Page 81 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

The road stretches out ahead of us, a promise, and this time, I don’t flinch from it.

The wind whips through my hair, catching the loose strands that slipped from under my helmet.

It smells like summer, sun-warmed asphalt, wild honeysuckle from the fields we pass, and the smoke that clings to his cut.

My arms wrap tightly around Malachi’s waist, my chest presses against his back, and I feel every shift of his body beneath mine.

Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every subtle tightening of muscle as we carve down the two-lane highway with a kind of purpose that feels inevitable.

His body moves with the precision of a weapon forged for the road, and mine fits into it with the certainty of something always meant to follow.

The engine hums beneath us, steady, alive, and somewhere deep in my bones, I find the rhythm.

A silent beat taps out under my thumb where it rests along his ribs. Familiar. Comforting.

He’s got one hand on the throttle, the other dropping back to slide over my thigh in a quiet act of presence. Or maybe reminding me. Either way, I lean into the contact, into the sensation of belonging. Because I do.

We’re not riding alone either. The roar of engines behind us is a thunderous, chaotic harmony; the Outsiders ride in formation.

Knox and Sloane up front on one side, Nash silent and sharp-eyed on the other.

East’s grin is unmistakable even from a distance, his joy obvious in the way his shoulders shake.

Darla is pressed up behind him with her hands tucked under his cut in a gesture that claims him.

Frankie rides solo, all midnight hair and dark focus, a leather rose stitched onto her saddlebag.

Ruby waves both arms dramatically every time she spots a car, shouting lyrics none of us can hear but somehow still know.

She catches the beat without trying. I watch her for a moment and realize I’m mouthing the words too. Humming under my breath, just loud enough for the wind to steal. It’s instinct. My soul remembers the sound of joy.

We’re a damn mess. A found family of scars, secrets, and second chances. For the first time in my life, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I tighten my arms around Malachi as he veers us toward the hills.

The sun is sinking low behind the trees, throwing molten gold across his shoulders, catching on the edges of his cut in bursts of flame.

He was a storm the first time I saw him, a thundercloud on two wheels.

I hated that storm. Hated how it made me feel, how it cracked something open in me I’d spent years welding shut.

Now? That same storm feels like home.

We break off from the pack just past the ridge.

Malachi leads us down a winding back road I’ve never seen before.

The others keep riding, their engines fading into the distance in a rhythm that steadies.

We glide into a clearing nestled between trees, where wildflowers bloom in defiance and the wind carries the smell of earth, smoke, and summer.

Malachi cuts the engine. The silence rushes in, but it isn’t empty. It’s thick with awareness.

I swing off the bike and unclip my helmet.

He’s already watching me, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.

His hair’s tousled from the ride, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek that makes him look sculpted from the road itself.

I step toward him, heart suddenly pounding.

Not from fear. From knowing. From wanting.

“You did good back there,” he says, voice low, rasping the way gravel sounds beneath boots. “You always do.”

I roll my eyes, but my smile is soft. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised,” he murmurs, stepping into me. “Just lucky.”

His hand lifts to cup the back of my neck, the warmth of his palm sending a shiver down my spine. I can still feel the ghost of the ride in my legs, in the thrum of my bones, in the way the world hasn’t quite stopped swaying. He smells of smoke. Sweat and leather. Something permanent. Mine.

“You remember the first time you saw me ride?” he asks, leaning in, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “You looked at me like I was the worst mistake you were ever gonna make.”

I laugh, breath hitching. “You looked at me like I was the best decision.”

His lips find my jaw. “You were.”

My fingers slide under his cut, tugging it free. It drops to the grass with a soft thud. My shirt follows. Then his. The air is warm, but every inch of skin we reveal feels electric. A revelation.

His gaze drags down, lingering on my thighs, on the frayed denim barely clinging to my hips.

“These damn shorts,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “You have any idea what they do to me?”

I raise an eyebrow, breath catching as he steps in closer. “Oh, I know.” I smirk. “That’s why I wore them.”

Malachi lets out a low, rough sound, something between a curse and a prayer.

Then grabs my waist and lifts me effortlessly, setting me down on the seat of the bike.

His hands skim up my bare legs, thumbs grazing the inside of my thighs as his body cages mine, every inch of him thrumming with restraint and heat.

His forehead rests against mine, his breath fanning across my lips with the weight of a confession.

“You drive me wild, Sour Patch.”

My hands fist in his belt loops, tugging him closer. “Then lose control.”

His mouth crashes into mine, all teeth and heat and history. Every kiss, every fight, every moment of defiance folds into this one. His tongue sweeps into my mouth with the authority of someone who’s always belonged there, and maybe he does. Maybe he always has.

I gasp as he pulls me forward, grinding me against the hard ridge of him through his jeans.

The friction is filthy. Perfect. We’re already half-undressed—him shirtless, my bra and shorts the only thing left.

The night air licks across bare skin as I shift on the bike seat, tension winding tight in my chest. My fingers twitch at the waistband of my shorts, the anticipation sharp and delicious, but he’s already looking at me with that expression torn between worship and ruin.

He steps back for half a second, just enough to look at me.

“Jesus Christ, Candace.” His voice is hoarse. Worshipful. A sound that treats me like a miracle he never believed he’d get to keep. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

I do. I know exactly how long. Because I’ve wanted it just as long.

He leans in and mouths along my throat, down the line of my collarbone. His hand reaches around, unclasps my bra, and it slides down my arms with the softness of a sigh. He watches as it drops. Watches me with focus that tries to memorize everything.

“Say you’re mine,” he rasps.

“I’ve always been yours.”

That’s all it takes.

He drops to his knees on the grass and pulls me to the end of the bike seat, spreading my legs wide as his hands run up my thighs.

The denim digs into my hips as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs, slow, deliberate, until the shorts are gone, left dangling from one of the handlebars.

He kisses the inside of my knee. Then higher. Higher.

When his mouth finds me, everything inside me snaps.

A raw, unfiltered jolt of pleasure rushes through me, stealing my breath and every coherent thought I had left.

His tongue moves with ruthless precision, a growl vibrating against me as I cry out.

The sound is swallowed by the trees and the hush of the night.

I fist his hair, anchoring myself to him, my thighs trembling around his shoulders.

My back arches off the seat, spine bowed, every stroke of his mouth coaxing out another moan, another broken plea.

I’m unraveling under him, undone and consumed, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow.

He devours me with the hunger of a man starved.

Determined to taste every moment I ever spent denying myself this.

He groans against me, tongue still working me open as he rasps, “You taste like sin, baby. Something I’ll never get enough of.” He kisses the inside of my thigh, then growls lower, rougher, “This is where you belong. Over my mouth. At my mercy. Falling apart just for me.”

The filth of it, the hunger, the worship in his voice, it sets fire to every nerve in my body. I moan louder, my body begging for more. For all of it. I feel myself tipping, unraveling at the edge he’s so carefully pushed me toward.

When the orgasm hits, it’s blinding. A full-body quake that shatters me into pieces I don’t want to put back together.

When he finally rises, mouth glistening, eyes dark and feral, I’m already reaching for his belt like I’ve forgotten how to breathe without him.

“I want you inside me,” I breathe. “Here. Like this. I don’t care who sees.”

“No one’s seeing you this way but me,” he grits out, yanking down his jeans and pulling me flush against him. “You understand me, Sour Patch? No one.”

He lines himself up and sinks in all at once, and I cry out. Loud. Needy. Completely undone.

My back arches, fingers digging into his shoulders as he starts to move, slow and deep.

The bike rocks slightly with every thrust, making the metal frame creak beneath us.

The leather burns beneath my thighs. His hands grip my hips with a desperation that tethers him to the earth.

And I feel it; this is how he stays human.

His mouth finds mine again, sloppy, breathless, then my neck, then my chest, worshipping every inch of skin he can reach.

“You’re not running anymore,” he growls against my skin. “You’re not hiding. You’re mine.”

“I don’t want to run,” I gasp. “Not from you.”

He grits out something that sounds like my name and presses his forehead against mine. That’s when it changes, when it shifts from hungry to devastating.

Malachi slows, every movement drawn out in a way that feels intentional, as though he’s memorizing the moment, savoring it.

He lingers in every touch, every kiss, every breath we share.

He makes love to me with the desperation of someone terrified it could be the last time, even while he holds me with the certainty of someone who knows it won’t be.

I feel everything. Every thrust, every heartbeat, and every soft groan he tries to bury in my skin. I fall apart again, this time with my name on his lips and his arms locked around me, holding me as if I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.

When we both shatter, him with a quiet, wrecked growl against my mouth, we fall forward together, foreheads pressed, hearts racing.

The night settles around us while the engine cools. The air is thick with sweat and the scent of leather, pine, sex, and something heavier. Love.

He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and kisses the space just beneath my eye. It’s the kind of kiss that holds more weight than any words could carry.

“You’re it for me, Candace,” he whispers, voice low and wrecked. Like saying it out loud costs him something. Because it matters that much.

My breath hitches, chest too full to speak at first. Then I meet his eyes, those storm-dark eyes that have haunted and held me, and I let it all fall away. Every wall, every scar, and every fight I tried to win against him.

“I know,” I whisper back, brushing my fingers along his jaw. “And you’re it for me too, Malachi. You always have been.”

His arms tighten around me in a way that says he’s never letting go.

This time, I believe him. Afterwards, we lay there in the grass, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek, my fingers drawing lazy circles over his ribs.

The sun is gone. The stars are coming out. This time, when the night settles in around us, it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels eternal.