Page 17 of Victorious, Part 2 (The LA Defiance MC #6)

CLOVER

Instead of answering, his fingers clench my hair, the other on my waist, the desperation in his grip more than clear, like he can’t decide if he wants to pull me to him or push me away.

“This is a bad idea,” he murmurs.

“Terrible idea,” I agree.

As we stare at each other, our breathing frantic, the energy between us launching into full nuclear meltdown, he can’t hold back anymore. His grip in my hair draws me to him aggressively, but not painfully. Just enough to make me moan before his lips crash against mine.

It’s hard and hungry at first, all teeth, tongue, and months of tension igniting in a single, reckless spark.

His mouth slants over mine, again and again, deeper each time, as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of me.

My hands grip tightly to his shirt, dragging him impossibly closer, needing more, needing him.

I kiss him back just as fiercely, biting his bottom lip before he groans and captures mine in return, punishing and perfect. There’s no rhythm, no patience. Just chaos, craving, and lips that won’t stop finding each other. It’s as though we’re making up for every second we spent fighting this.

When our lips touch, it’s as if it’s the first time all over again—electric, desperate, and so fucking needy in a way that should probably scare me more than it does.

We can’t stop.

We don’t want to.

His hands start to move, slow at first, exploratory, as if he’s mapping my body by memory.

One slides beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers trailing across bare skin, dragging goose bumps in their wake.

The other glides down the curve of my waist to the swell of my hip, gripping tight like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

My breath catches when his thumb brushes just beneath my bra line, teasing but not taking. Testing my limits. My body arches into his touch like it’s not mine anymore—as if it belongs to him.

And maybe it does.

“Clover,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice hoarse, like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep and wrecked inside him. “If I start something here, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”

I meet his eyes, and what he sees in mine must answer him, because his restraint shatters completely.

His mouth returns to mine with renewed fire, but this time, everything is slower, more deliberate.

His tongue teases mine, coaxing and claiming in equal measure, while his hand continues its maddening journey, skimming up my ribs, fingertips ghosting over the edge of lace.

A whimper escapes me, and he smiles against my lips, cocky and dangerous and so goddamn sure he’s unraveling me.

He is.

But I’m unraveling him too.

Because when I trail one hand down, just low enough to graze the waistband of his jeans, his whole body shudders. His grip on me tightens, and the sound that escapes him, half groan, half curse, is all desire.

We’re playing with fire.

And neither of us wants to put it out.

Then his hand dips lower.

Past my waistband.

Fingers brushing over my panties, then slipping beneath.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

His calloused fingers graze over my clit. Just the lightest pressure at first, but my hips jerk at the contact, a moan escaping before I can bite it back.

Heat bursts behind my eyes. Pleasure sparks through my nerves like an electrical surge, short-circuiting my entire body. I clutch his shoulders, grounding myself while his fingers explore with aching precision, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my thighs tremble.

Because he is the first man to touch me like this.

“Fuck,” I whisper, breathless and stunned by how fast I’m coming undone. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

His mouth finds the pulse point on my throat. “Not planning on it.”

Another stroke, this time firmer, more confident.

My knees go weak. My head tips back. I’m on the brink, right there, the world fading around the edges as the pressure builds, builds, builds.

Oh shit. It’s too much. My body begins to tremble.

Every inch of me feels as though I am in the middle of an earthquake.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The heart monitor on my wrist explodes into a frenzy, its shrill alarm resembling a slap of cold water. My entire body jolts, the spell between us shattering as my first orgasm is ripped from my body in an instant.

Phoenix pulls back instantly, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with anxiety. “Shit. Clover, are you okay?”

We spring apart as if we’ve been electrocuted, and I automatically reach for my watch, not able to stop the heart rate monitor from going off this time. I slap at it like the fucking thing is the devil incarnate, while trying to catch my breath.

Phoenix looks at the display and starts laughing. “Jesus, Clover. What’s your heart rate right now?”

I check the screen, my face burning with embarrassment. “One-fifty-two.”

“From an orgasm?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, but I can’t fight back my smile. “You’re bad for my cardiovascular health.”

“Pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.” He grins, that slow, devastating smile that makes my knees weak, but I also don’t miss the giant tenting erection in his jeans. “Maybe we should head back down before your watch starts a full medical alert.”

Clearing my throat, I straighten myself out as I move off him and nod. “Probably a good idea.”

Glancing up, I spot Dracula sitting back, watching like the pervert he is. Shaking my head, I stand, putting out my hand to help Phoenix up, and we pack up my equipment, making our way back down to the truck, Dracula trailing behind us.

The mood between us has shifted again, still charged, but lighter somehow.

It’s as though we’ve finally acknowledged what’s happening and decided to stop fighting it quite so hard.

When we’re almost at the bottom, Phoenix notices me shivering and wordlessly shrugs out of his leather jacket, draping it around my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“Can’t have you getting hypothermia on my watch. Maverick really would kill me then.”

I tilt my head in acknowledgment as the last light fades, making our way carefully down the dune in the gathering darkness. It’s slower going, and more than once, Phoenix has to steady me when my foot slips in the sand.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his hand on my waist. “Last thing we need is you twisting an ankle out here.”

“Thanks,” I reply, but I don’t pull away from his touch.

By the time we reach the truck, darkness has fallen, and the desert sky is blazing with more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Phoenix, look up.”

He follows my gaze and goes completely still. “Jesus.”

“No light pollution out here. This is what the sky actually looks like when humans aren’t fucking it up with cities and smog.”

We stand here for a long moment, necks craned back, trying to take in the infinite expanse above us. The Milky Way is visible as a bright band across the sky, and shooting stars streak past every few minutes.

“We should camp here tonight,” I say impulsively.

Phoenix looks at me in surprise. “Camp? Like, actually camp?”

“Why not? We could drive straight through to Vegas, but…” I gesture at the sky. “When are we ever going to see something like this again?”

He considers it, and I see him weighing the practical considerations against the magic of the moment.

“You have camping gear in the truck?”

“Some. Sleeping bags, some food. Nothing fancy, but enough.”

“And you want to sleep on the ground in the middle of the desert because the stars are pretty?”

“I want to sleep under the most beautiful sky I’ve ever seen in my life with someone who—” I stop myself before I say too much.

“Someone who what?”

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with possibility and danger.

“Someone who gets it,” I finish. “Someone who sees the magic in things like singing sand and ridiculous cat names and abandoned water parks.”

Phoenix steps closer, close enough that the stars reflect in his eyes. “Clover—”

“I know it’s crazy. I know we’re supposed to be heading to Vegas.

I know Maverick is expecting us to be responsible and follow the plan.

” The words come out in a rush. “But I don’t want to be responsible right now.

I want to camp under these stars with you and pretend, just for one night, that we’re not running from anything or toward anything. That we’re just… here.”

For a long moment, Phoenix doesn’t answer. He’s clearly fighting with himself, weighing duty against desire. Finally, he reaches into the truck and pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Texting Maverick. Letting him know we’re stopping for the night and will be in Vegas tomorrow.” He shows me the message before hitting send. “There. Now it’s official.”

“Really?” I gasp.

“Really.” He grins, and it’s the most genuine smile I’ve seen from him yet. “Let’s go camping, Reel Girl. But when we actually go to sleep, we’d better put our sleeping bags in the back of the pickup. We don’t want scorpions or snakes waking us up in the middle of the night.”

I jump up on my toes, clapping in excitement, and rush off to the truck to settle for the night.

We set up camp at the base of the dunes, using the truck as a windbreak.

Phoenix proves surprisingly adept at outdoor life, getting a small fire going with the portable camp stove while I arrange the sleeping bags in the back of the pickup.

Dracula, apparently deciding this adventure is acceptable, settles himself regally on a folded blanket as if he’s holding court.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” I state, standing beside the fire.

“You having second thoughts?”

“Are you kidding? This is the best idea I’ve had all week.”

Phoenix hands me a cup of coffee from the camp stove, which is terrible, but it’s hot and exactly what I need.

“So,” he says, walking to stand beside me. “What do we do now? Tell ghost stories? Make s’mores?”