Page 42 of Held-

The look in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine, half warning, half invitation. I swallow hard.

“Then take me somewhere warm,” I whisper, my fingers brushing the line of his throat. “Take me back to your place.”

His eyebrow arches. “Why not yours?”

I laugh, the sound carrying away on the night breeze. “My father's house? Are you insane? He'd have an exorcist waiting at the door.”

“Fair point.” His hands tighten on my waist, lifting me effortlessly off the guardrail and setting me on my feet. “My place it is.”

CECE

The rideback to Jillian's property feels different than before. My body is pressed against his, my thighs squeezing his hips tighter than necessary, my hands wandering lower on his stomach than they need to be for safety. Every curve in the road is an excuse to hold him closer, to feel the hard planes of his body through his clothes.

By the time we pull up to the guesthouse, I'm practically vibrating with anticipation. Brayden cuts the engine. He swings his leg over the bike and helps me off, his hands lingering at my waist.

“Last chance to back out, princess,” he reminds me as he removes my helmet.

I look up at him, feeling the weight of the moment between us. This is a threshold I can't uncross. In my old life, this would be the moment I'd make theresponsiblechoice—back away, thank him for the ride, and head home to my father's house where I'd lie awake all night wondering what could have been.

But I'm not that woman anymore.

“I'm not backing out. I want this. I want you.”

He takes my hand, leading me toward the door. The anticipation building between us is almost unbearable as he fumbles with his keys. When the door finally swings open, we barely make it inside before his mouth is on mine again, hungry and demanding.

He kicks the door shut behind us, and I'm suddenly pressed against it, his body pinning me in place as his hands roam down my sides. His cut still hangs from my shoulders, heavy and warm, smelling of leather and him. I should take it off, but there's something thrilling about wearing it while he devours my mouth.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls against my lips. “Seeing you in my colors...”

I gasp as his calloused fingers trail fire across my ribs, inching higher. “Tell me,” I demand, wanting to hear it.

“Makes me want to mark you as mine,” he finishes, his voice a low rumble against my throat where his lips have started to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses. “Let everyone know you belong to me.”

The possessiveness in his words should frighten me, but instead it sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs. I arch into him.

“Is that what this means?” I ask breathlessly as his teeth graze the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. “Wearing your colors?”

His hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. “To anyone in my world? Yeah. It means you're claimed. Protected.”

“And is that what you want?” I gasp as his fingers finally reach their destination, cupping me through the thin fabric. “To claim me?”

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, his gaze burning with an intensity that steals my breath. “Since the moment I saw you in that coffee shop, tearing that asshole mayor a new one.”

I laugh, the sound quickly transforming into a moan as his thumb brushes over my nipple. “That's what did it for you? Me making a scene?”

“You standing up for yourself,” he corrects. “Not taking shit from anyone. Being the real you instead of who everyone expects you to be.”

No one has ever wanted me for being myself. They've wanted me to be quieter, more obedient, more proper. But, Brayden, he sees me. The real me. The one hidden under all the layers. The woman who has been silently screaming inside of me, begging to be let out.

“Take me to your bed,” I demand.

He doesn't need to be told twice. In one fluid motion, he lifts me, his hands cupping my thighs as my legs wrap around his waist. I cling to his shoulders, marveling at how easily he carries me through the darkened guesthouse. His mouth never leaves mine as he navigates the short hallway to the bedroom.

When he lowers me onto the bed, I expect urgency, the same hunger that's been building between us since that first ride on his motorcycle. Instead, he pulls back, standing at the edge ofthe bed looking down at me with an intensity that makes my skin flush.

“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny.

“Just looking at you. Lying in my bed. Wearing my cut.”