Page 39 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

Last night wasn’t something I ever saw coming.

Not with him. Not with Malachi. But… I didn’t regret a single second.

The memory stays with me, close and unshakable, woven into my skin.

Warm, aching, saturated with the ghost of his touch.

My thighs still pulse with the phantom weight of him between them.

My lips still tingle where he kissed me, the way someone touches something sacred they never thought they'd deserve. When I wake, the other side of the bed is empty, but it’s still warm. He hasn’t been gone long.

I stretch slowly, every muscle aching in that satisfying way that lingers after being wanted.

My hand grazes the dent his body left in the sheets, the cotton still warm from his weight.

His scent lingers—leather, heat, and something smokier beneath it.

That cologne he wears that always leaves a mark.

I pull the blanket closer, burying my face in it for a breath longer than I need to.

Something in my chest loosens. Something else tightens.

I shower quickly, the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he said my name burning beneath the hot stream.

The water scalds where his beard scraped me raw.

I close my eyes and let it sting, letting the pressure pound into the curve of my spine where he’d held me down, reverent and wild.

A lyric floats through my mind— burn me soft, love me brutal —but I don’t say it out loud.

I never do. Words that raw live inside me, hidden in notebook margins and unfinished songs I’ll never sing aloud.

The sting of vulnerability still lingers, but it doesn’t ache the way it used to. Not when it’s him. Not after the way he looked at me, seeing something breakable and brutal in the same breath.

Dressed in leggings and an oversized tee, I pad downstairs, rubbing the last of sleep from my eyes. The hardwood is cool under my bare feet, the quiet hum of the house unnerving in its stillness. I swear I can still feel him in the air. As if the walls themselves remember how he touched me.

I don’t make it far.

“I want to find him for Victor,” Malachi’s voice rumbles, low and rough, worn from this being buried too long. “But I need to find him for me too. And if we don’t find Chuck soon, I’m going to be pissed. She deserves closure.”

I freeze at the bottom step. My breath catches. My name. He didn’t say it, but I hear it in the space between the words. It lands heavy; unexpected and dangerous. I press my hand to the banister, grounding myself.

“I have a lead on Chuck. And Donovan’s back in town,” someone replies. It’s not Nash. Not Knox or James either. The voice is unfamiliar. It’s clipped, calculating.

A prickle crawls down my spine. Something in that tone makes my pulse quicken.

For a moment, I hover in the shadows until guilt prickles.

I straighten and step into view, drawn by something deeper than curiosity.

The hallway hums with the low buzz of the bar’s fridge and the distant creak of settling wood, but it’s the voices—low, tense, alive with purpose—that call me forward.

The meeting room is near the main lounge, tucked off the hallway behind the bar.

The door is open. Malachi stands at the head of the table, flanked by two men I’ve never seen before.

One of them is all swagger and charm, his dark hair tousled from trouble he probably enjoyed.

There’s something wild in his grin, something reckless.

The other… doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled.

His eyes are dark and sharp, carved straight from stone.

Even though he hasn’t moved, I feel seen. Known. Picked apart.

His head tilts slightly before I even clear the doorway, a slow shift that answers something in the air. He knew I was coming. The hair on my arms lifts. There’s something off about him. Not bad. Not exactly human either. I can’t name it. But my gut whispers that I should remember his face.

Then Malachi’s eyes meet mine. Just like that, the air rushes back into my lungs.

His smile is subtle but real, and that knot of fear I didn’t even realize I was carrying begins to unravel.

He holds out a hand. I don’t hesitate. Crossing the room, I slide into the space beside him.

His arm curves around my waist, fitted there by instinct, his body a steady wall of heat against my side.

I lean into it before I can stop myself, and the safety in that touch lands harder than it should.

“This is Candace,” he says, his voice a little softer now. “Candace, this is Leo and Arden.” Leo is the mischievous one, the one whose gaze lingers with curiosity. Arden is… not. He’s quiet, unreadable. Maybe a little terrifying. A shadow taught to walk upright.

I’ve heard about them before, Leo and Arden, but meeting them is different.

They carry power in their bones. The room bends to accommodate them.

Something about the way Arden watches me makes my skin itch with memory I can’t place.

I shift closer to Malachi without thinking, my body seeking shelter from whatever Arden is.

“Chuck is her dad,” Malachi adds, and I tense despite myself. Leo doesn’t push. Arden doesn’t blink. Neither of them asks questions. Somehow that’s worse and better. There’s no judgment in their silence. Just the heavy weight of understanding.

“We’ll find him,” Arden says simply. Something in the way he says it makes me believe him. His voice lands hard; it’s a promise wrapped in steel.

“We’ll let you know when we have more,” Leo adds with a nod, and the two of them leave without a sound.

The silence they leave behind is thick, humming with unspoken things. Questions. Fears. Needs I don’t want to name. Now it’s just me and Malachi. And the memory of last night crackling in the space between us.

I turn toward him, pulse starting to climb again for entirely different reasons.

It should be awkward. I should be pulling away, pretending none of it mattered.

But the way he’s looking at me? The heat in his eyes?

It makes it very hard to lie to myself. My hand brushes my thigh, where his fingers had gripped me hours ago. The memory still sings beneath my skin.

“You have to work today?” he asks, voice deceptively casual.

A pit opens in my stomach. “I’m supposed to.”

His brow lifts in that way that says he already knows the answer. “You don’t want to go.”

“No.” I sigh. “There’s a new manager and I hate him.”

His gaze darkens. “Why?”

“He micromanages like it’s a power trip. And he keeps pretending I was never promoted. Ruby wants to key his car.”

Malachi doesn’t smile, but his jaw ticks in a way that says he’s filed the guy under a problem to be handled.

“You know the offer to work here’s still open. Ruby too.”

I shift, leaning back against the table, the edge biting into my spine. My hand curls against the wood, fingers tapping out a slow, steady rhythm. A beat I barely notice anymore. My secret language. My shield.

“I could help with cleaning during the day. Or shop admin stuff.”

His smile finally returns, slow and genuine.

“Yeah, if you want. But you don’t have to clean.”

I arch a brow. “Yeah, I do. This place smells like sweat and testosterone. It needs regular maintenance.”

He steps in, crowding into my space with certainty that says he belongs there. One hand finds my hip, the other braces against the table beside me. My hands go to his chest on instinct, the heat of him radiating through the thin fabric. His mouth brushes my jaw, beard scratching in the best way.

“Are you saying we’re dirty?”

I smile despite myself. “I’m saying this place needs a woman’s touch. Sloane tries, but she’s juggling the hospital.”

His eyes gleam. “This place definitely needs a woman’s touch.” His lips trail to my neck. “I also need a woman’s touch.”

I laugh, shaky and breathless. “I’m sure there are plenty of women willing to volunteer.”

His growl vibrates against my skin a second before he grabs my hips and lifts me effortlessly onto the table. My breath hitches.

“You’re the only woman I want touching me.”

He says it with the kind of certainty that dares anyone to argue.

You’re the only woman I want touching me.

Something inside me fractures because I believe him. I want to believe him. Because last night wasn’t enough, not even close, and I’m still aching from it in ways that have nothing to do with muscle memory and everything to do with him.

I should be running. I always run. But I don’t.

His hands grip my thighs with possession, claiming space, staking ground, and I swear the air between us thickens with every breath. My body’s already responding. Tightening, pulsing, melting under the weight of his stare.

A lyric rises in my chest— say it slow, wreck me honest —but I bury it deep, same way I always do.

“I want to take care of you,” he says again, quieter this time, carrying the weight of a vow he fully intends to keep. “Let me, sweetheart.”

I don’t speak. I just nod. That’s all he needs. He moves with the precision of a man who knows exactly what he wants. And it’s me.

He drags me forward by the hips until I’m on the edge, legs spread around his waist, nothing between us but the thrum of want and the clothes he’s about to tear off me.

“Fuck,” he mutters, lifting my shirt slowly, reverently. “Always hiding under these damn shirts like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

His fingers skim the skin just beneath the hem, knuckles brushing over my ribs in a motion that feels closer to prayer than hunger.

He peels it over my head and tosses it somewhere I don’t care to track, eyes raking down my body with the kind of veneration that says he’s ready to drop to his knees in worship.

Then he does. Literally.

One knee hits the floor, and he drags my leggings down in one rough pull.

I’m bare beneath, no panties, and the groan that rips from him goes straight to my core.

The noise is guttural, half-growl, half-confession.

It lands somewhere between my hips and my ribs and sets everything inside me unraveling.

“You did this on purpose,” he growls, eyes burning as he presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “No fucking panties. You knew I’d lose my mind.”

My hand fists the table edge. The wood bites into my palm, grounding me, barely. I breathe his name, but it slips out on a gasp. He spreads me with one hand, the other anchoring hard to my hip as he leans in and licks me.

A long, slow drag of his tongue that makes my hips jolt.

“Fuck,” he groans, then he devours me.

There’s no teasing now. No easing into it. His mouth is everywhere—tongue swirling, lips sucking, beard scraping across overstimulated skin in the most perfect, filthy way. The pressure, the precision; it’s devastating.

He feasts with the singular intent to wreck me.

Every breath, every sound, every ounce of control is pulled from my body until I’m nothing but a trembling, soaked mess on his tongue.

I arch against him, thighs shaking, body singing with sensation so sharp it borders on pain.

And I don’t care. I want more. I want all of it.

“Malachi—oh my God—”

My voice breaks as he slides two fingers inside me, pumping deep, curling just right.

My back arches, head falling back, and I swear I see stars behind my eyes.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. I feel myself climbing, tightening, unraveling under his hands, his mouth, the weight of his devotion disguised as filth.

“Look at me,” he demands roughly, pulling his mouth away just long enough to speak.

My eyes flutter open.

“Watch me while I make you come.”

Holy hell, the way he says it—low, commanding, laced with something dark and possessive—sends me right to the edge. His mouth crashes back down on me, fingers still driving into me, and I lose it.

I shatter.

My orgasm rips through me with a violence I’m not ready for. It makes my hips buck, legs shake, and a strangled cry tear from my throat as everything goes hot and tight and too much. I try to hold on. I can’t. He doesn’t let me.

But he doesn’t stop.

He licks me through it, groaning in desperation that says he’s the one falling apart, that tasting me is undoing him too. When I finally collapse back against the table, chest heaving, thighs twitching, he pulls away slowly, almost reluctantly. His face and beard are soaked. His eyes are on fire.

Then he smiles.

Not sweet. Not smug. But dark and fucking dangerous.

“Next time,” he murmurs, rising to stand between my legs again, “I want to hear you beg for my cock while you’re still coming.”

My breath stutters. My pulse pounds behind my ribs. The words hit somewhere deep and molten. I should flinch. I should shove him away and retreat into my armor.

Instead, I ache.

He leans in, brushing his mouth over mine. Soft now, gentle, like the taste of me on his lips is sacred.

“Because this?” His fingers graze my still-throbbing center. “This is mine.”

And God help me… I want to be.

My hands move without thinking, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The tremble in my thighs hasn’t faded. Neither has the fire curling low in my belly. But it’s not just want. It’s not just need.

It’s something rawer. Something terrifying.

He watches me with a gaze that holds both storm and salvation. And when I kiss him back—really kiss him, with no hesitation, no filter—I feel something give. Not just between us. Inside me. A fracture. A surrender.

His body presses into mine, firm and solid, the zipper of his jeans catching against my bare skin. I can feel the outline of him —thick, hard, straining—and it steals the air from my lungs. I’m still wrecked. Still trembling. And I want more. I want him .

“You good?” he asks, voice low but grounded now, steadied in a way that feels pulled back from the edge just for me.

I nod, barely trusting myself to speak. “Yeah.” A breath. A heartbeat. Then, quieter. “I needed that.”

His forehead presses against mine. “You can have more. Whenever you want.”

I nod again, but something else flickers behind my eyes. A line of lyrics rises, sharp and sudden. D on’t fall in love with the ones who stay after the fire . I bite my tongue before it spills out. Not yet. He’s not ready for that part of me. Maybe I’m not either.

So I just hold him close and let the weight of his body ground me, let the silence stretch warmly between us, a promise neither of us knows how to name yet.