back onto the bed.

The sheets were cool, the mattress firm, his weight above me both overwhelming and anchoring. I’d thought I might be scared. I wasn’t. Not with him.

He laid me back gently, as if I was on display in the most beautiful way. His lips pressed to my temple, then my jaw, then my neck. With every slow movement of his body against my flesh I came alive. I wanted more.

No, I needed it.

He kissed down taking his time to lick and lap at my breasts, taking my nipples in between his lips and sucking.

A moan of pleasure escaped me as I felt my insides clench wanting this.

My breathing moved to pants as his mouth reached my juncture.

His tongue licking, tasting, tempting as I felt a finger slip inside me.

With his tongue against my throbbing clit and two fingers now sliding in and out of me I feel a sensation wash over me like never before.

My hands moved to his hair, I pulled as my body bucked against his face.

Heat coursed through me from head to toe followed by the most amazing chills as everything inside me locked up and then exploded.

I cried out his name eliciting a feral growl of possession from him as he broke away from my body only long enough to roll on a condom and climb back over me.

As aftershocks rolled through me, my body seeking more contact, he once again asked me for consent.

Lined up with the tip at my entrance, I gave him a whispered yes before I felt him moving in, filling me like I had never been before.

The pain came sharp at first, making me gasp, eyes squeezing shut.

But his hand was right there, brushing my cheek, grounding me.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. IvaLeigh, look at me.”

I forced my eyes open. His gaze caught me—steady, unwavering, waiting. “I’ve got you,” he said again, softer.

And he did.

The sting dulled, replaced by warmth, then by something else—fullness, closeness, a rush that made my head spin. My breath stuttered, then steadied. I moved with him, tentative at first, then ready, my body finding rhythm with his.

The world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the heat of his skin, the way he whispered rough encouragements that made me feel like I was the only other person in the universe.

When pleasure overtook the ache, when my body arched into his, the tears that pricked my eyes weren’t from pain. They were from the overwhelming sensation of it all.

He kissed them away, his lips brushing my eyelids, my temple, my mouth. “Good girl,” he whispered, and I shattered around him. In that moment the world ceased to exist outside of this man in my arms and this moment we shared.

I woke in his arms.

For a moment, I didn’t move. I just breathed. His chest rose and fell under my cheek, steady as a tide. His arm was heavy around me, protective even in sleep. The scent of leather and smoke lingered on his skin, but softer now, threaded with warmth.

Sunlight slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across the room. Outside, I could hear faint laughter, the rumble of bikes, the distant echo of a world still moving. But in here, time held still.

I’d thought I’d feel guilty. I didn’t.

I’d thought I’d feel small. I didn’t.

I felt strong. Alive. Like I’d shed a skin I didn’t know I’d outgrown.

I tilted my head to look at him. Even asleep, he looked fierce—brow furrowed, jaw tight, as if he was ready to fight even in dreams. But his arm tightened around me when I shifted, pulling me closer unconsciously, like his body already knew I belonged there.

Something in me clicked into place.

I didn’t know exactly who I was yet. But I knew one thing for certain.

With him, I wasn’t lost.

With him, I was safe.