Page 30 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

I know what I’m doing when I kiss him back. I tell myself it’s just a release. Just getting this fire out of my system before it burns me alive. But it’s not.

Because when Malachi kisses me, it’s not careless. It’s not rushed. It’s personal. As though he’s trying to memorize every fucking breath I take. That’s what scares me.

My breath hitches. His scent—leather, smoke, salt—closes in around me.

The familiar grit of his stubble scratches against my cheek, and the heat of his body seeps through my skin, spreading with the reckless fury of wildfire.

My body betrays me before my mind can stop it.

Nerve endings spark alive. A tremor starts low in my spine and ripples outward.

He picks me up as though I weigh nothing.

My legs wrap around his waist before I can think better of it, my body betraying me in the most humiliating way possible.

I dig my nails into his shoulders and bury my face against his throat, breathing him in with the desperation of someone who’s been drowning. His skin tastes of salt and adrenaline.

He groans, sounding wrecked. “You’re killing me.”

“Good,” I mutter.

“Fuck, Candace,” he mutters against my throat. “You feel sinful.”

I slap his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

“You drive me crazy. Every time you walk in a room, I want to bend you over something. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“I know exactly what I do to you,” I snap, dragging my teeth along his jaw. “You’re not that hard to figure out.”

He grins as though I’ve given him a win and it makes me want to hit him again.

Instead, I dig my nails into his shoulders as he lays me out on the bed. The sheets are cool beneath my back, goosebumps racing across my skin at the sudden contrast to his heat. His hands roam—possessive, reverent—and when he strips me bare, I don’t cover up. I burn.

I let him look. I want him to look.

My chest rises fast. The air between us feels charged, a storm about to break. My skin buzzes with anticipation. Every inch of me is lit up, waiting for the inevitable crash.

When he does, when his gaze drags over me as though he’s memorizing every inch, I feel powerful. Wanted. Worshipped. Until he opens his mouth again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, voice rough with awe. “You feel even better than you look.”

I grit my teeth. “If you don’t stop talking—”

“What?” he smirks, sliding a hand between my thighs. “You’ll hate me more?”

I gasp when his fingers find where I’m already soaked, and he groans again as though I’m the one torturing him. My thighs tremble. Shame and need tangle in my chest, thorned and tight.

“I do hate you,” I hiss, hips bucking. “I still hate you.”

But I grip him tighter. Pull him closer. Grind against his hand as though I’m starved for him. As though if I don’t take this, I’ll break apart.

“Yeah?” he mutters, pressing a kiss to my neck. “Your pussy says different.”

I slap his shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to make him grin against my skin.

“You’re such a dick,” I mutter. My voice is already ragged. Drenched in everything I’m pretending not to feel.

“Good thing you like it.”

Then his touch turns gentle. He kisses his way down, slow and reverent, and my whole body locks up. My breath gets caught between ribs that don’t know how to expand with softness.

That word— reverent —it claws something deep in me. Something dangerous. Something that feels too much like being loved.

“Don’t,” I snap, pushing at his shoulder. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he asks, breath warm against the dip of my stomach.

“Don’t touch me like you care.”

He stills, his hand splayed low on my belly. Heat from his palm radiates into me, grounding and disarming all at once. “What if I do?”

My ribs tighten. A line of an old song flits through my mind, unbidden. Don’t fall. Don’t break. I swallow it down before it escapes my lips. It hurts more than I expect.

I glare at him, heart pounding. “Then I’ll bite you.”

His lips twitch. “You promise?”

I shove him again, but he’s not budging. Not until I sit up, grab his face in both hands, and crush my mouth to his with the intent to hurt him. And I do. I want to hurt him for making me feel safe. For making me feel anything.

Because when I kiss him, I’m not kissing the man who’s been kind to me. I’m kissing the one I blamed. The one I hated. The one who ruined the safety I pretended to have.

He kisses me back, fully aware of all of that and unfazed. His mouth moves against mine in a collision of confession and war.

I reach between us, fumble with his belt, desperate now, desperate to shut off my brain and drown in something. He groans as I palm him through his jeans, hard and heavy, and I smile against his mouth.

“You talk too much,” I say.

“I’m about to make you forget your own name,” he growls.

Cocky bastard.

I shove his pants down, eyes flicking to the way he springs free. My mouth dries. I won’t admit it out loud, but… damn.

Now he has no patience, and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want slow. I don’t want soft. Just when I think he’s going to slide into me, he surprises me. Drops to his knees on the floor between my thighs and pulls me to the front of the bed.

“Malachi—no,” I try to shift away, but his grip on my hips tightens.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

“No.” My voice is sharp. Desperate. “Don’t fucking baby me.”

He lifts his head, frowning. “I’m not.”

“You are.” My voice cracks. “You’re looking at me like I matter. I don’t want that.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. He sees it now; the line I’m not ready to cross. Not yet.

“Fine,” he says, and that single word is a growl.

He stands, climbs back on the bed, and prowls toward me with the slow precision of a lion stalking its prey.

Every movement is calculated. Predatory.

He grabs one of my legs and lifts it so it’s draped across his shoulder.

My eyes widen, but I don’t stop him because as much as I hate to admit it, this is fucking hot.

My pulse races, skin burning. This isn’t survival now. It’s surrender. And surrender feels no different than standing naked in the middle of a battlefield with no armor left.

The second his cock presses against my entrance, I gasp. He grabs my face in one hand, holding my stare as he thrusts in deep.

I cry out, nails digging into his back, but I don’t stop him. I need this. Need the pain wrapped in pleasure. Need him to fuck me hard enough to forget.

“Fuck,” he grits out, bracing a hand beside my head as he runs his lips from my shin to my ankle. “You feel like heaven and hell all at once.”

“Shut up,” I pant. I’ve never had sex like this before. It does feel like heaven and hell all at once, but I won’t admit that to him.

He pulls back slowly, then slams into me again. “Say you hate me.”

I bite my lip, lifting my other leg around him and digging it into his ass, which only makes him grin.

“Say it,” he growls.

“I hate you,” I breathe. “But not your dick.”

He laughs, low and wicked, and suddenly he pulls out. I start to protest, but he flips me before I can speak, slams me face-first into the bed, and lifts my hip. He grabs my hands and pulls them behind my back, then holds them with one hand while his other hand tangles in my hair.

“You like my dick, huh?” he snarls, lining himself up again. “You want it like this?”

He drives into me in one unforgiving stroke and I scream. Not in pain. In need.

“Fuck—yes,” I gasp, pressing back. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He fucks me in a way that means to brand it into my bones. The kind that says I’m his and this is the only way I’ll ever believe it.

The roughness makes it easier. Easier to ignore the tenderness he tried to give me.

He releases my hands as his hand wraps around to my stomach and slips between my legs again, rough fingers rubbing my clit, and I can feel myself unraveling, feel my legs begin to shake.

“Come for me,” he whispers, right by my ear. “Let go, Candace. Come all over me.”

“No—”

“Yeah. You want it. You’re so wet. So fucking tight.” He bites my shoulder, thrusting harder. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

“Fuck you,” I whimper, but it’s too late.

I come—shaking, cursing, pulsing around him—my cheek pressed into the bed and every nerve screaming. He follows with a guttural moan, spilling into me as his grip on my hip tightens, holding me still like I might disappear if he lets go.

We collapse on the bed, breathless. Sweaty. Sore. Shaken. His chest presses against my back, but he’s not too heavy. I actually enjoy the weight of him on me.

Too much. That’s the problem. I’m starting to enjoy this too much.

My legs feel weak. My heart? Even worse. He rolls off me, touches my arm.

I flinch. “Don’t.”

He nods slowly, jaw tight, but backs off and sits up on the bed.

Even though I know I should be satisfied—used him exactly how I planned, kept my walls up—I feel that tug. That ache.

Because for one second in his arms, I forgot to hate him. I forgot everything. I forgot myself.

I don’t know what scares me more. That I let it happen… or that I want to let it happen again.

Instead, I choose to run. I don’t even bother pulling the sheet with me. My body’s still humming, sore in the best and worst ways. But beneath all of it—under the high, the ache, the heat—is panic.

Cold and sharp. Coiled tight beneath my ribs, a warning bell that won’t stop screaming. One more second here and I’ll unravel completely.

The chorus of a song I never finished flickers in my head—Run before it ruins you. I swallow it back down, burying it deep.

I move fast. Too fast. Jeans. Shirt. Boots. I yank them on, armor against what I can’t unfeel, hoping that covering my skin fast enough will erase what just happened. The feel of his mouth on mine. How my body clung to him without hesitation. The way I almost believed the look in his eyes.

Behind me, Malachi shifts on the bed. The mattress creaks softly beneath his weight, and I can feel his eyes on my back, tracking every frantic movement. The heat of him still clings to my skin, soaked in deep.

“Where are you going?” His voice is rough, but wary. He already knows.

“To breathe,” I snap, grabbing my phone. My fingers tremble as I unlock it. My lungs don’t know how to pull in air that doesn’t carry his imprint.

“Candace—”

“Don’t.” I whirl around, eyes flashing. “Don’t do the thing. The post-sex talk thing. Whatever the hell this is.” My throat burns from holding too much in. I have no idea how to stand still without falling apart.

His jaw tightens. He places his palms on the edge of the bed, poised to come closer. He doesn’t. But I feel the tension in his body, a second heartbeat in the room.

“I’m not trying to trap you. I just want to talk.”

“Exactly why I’m leaving,” I bite, thumbing out a quick text to Ruby.

Candace : Need a ride. Now. Can’t take my car. It’s still fucked. Please, Ruby.

His expression darkens. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You’re really going to run?”

“Better than staying and letting you make it worse.”

“You mean real?” he says quietly. “I didn’t make anything worse. You let me touch you. You wanted that.”

“Don’t—” My voice cracks. I shake my head hard. “Don’t twist this. It was just sex.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

I stare at him. At the lines in his face. The fire barely banked in his eyes. He’s not angry. He’s hurt. That’s worse. Because he’s not supposed to feel anything. He’s not supposed to make me feel anything.

But he does.

The phone buzzes in my hand.

Ruby : Outside.

Good. Fucking. Good.

I yank open the door and storm out. But I don’t slam it. Because I’m not angry. Not really. I’m terrified. Of him. This. How good it felt to be seen and wanted and touched in a way that made me feel like I mattered. Of how much I wanted to believe it.

Of how, for the first time, the lyrics stopped. And I just felt .

I get in Ruby’s car and stare straight ahead. Her dashboard smells of strawberry gum and coconut body spray. There’s a half-eaten granola bar in the console, a glittery pen wedged beside the gearshift. It’s chaotic. Warm. Safe.

She doesn’t say a word. Just drives. Her silence is the kindest thing anyone could offer me.

Even though I’m the one who asked for the escape, my throat burns. I left him. Again. And I hate how much of me wants to turn around.