Page 61 of Thunder's Reckoning

That made her blink, like my words had landed somewhere she wasn’t ready to touch. Then she stepped in close, so close I could feel the warmth comin’ off her skin, could breathe in that soft scent of hers, clean and rain-kissed with just a hint of somethin’ sweet underneath. It hit me deep and fast, twistin’ through my gut and straight to my cock.

“I don’t know how to trust this,” she admitted. “You. This place. Myself.”

“Then don’t,” I said, reachin’ for the truth I figured she needed more than a promise. “Not yet. Ain’t askin’ you to, shit takes time.”

She looked up at me then, and her hand lifted, slow and uncertain, fingers pressin’ against my chest, right over the heart she didn’t know she already had locked in a damn chokehold.

And I couldn’t hold back anymore.

Didn’t even try.

I reached out, slid my hand ‘round the back of her neck, pulled her in slow, and kissed her.

Not careful.

Not cautious.

Hell, I was past that. This wasn’t patience. Wasn’t kindness. This was hunger, raw, deep, the kind that’d been chewin’ me alive since the first second I saw her standin’ on that roadside, eyes haunted and still too damn beautiful to look away from.

The second my mouth found hers, I knew I wasn’t stoppin’. Her lips opened under mine like she’d been waitin’ just as long, a soft gasp spillin’ out that lit every nerve in me on fire. She tasted sweet, sharp, like sin dressed up holy, and I was done for.

Her fingers tangled in my cut, yanking me closer, desperate, needy, like she didn’t even realize how bad she wanted this until it was already happenin’. I groaned into her mouth, low and rough, my hands slidin’ up her sides to grip her waist, thumbs pressing into soft skin through the thin fabric of her shirt. She arched into me without thinkin’, her chest hittin’ mine, and Jesus, the feel of her, warm, alive,givin’ herself over, nearly knocked me out.

I kissed her harder, deeper, every brush of her lips tellin’ me she wasn’t fragile, she wasn’t untouchable—she was fire waitin’ to burn me alive, and I wanted it. My tongue swept into her mouth, claimin’, coaxin’, and when she moaned—quiet, broken,real—I damn near lost the last thread of control I had left.

Her body shifted closer, her thigh brushin’ mine, and I slid a hand down, fingers itchin’ to grab, to lift, to see how far she’d let me go. She didn’t stop me. Didn’t even flinch. She just clung tighter, like she wanted me to take every piece of her she’d never been allowed to give.

And then—that damn whistle cut through the trees, shrill and slow and deliberate.

Chain.

I knew the sound instantly. Probably out there chasin’ ghosts again, he couldn’t let go of the past if you gave him a shovel and pointed to the grave.

We broke apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together, her lips swollen from my kiss, my heart jackhammerin’ like I’d just gone twelve rounds and still wanted more.

“Damn timing,” I muttered, brushin’ my thumb across her bottom lip one last time, slow and possessive. “We’ll finish this later, darlin’. Count on it.”

We turned together and started walkin’ back toward the clubhouse, her shoulder touchin’ mine.

But part of me?

Hell, part of me stayed right there, under that oak, with her kiss still scorched into my mouth like wildfire.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I WALKED BACKinto the clubhouse still breathinglike I hadn’t caught up to myself. My lips burned with the ghost of Zeke’s kiss, but the air inside smothered it.

The place had swelled while I was gone. Music pulsed through the walls, bass heavy enough to rattle the floorboards. Laughter split the air piercing, the crack of a pool cue followed by another roar. Smoke and perfume clung together until it was hard to breathe.

The women moved like they owned the place. Tight skirts, painted lips, their hands on men like it was second nature. One tugged a biker toward the back with a look that said he wouldn’tget the chance to say no. Another straddled a lap and threw her head back, laughing like sin was a reward.

My stomach knotted.

This wasn’t freedom. This was worship. A different altar, but the same sacrifice.

I remembered the women at the compound, their dresses thin, their bare feet pressed to the stone as they circled Gabrial, dancing for the flame and for him. He’d watch me while they moved, waiting for the jealousy to break through. That was proof that I was his, even while others coveted him. That my jealousy was proof of devotion. I had learned to fake the emotion because Gabrial always got what he wanted.

But Zeke…