There was drumming on the door.

I groaned, rolling over in my sleep. “Dakota, someone’s at the door.”

When I didn’t get a reply, I forced my eyes open a little, looking over to see her bed was empty, forgetting she’d decided to stay in Dion and Crew’s room tonight because Crew was back home again visiting his mom.

The banging started again, this time it was harder than before and more persistent.

Huffing in annoyance, I threw back the blankets and sat up, looking over at my alarm clock which read 6:00 a.m.

I’d only got in from working at Empire at 2:00 a.m.

And it was fucking Sunday.

“I’m going to stab someone,” I murmured, leaping down off the bed and trudging to the door. “This better be good,” I called as I flicked the lock and pulled the handle.

I didn’t even have time to be shocked.

Ham pushed his way in, forcing me backward. He breezed in, stealing the air from my lungs. I didn’t know what to say or do, and the look on his face told me that neither would have mattered in that moment because he was on a mission. His eyes were locked in on me like a target.

He pressed the dorm room door closed behind him and took a step forward. He still looked slimmer than usual, but better than he had been when I’d seen him almost a week ago. His lip was healed, there was no yellowing bruising across his face, and he wasn’t dressed in a prison jumpsuit.

This was my Ham.

Denim jeans, heavy boots, white T-shirt and club cut proudly worn over the top.

I should have told him to get the hell out, sworn at him, reminded him how much he hurt me. But all I wanted to do was touch him, and for him to tell me it was all some bad fucking dream.

Another step closer and the butterflies were back, swirling and dancing in my stomach, celebrating the return of this man who empowered me and made me feel beautiful. “What are you doing here?” I asked finally, trying not to let my voice sound weak.

I wasn’t weak.

These past couple months I’d found myself, stood on my own two feet.

I was stronger now than I was before because I wasn’t leaning on anyone expecting them to help me up when I fell. I wanted him to see the woman I’d become.

“I couldn’t fucking wait any longer,” he drawled, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing the side of my face.

I allowed myself five seconds to just enjoy his touch, inhaling deeply as he ran his fingertips down the side of my face and along my jaw where he hooked them under my chin. His thumb swiped over my lips, and I had to mentally restrain myself from taking it into my mouth.

Five seconds were up, and I tore myself away.

He wasn’t surprised.

Or deterred.

Because he just followed.

I kept trying to put distance between us, but like two practiced dancers, we stepped in perfect time, me retreating, him refusing to let me go without a fight. With a hard thump, my back finally hit my bed, and I was trapped. I had nowhere to go, and he wasn’t about to let me escape—that predatory look returning to his eyes.

Even when I held up my hands to try and stop him, he just captured my wrists and pulled me back to him, forcing my arms behind my back. “Don’t try and run from me, Meyah,” he growled, dipping his mouth to my ear as I struggled against his hold. “There’s no more fucking running. You’re mine.”

My heart skipped, and I felt my body temperature rise.

How did you fight your own memories?

The ones where I knew if I just let him touch me, how good it would feel, and how much I’d desperately missed him. The fights we had were always short, because once he got his hands on me, I knew I’d feel better. Like nothing else mattered. Like arguing was a pointless waste of time together when I could have his lips on me, or his hands, or even just be laying here listening to him tell me about things which were important to him. Like baseball, or what his parents were like when he was growing up, or how he failed when he tried to ride a motorcycle for the first time.

“Stop,” I demanded, trying to fight to gain some of my composure back, reminding myself of the hurt he’d caused me, and of all the times I’d lay in this room crying for those first few weeks I was here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I had those memories too.

I fought against him, finally pulling my hands free and pushing at his chest, managing to gain a few feet between us.

“You don’t get to show up here like this and be an asshole. You hurt me.”

I was getting emotional now, but I didn’t care.

I’d done anger. I’d done silence. This was the point I was at.

Just plain fucking hurt.

“You know me, Meyah,” he argued, slamming his palm against his chest. “You need to think about that. I fucking love you.”

I threw my hands in the air. “What does that even mean?”

He rushed forward again, this time, he wasn’t giving up. He pressed his lips to mine, stealing the kiss I’d been fighting to keep to myself. My fight was leaving, he swallowed every pathetic protest I threw at him and soon I just gave up.

I was fucking weak.

He made me weak.

“Stop thinking,” he whispered, his mouth trailing down my neck, kissing and nipping at my skin. I held on tightly to him, my hands gripping his cut, the worn leather reminding me of home—of him. “Trust your heart. Trust what it’s telling you.”

“Just tell me,” I pleaded as his hands trailed up my naked legs, reaching under the long nightshirt I realized was probably the least sexy thing he’d ever seen, but hadn’t made one single comment about.

“I shouldn’t need to.”

He didn’t give me time to respond before he whipped my nightshirt over the top of my head and tossed it behind him. I gasped when he placed his hands on my hips and lifted me up onto the bed, the peculiar height not so irritating in that moment.

He hooked his fingers on either side of my panties, and I failed to protest as he drew them down my legs while his lips found my inner thigh. I was wet, embarrassingly so given I’d spent so much time fighting him and trying not to give in.

He told me to trust my heart.

And for me, that meant one thing.

Him.

Following my heart would always lead me back to him.

I gasped as his fingers rubbed across my clit, throwing myself back on the bed. My hips instantly rose up as if seeking more. “Good girl,” Ham praised, rubbing his thumb in circles around my clit. “Tell me you want to cum.”

“Ham…” I hummed as my body began to burn, the swipe of his thumb across my clit was teasing me, taunting me, making me want more.

“Give me those words. You know I like to hear you say them,” he growled, stopping his movements when I bit my lip. “Meyah…”

I groaned. “Please. Please make me cum.”

Two fingers drove deep inside me making my body bow off the bed, the blankets underneath me soon becoming a total mess as I writhed, unable to control my body’s response to him. “Oh God.”

He pushed his fingers in and out, slowly, torturing me and when he pressed his mouth to my clit and sucked it into his mouth, I almost exploded. He sucked hard, to the point it was almost painful, my hips had a mind of their own wiggling and grinding against his face.

There was just a light shadow of bristles across his jawline, they were prickly and rough against the insides of my legs, but I loved it.

It was a reminder he wasn’t some high school boy who didn’t know what he was doing.

He was a man—my man.

He pulled back, humming in satisfaction as he watched his fingers dip inside me, pushing them as deep as they could go. It felt fucking amazing, but I wanted more.

I wanted him.

It had been too long.

“You touched yourself since I’ve been gone?” he asked, instantly making my cheeks flush.

Ham was unashamed of the words that came out of his mouth, but I still needed a little prompting when it came to the kind of talk that he loved.

Can’t really escape that kind of stuff with bikers.

They tend to be the hard and rough, give no fucks, kind of men as opposed to the sweet, sensual, take it slow kind.

One of Ham’s hands reached up, and he plucked at my nipple, the slight pain sending a jolt of excitement down to my pussy, making it tighten just a little, right on the edge of an orgasm.

He pulled back, but I grabbed his wrist. “Please,” I pleaded, pouting, desperate to have some kind of relief.

“Can’t hear you,” he whispered with a dirty smirk, dipping his head and flicking his tongue over my clit just once.

“Fuck me. Touch me. Lick me. Do something, please!”

He pulled his fingers from my pussy, and just as I was about to whimper in disappointment, he started to rub back and forth against my clit.

My hands gripped the sheets, the slow build that had started was nothing now to the wave which was washing over me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I cursed, feeling like I couldn’t breathe as I hit the high, my skin burning, my body electrified and off the charts.

“Meyah,” he whispered, but my eyes were still shut, and I was still riding the wave into shore. My hips were moving against his hand, my heart racing.

“Meyah.”

I moaned, not wanting for this to end, to have to face reality again.

Reality?

The banging was back.

“Meyah! Come on. Open up. I forgot my key.”

Dakota?

Oh, my fucking God.

I leaped up out of bed. My night-shirt was still on. I was wearing underwear, but I was strangely aware of how wet it was.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door to find my best friend staring pointedly at me.

“I have been banging forever. Do you sleep like a rock or what?”

I forced a laugh, closing the door behind her as she strolled in, looking past her to see the time on the clock reading 11:00 a.m. “Sorry, I must have been tired.”

“You want to go get some coffee?” she asked, climbing up onto her bed and reaching over to pull the curtains open.

“Yeah, uh… can I just run and have a shower first?”

“Sure.”

I grabbed my shower caddy and towel and rushed out of the room and down the hall, taking a deep breath as I looked at my flushed cheeks in the bathroom mirror.

I missed him.

God, I fucking missed him.

It hurt my chest.

I wanted to yell and scream at him, but at the same time, I knew how good it would feel to just have his arms around me.

Why did it have to be so hard to be strong?

Tears started to burn at my eyes.

I was so fucking messed up.

Imagining him coming here. Touching me.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and turned on the shower—to cold.