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first time in what feels like hours. He shoves a wooden chair under the doorknob, and then I’m spinning. My hands are against the wall, and Noah is behind me, yanking down my jeans. Two tugs and my ass is bare. His belt buckle clinks, and I know his jeans are down too. The crinkle of a wrapper. His sharp inhale as he rolls on a condom.
    My body melts, sore and tired but wound so damn tight waiting for him to touch me. He gathers my hair into his fist and presses a kiss to the back of my neck. “This is what you want?”
    “Yes,” I hiss as his other hand slips down the front of my body, pinching my nipples, teasing my belly, then finally dipping between my legs to torment my clit. Fast. Hard. Painful. It’s what I want. What I need. Especially after all that slow torture. I need it to burn.
    “If I were a good man, I wouldn’t do this.”
    I’m so wet, but there’s no embarrassment in this moment. Not after all we’ve done tonight. “Would a good man touch my pussy like that, feel how ready I am, and walk away? No. You’re good, Noah; I know you are.”
    He whips me around to face him. There’s nothing soft in his eyes now, only violence and hard lust. I reach for him, and he lifts me up. Finally, finally his cock is at my entrance, the blunt head spreading me open, filling me up.
    Noah is holding me in his arms so tight and filling me so full. Our eyes are locked, dark with something more than lust. We are needful in this moment. We need each other. I’m soft where he is hard. Light where he is dark. I’m not broken glass. I’m unbreakable. I bend and bend. I take everything he gives me, every angry thrust, and shudder around him.
    Claimed and claiming.
    The orgasm rips through us both like a battle cry.

Chapter Eight

    I wake up in Noah’s room at the club for the second day in a row, and my first thought is the same one I’ve had each time—it’s nicer than my apartment.
    Not because it’s clean—it really isn’t. Or because of the fancy amenities—it has none. But because every inch of the space is so unapologetically his.
    My memories from a few nights before cut through the haze of sleep. The beating. The bodies. Noah hauling me in here for the first time, tossed over his shoulder—broken, sore, terrified—with the hoots and wolf whistles from his brothers still ringing in my ears. He must have looked like a conquering Viking to them. That would make me the spoils of a war they didn’t even know happened, except for the few who’d been blindly loyal to Dev. God, were they all dead now too? Had Noah and Stone torn through them all yet? Then I’d wept tears of relief as soon as we crossed the threshold because I’d felt so deeply that this room was an inner sanctum, safer somehow than anywhere else in the club, a place where only Noah could touch me.
    He’d touched me so gently. He’d fucked me hard in that awful place, but here everything had been soft. He’d undressed me. Smoothed something cool and slick over my welts. Whispered apologies into my skin. Ordered me to sleep.
    And that’s what I’d done. For days.
    Now, I’m awake. Rested and alert. Hyperaware. Taking it all in again.
    His walls are covered with a kind of collage. Bikes and centerfolds and whiskey-ad sunsets. I can almost picture him thumbing through the pages of a parts catalog or a dirty magazine, coming across some shiny thing he wants for himself, and tearing it out to feather his nest. Building the life he wants layer by layer. I want to touch each one and ask him for the story that goes along with it. Because they are all stories. I know that much. It’s not wallpaper; it’s a vision board. And I’m the latest addition.
    I’m on my side, pinned by the force of Noah’s will and the weight of his body. He’s spooned behind me. Clinging to me, really. He’s got one arm under me, hooked up so his massive palm crushes my breast. The other arm is draped over my waist—that palm cups my pussy. Every breath I