Page 51 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

I find him in the garage, shirt off, sweat on his neck and grease on his knuckles.

Unbothered. That’s what infuriates me most. He’s calm.

Working. Acting as though the world isn’t tilting under my feet because I can feel the club shifting.

They’re retaliating. Not loud the way we’ve been with our pranks.

No glitter or ghosts or chaos. This is quiet.

Surgical. The kind of response that tells me they’ve waited until we laughed too hard and let our guard down. And I know he’s behind it.

A wrench clanks through the cavernous silence of the garage, layered with metallic oil tang and the suffocating heat of early evening.

Gasoline clings to my skin as I cross the threshold, every step slow, deliberate.

Behind me, the door creaks shut, final as a drumbeat.

My stomach twists, not with fury, but with something wild, sharp, and giddy.

I should be mad. But I’m not. Not really. I’m enjoying this. Every second of it.

“You’re not even gonna pretend you’re not plotting?” I ask, voice sharp, striding toward him.

He doesn’t look up. Just leans over the bike, forearm flexing with every turn of the wrench.

The muscles in his back shift beneath sweat-slick skin, every movement fluid and strong.

My eyes drag over the sharp lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the trail of ink that disappears beneath his waistband. I try not to look. And fail miserably.

He’s unreal in this state. Focused. Shirtless. Half-wild from the heat and grease. The kind of man your mother warns you about and your body begs you to touch. I’m supposed to be here for intel. That’s the plan.

When he finally speaks, his voice drops low and rough, dragging along my spine carrying the weight of a promise I’m not ready for. “If I was, you think I’d tell you?”

Just like that, the plan shatters.

I stop behind him. “Coward.”

That makes him pause. He turns slowly, eyes catching mine with that cold, dark amusement that makes my thighs press together.

Then his gaze drops. Slow and deliberate.

It sweeps over my legs, bare and flexed beneath the edge of my cutoffs, up to the curve of my hips and the snug fit of my tank.

His eyes move with the intimacy of a touch, making heat trail up my skin, and lingering just long enough to make me feel it in my chest.

When he looks back up, it isn’t amusement I see. It’s hunger. Quiet and sure, the kind that knows it can wait me out.

A flash of need runs through me, unwanted but unstoppable. His gaze has the weight of a caress. I hate how much I want it.

“You come all the way out here in your little shorts and attitude just to call me names?” he asks.

I ignore the heat in my belly. “I came to say I know what you’re doing.”

He drops the wrench. It clangs. Suddenly he’s right in front of me. Not touching. Just there.

Big, broad, bare-chested, and smelling of oil, heat, and sweat.

His gaze drops down my body again, slow, lingering, as though he can’t help himself.

As though looking at me is a need. It isn’t just hunger now.

It’s possession. When he looks back up, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, I feel it in my spine, a spark catching flame.

I fight the urge to step back. My pulse flutters, wings trapped beneath my ribs. I hate that he can make me feel this exposed. This charged.

“You don’t know a damn thing about what I’m doing,” he says in a low voice.

I swallow hard. “Then tell me.”

He smirks. “No.”

He grabs my wrist gently, then guides my hand down his stomach. My palm meets heat, muscle, skin. Then lower until I feel the hard line of him straining beneath his jeans.

A gasp catches in my throat, jagged as broken glass.

“This is what I’m doing,” he murmurs. “You came here for answers. But what you really want is to forget.”

I don’t answer. Can’t. My skin burns. My head spins. Then he takes my mouth with a hunger that claims every part of me.

His tongue slides past my lips, and I gasp. He swallows the sound, one hand fisting in my hair, the other already sliding up under my tank top. Fingers skim my bare stomach up to cup my breast, his thumb brushing the hard peak until I arch into him.

“No bra?” he murmurs, voice rough against my mouth. “You came out here like that, just waiting to be touched?”

His palm molds to me, thumb circling with slow, dirty pressure that makes my breath stutter. He isn’t in a rush. He’s savoring. Teasing. Making sure I feel every brush of skin, every flick of his thumb, a promise written in heat.

My knees weaken, muscles pulling taut with a hunger I don’t want to name.

“You’re not gonna distract me—”

“You’re already distracted,” he rasps, his voice dark silk against the shell of my ear. “And wet.”

I am. Just from his voice. Just from the way he’s looking at me, every glance an unspoken vow to ruin me slow.

His hands grip my waist, firm, steady, and before I can blink, he lifts me easily, sets me down on the workbench behind him, cool metal kissing the backs of my thighs.

I gasp at the shift, hands flying to his shoulders for balance. His eyes never leave mine. They burn.

“Malachi—”

“Shhh,” he whispers, mouth brushing the underside of my jaw. “You want it slow and filthy, baby? You want to feel every second of it?”

His hands slide up my thighs, dragging the hem of my tank top with them. Fingertips scrape bare skin, up, up, until his palms flatten over my ribs, right beneath my breasts. He doesn’t touch higher. Not yet.

“You’re gonna be soaked for me,” he says, voice low and dark. “Begging. And I’m not gonna give it to you ‘til I feel you tremble.”

He doesn’t rush. He peels me open with the reverence of someone unwrapping a gift already claimed.

One hand grips the hem of my tank top and lifts it over my head in one fluid motion.

His eyes lock on my chest, bare and exposed, and he stills for a second, just watching.

Soaking me in with the hunger of a man starving. No bra. Nothing between us.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. “You knew what you were doing coming out here in this.”

His knuckles brush over my stomach, dragging heat in their wake, then up to cup my breast. His thumb rolls over my nipple slowly, deliberately, with the kind of focus that says he has all the time in the world to ruin me.

He stares at my bare chest, imprinting every inch of it in his mind. No one has ever looked at me this way before.

“Fucking perfect,” he rasps. “Look at these tits. They were made for my mouth.”

Then his mouth is on me. Hot lips close over my nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing. I cry out, arching into him, threading my fingers into his hair as he sucks harder, then moves to the other with a groan so low and guttural it vibrates against my skin.

“Malachi,” I whisper again, already shaking.

He pulls back, breath hot across my chest. “Take these off.”

He nods at my shorts. I don’t argue. I wriggle them down, panties with them, wet, clingy, embarrassingly ruined. He helps, dragging them down my legs slowly, like he’s savoring the process. His touch is reverent, almost gentle, until he gets them off.

Then everything changes. He grabs my thighs and shoves them apart, stepping between them, gaze locked on the slick heat between my legs.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s mine.”

His thumb swipes through my folds, teasing, lazy. He doesn’t even touch my clit. Just circles, spreads, watches me squirm.

“Dripping for me already,” he murmurs. “This sweet pussy’s aching for me, isn’t it? But you don’t get me yet, hellcat.”

I whimper, rocking against his hand, desperate.

“You want it?” he asks, dark and calm. “I want to hear it.”

“Malachi—”

“Beg.”

I hesitate, biting my lip, every nerve raw with need. “Please,” I whisper. “Please, I need you.”

He growls low in his throat, a sound torn from something primal and hungry.

“Good girl,” he says, dropping to his knees. “Now hold still. Let me taste what’s mine.”

The garage is quiet, the clubhouse still closed for now; hours before it opens to anyone else. Just us. He’s taking advantage of it. Of the silence. Of the stolen privacy. And I let him.

His tongue sweeps up the length of my slit, slow and indulgent, like he’s tasting something rare and expensive. When he reaches my clit, he doesn’t just flick. It’s pressure. Suction. Tongue flattened, moving in steady circles that make me cry out, hips jerking against his mouth.

“Fuck—” I gasp, clutching the edge of the bench with one hand, the back of his head with the other. “Oh my God!”

He groans into me; the sound vibrating against my clit. His fingers grip my thighs, holding me wide, holding me still. I try to move. Try to close my legs. He growls.

“No,” he says into me, voice low, lips brushing my core. “You take this.”

Then he slides two fingers inside me. Deep, curling immediately, dragging along every sensitive inch as he sucks harder.

I shatter. Loud, shaking, back arching clean off the bench as I scream his name, body locking down around his hand, his mouth, his control.

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going. Licking, thrusting, teasing until I’m begging. Until my thighs are trembling and my voice is hoarse, my whole body a live wire of oversensitivity and craving.

“Please,” I whisper, wrecked.

He rises slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, confident and unhurried, fully aware of what he’s done. Then he unzips his jeans. The sound alone makes my breath hitch.

“Eyes on me,” he says softly. “You started this, hellcat. Now I’m gonna finish it.”

He’s slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off me.

I watch his hand disappear beneath the waistband.

Then he pulls himself free, thick, hard, beautiful, and already dripping at the tip.

My mouth waters, my thighs instinctively pressing tighter around him as he grips himself at the base and drags the head through my slick folds, slow and taunting.

“Fuck,” he growls, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “You’re soaked for me. You ache for me.”

I whimper when he slides just the tip inside, barely breaching me, just enough to make my body clench around nothing.

He doesn’t move. Just stays there, the head of his cock rocking in slow, shallow thrusts that make me shake, that keep me aching, keep me desperate. Every nerve screams for more. My hands clutch his biceps. My thighs quiver.

“You feel that, hellcat?” he rasps, voice all grit and gravel. “Just the tip and you’re already about to fall apart. So fucking tight. So wet. This sweet pussy’s begging for it.”

“Malachi—”

His lips brush mine, breath hot. “Tell me how bad you want my cock. Say it.”

“I...fuck...I want it. I want you so bad it hurts.”

His mouth curves dark and dangerous. “That’s more like it.”

Then he buries himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

I cry out, head falling back, hands flying to the edge of the bench to brace myself. My entire body arches, so full, so deep, so sudden it knocks the breath right out of me.

“Fuck, Malachi—”

His hands grip my thighs hard, angling my hips just the way he wants, and he pulls out almost all the way before slamming back in, dragging another broken sound from my throat.

“Look at me,” he says.

I try, eyes fluttering open, chest heaving.

He grabs my chin, not rough—just commanding—and forces me to hold his gaze. His other hand slides up, wraps around the front of my throat with just enough pressure to make my heart race.

Not choking. Just claiming.

“Do you feel that?” he asks, voice low and brutal. “That stretch? That sting? It’s mine. It’s what you’ve been needing.”

He drives into me again, slow and deep, making sure I feel every inch.

I’m gasping now, head spinning, heat pooling low and tight in my belly. He’s relentless, hips slamming into me with power and precision, his fingers pressing into my skin with the intent to brand me from the inside out.

“Built to take me,” he groans, biting down on my shoulder, dragging his teeth across my skin. “This sweet little pussy was made for me.”

I moan, loud and ragged, gripping his shoulders, nails digging into skin and muscle. I am his.

But he slows then. Changes. Draws it out. Pulls out until just the head stretches me, then pushes back in, slow and deep, again and again until I’m crying, shaking, clinging to him.

“You’re not coming yet,” he whispers. “Not until I say. Not until I see you break.”

He moves with a purpose: to wreck me. Not just my body, my breath, my brain, my heart. Every thrust is a promise, every circle of his thumb on my clit a threat. When I come again, harder than the first, it shatters something inside me.

He doesn’t stop. Lets me ride it out, then pushes me further. His hand slides under my thigh, lifts it, then hits a new angle that has me gasping, sobbing, begging.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “One more. You can give me one more. Let me take care of you.”

No one has ever said that to me. Not in this moment.

Not while I’m unraveling, raw and wrecked, but still needing more.

It hits somewhere deep, somewhere lonely.

I break on the third one, back arching, throat raw from screaming.

My body clenches down around him so hard he curses, buries deep, and finally gives in.

“Fuck, Candace—” he groans, face buried in my neck, hips jerking as he comes, pulsing inside me. “So good. So fucking good. Made for me.”

He doesn’t let go. He holds me, kisses my shoulder, strokes my sides until I stop shaking.

“I love taking care of you,” he murmurs against my skin. “You don’t even know what that does to me.”

And the worst part?

I believe him.

We stay right there. Breathing. Sweating. Burned alive and completely undone.

Eventually, he leans back, hand dragging from my throat to my jaw, thumb swiping over my swollen lips.

“Still think I’m hiding?” he murmurs.

I should say yes. But I don’t.

I pull him back in, kiss him hard, desperate, wanting more, because the truth is, I don’t want clarity.

I want him. Again. And again. And again.