Page 10 of Her Possessive Biker (Savage Kings MC #2)

Cassie

N obody said a word the whole ride home. Not me, not him, not the roar of the engine beneath us. Just silence, heavy and wrapped in the kind of tension that gets into your blood and stays there.

I kept my face pressed to his back, hands gripping his cut like if I let go, I’d disappear. I could still feel the duct tape burning my wrists. Still hear Snake’s laugh, Patch-Eye’s voice in my ear. But mostly, I heard him.

I’ve got you.

That’s what he said when he found me. That’s what I keep replaying, over and over.

The cabin is quiet now, lit only by a single lamp in the corner. I showered as soon as we got in. Hot water, sharp soap, standing there until my skin felt scrubbed raw and real. Now I’m wrapped in one of Holt’s thick black towels, sitting on the edge of his bed, toes brushing the rug.

He hasn’t said much since we walked through the door. He’s giving me space. Probably thinks I need it.

He’s not wrong. I just don’t want it from him.

I watch him across the room. He’s got one hand braced on the countertop, his shoulders bowed like he’s holding up the roof. The muscle in his jaw ticks once. Twice.

“I’m okay,” I say softly.

His head lifts. Those gray eyes find mine, and I feel the air change between us.

“You shouldn’t have had to be,” he says.

He walks over slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll flinch. I don’t. I meet him halfway, rising to my feet even though I’m still damp, still chilled.

His palm cups my cheek. Rough. Warm. Steady.

“I’m not going to let them near you again,” he says, low and fierce. “I swear on everything I’ve got, Angel.”

And it breaks me.

Not in the bad way. Not in the falling-apart, shatter-into-dust way.

In the way where something inside me opens like a door that’s been locked too long.

“I love you,” I say.

It comes out small. Honest. My voice cracks around it like it’s been hiding behind everything I’ve held back.

His breath leaves him in one sharp exhale.

Then he says, without blinking, “I love you.”

My chest tightens. Not with fear. With the kind of relief that tastes like sunlight after a storm.

“You... you do?” I whisper.

“I’ve loved you since... hell, since Caleb handed me your picture,” he says. His voice is rough, like gravel under boots. “Didn’t stand a chance after that.”

Emotion crashes through me like a wave. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still in my system. Or maybe it's the fear that I almost lost this chance, that I almost lost him. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hold back. Not tonight. Not after everything.

I want to feel him. I want to belong to something stronger than fear.

“Then take me, Holt. Please. I want to feel you inside me. I need you.”

His jaw flexes. He steps closer, eyes locked on mine.

“I can’t be gentle this time, Angel.”

“I don’t need gentle,” I whisper. “I want you. No restraints.”

His voice drops to a growl. “Then get on all fours.”

My breath catches.

The way he says it—low, gravel-rough, like he’s already picturing me obeying—sends a shiver through every inch of me.

He waits. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t rush. Just stands there, storm-heavy and fierce, like he’s holding himself back with iron will.

Still, the power thrums from him. Possessive. Unapologetic.

I turn.

My towel slips from my body.

I climb onto the bed, skin flushed, heart pounding louder than the silence. Every breath threatens to betray me. That I’m terrified. That I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

But I don’t hesitate. Because I trust him.

His breath shifts. Then footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Each one giving me time to back out.

I don’t.

Behind me, I hear the soft rustle of clothes hitting the floor. The low scrape of a zipper. The soft thud of boots being kicked aside. My breath catches as I realize he’s baring himself for me.

The mattress dips. A large, warm hand glides up my back. Slow. Reverent.

Rough palm. Calloused fingers. Biker hands. Fighter hands.

But they touch me like I’m sacred.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasps.

I arch into his touch, hips tilting back without thinking. My whole body hums, drawn to his gravity like it’s always been written into my bones.

This is how I’ve always wanted him. No walls. No filters.

Just Holt. Reaper. Unbound.

My skin flushes hotter. The air shifts. It’s charged, electric.

His hand coasts down the curve of my ass, over the back of my thigh.

His lips brush my shoulder. Slow. Soft. Heat.

I press my forehead to the bed, fists tightening around the sheets. My legs are already shaking. And he hasn’t even touched me properly yet.

“Holt, please,” I whisper.

He growls low. “You know how many nights I dreamed about this? You, begging for my cock?”

“Holt.”

“Been hard for weeks.” His palm slides up my neck, firm and grounding. “Every night since I met you.”

“Holt.”

“Sitting up in my room. Stroking myself.”

“Reaper.”

His thumb traces the crease of my thigh, light and maddening.

“Thinking about your pretty mouth. How good it would look wrapped around me.”

“Please, Holt. Please. I need you.”

“I know.”

His fingers find me. Slide inside.

A sharp cry slips from my throat.

His groan is low, guttural.

“Christ, you’re wet.”

A whimper escapes me as he goes deeper. My back arches. I’ve never felt like this, like I can’t get enough, like I’d shatter if he stopped.

“So tight,” he mutters.

“Please,” I gasp. “Please, Holt.”

His breath warms the curve of my shoulder.

And his voice darkens.

“You want my cock, Angel? Right here?” He strokes deep. “Want me to stretch you out, make you cry, fill you until you’re dripping with it?”

I can’t answer. I can only nod.

His laugh is low, wicked.

His grip firms at my throat.

“I’m going to fuck you, Angel. And I’m not going to be gentle. Told you already.”

The moment he says it again, I know it’s a promise.

He shifts behind me, one arm anchoring me back against his chest. His lips graze my ear.

“Open your mouth.”

I do.

He presses a single finger to my lips.

“Suck.”

I take him deep. He groans, voice thick with restraint.

“Yeah, just like that. Get it nice and wet.”

My body shakes, trembling with need. I suck hard, slow, imagining it’s his cock instead.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

His teeth graze my shoulder. His finger slides out of my mouth, and that same hand slips down, parting me.

“Such a sweet little pussy,” he murmurs. “Worked up just for me?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“This all for me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to ruin you.”

“Good.”

His fingers tighten on my neck. His teeth scrape again.

Then his hips shift, and I feel the heavy heat of him against me.

Dragging. Teasing. Tormenting.

My eyes roll back as his shaft slides through my folds, slick with everything I’ve built for him.

“Jesus, Angel,” he growls. “You’re soaked. You’re dripping for it.”

“Yes,” I gasp.

His hands grip my hips. He shifts back. And then he pushes inside.

One inch. Then more. Stretching. Filling.

Dear God.

My moan breaks free. I’ve never been so full. Never been so claimed.

He groans behind me, voice rough.

“Fucking hell, Angel.”

“More,” I whisper. “Please.”

“You sure you’re ready for this?”

“Yes. I want it.”

“I’m not stopping.”

“Then don’t.”

He moves. Thrusts.

One long, hard stroke that leaves me gasping.

Then another. And another.

His rhythm is punishing. Possessive.

And perfect.

I can’t move. Can’t speak. I can only feel him driving into me, claiming me with every snap of his hips.

“This tight little pussy,” he grits. “Mine.”

His palm strikes my ass.

Once.

Twice.

It only makes me cry out more. I don’t even care. I want it. Want him.

His hands are everywhere. Gripping, guiding, marking.

His words are filth and fire.

And I take it all.

Every inch. Every thrust. Every possessive groan at my ear.

He pushes me past the edge. Once, twice, until I break around him.

And when he follows, it’s with a roar that shakes something loose in my soul.

We collapse together, tangled and spent.

And still, he holds me like he’s afraid I might vanish.

Like I’m his whole world.