“I can’t deal with this right now.”

I only left the guest room for a minute to ask for bottled water, but on my way back I bump into Jenny and Sabrina.

News travels fast.

They know.

I avoid the concerned looks and offers to help at the top of the stairs. I just want to go to my room so I can start a new day and forget today ever happened.

“Thanks, but no. I’m sorry… Space. I need lots of space.” I wave them off and haul ass down the hallway, closing the guest room door behind me when I get inside.

I can’t stay here. Between Tate’s behavior, my unexpected pregnancy, Cindy’s emotional flare-up, and the moves the MC is beginning to make to stop Jett from keeping up his stalker act, it’ll be a miracle if I get through my first trimester. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and cradle my stomach. God, how has this even happened? With a second to myself, I come to terms with the reality of the situation.

I’ve no idea how to feel about becoming a mother.

Tate has been…good. Surprisingly and weirdly tender with me. But I’m not entertaining any fantasies.

“Don’t even think it,” I say out loud.

“Think what?” Tate stands in the doorway and pops his blue Mohawk into the room before he comes in. I turn to look. He steps inside and shuts the door. “I was going to give you what you wanted and leave you alone. But neither of us are great at following orders normally, so why start a trend I can’t keep up. I’m here now. Your own personal punching bag.”

We hold each other’s gaze and he stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“You mean that literally or figuratively?” I ask.

He shrugs. “However you want it.” The beat of silence between us seems to go on forever. Neither of us glances away. “What do you need?”

“That’s a loaded question, Tate. I’m not sure about anything—”

An intense pulse of sound blasts from outside the window. I jerk my head around to look, and see the tail end of a fireball against the sky. Is that…flying metal?

“We can’t go a handful of weeks without someone trying to fucking blow us sky high?” Tate runs to the window. He looks out and freezes, gripping the window ledge. I clear my throat to get his attention. Nothing. He doesn’t move an inch or make a sound. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.

“What just happened? Talk to me.”

I suppose I can go to the window myself, but I don’t trust my wobbly legs all that much.

He pushes away from the window and charges out the bedroom the door.

“What’s wrong?” I shout down the hallway.

“Motherfucker. Hold on a minute.”

He’s gone for a while. I’m curious, but at the same time, exhaustion has set in, and I can barely move. I relax back on the bed, drifting off to sleep with my legs hanging off the side of the bed. When I open my eyes, it’s because Tate is lifting my feet and slipping them under the bed sheets.

“What happened?”

“He’s going to die.” Tate’s voice is low and dangerous. “That Jett son of a bitch is going to meet his maker—nice and slow.”

“What are you talking about? Start over, if you don’t mind.”

“My bike. The fucker torched my bike…it’s spread out over a square mile radius… in hot little shiny pieces, some of them still burning.”

“Gosh, I’m so sorry this is happening. How do you know for sure it was him?”

“The idiot left a note on the clubhouse door.”

Great, now Jett has gone and done it.

“Wait, but he a Satan’s Saints member in one of the Louisiana chapters. Can’t Silas do something to bring him in line? That’s kind of why I came to you guys to help.”

“Jett’s a member. Or at least he fucking was. No way he’s getting to keep his patches after this. No fucking way. But do you honestly see anything he’s done as normal behavior? A conversation won’t stop this madman.”

“Silas is going to get involved, right?”

“Yeah, hopefully before I find him and beat the life out of your ex.”

“I’m really sorry. I know you loved that bike.”

“It’s not your fault.” He offers up a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, then walks over to the window again. I start to believe he’s fine, but I see him shaking off his hand.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Nope. I did this… to the wall downstairs.” He lifts it and shows me his bloody knuckles. “It’s fine.”

“Pass me my medical bag and come over here. I’ll take a look.”

He takes a seat beside me but ignores the rest. “It’s not the first time I’ve put my hand through drywall. I washed it off. Nothing’s broken. Stop worrying.”

I take his hand from his thigh to look, but his fingers curve around my wrist. Raw pain is shimmering in his eyes as we look at each other.

“Are you still upset?” he asks.

I am, but I shake my head and turn off the onslaught of emotions swirling inside my head. He pulls me closer. He’s so gentle this time, I lean on him. I’ll always go to him. My twisted, torn up vigilante.

“Kiss me,” I say without thinking. I’m frightened and emotional, but I’m sure that being with him is good for me. “Whatever’s going on between us, I need you to kiss me and make it all better.”

“I can do that,” he whispers against my lips, his voice gravelly. He pulls me to sit on his lap and relaxes back on the bed, taking me with him.

He peels off my clothes, then his own, dropping items to the floor or on the bed without a care as to where it lands. His hands skim my waist. He cups my breasts in his large palms as his thumbs toy with my nipples. It’s the gentlest either of us have ever been with each other. His hands and lips caress my flesh, and soon I’m gasping for breath, aroused by just his touch. There has always been other toys, props or scenarios—hell, sometimes other people.

This is raw. Real.

He rolls us until I’m on top of him and lifts his head to my neck. His teeth gently nip its way down to my breasts. Then he glances up at me with eyes that hold a million emotions. For the first time since I saw that last pregnancy test stick, it hits me that this man will be the father of my child. A gorgeous, complicated man with a shitty childhood, a ton of baggage, and a laundry list of kinky proclivities. He’s also someone who does his best even while planning to be at his worst. All club members I know would agree on that without question. Tate is a walking contradiction.

I reach down his body and take his thick, firm shaft in my hand, stroking him and pressing him to my mound.

“Go ahead. Do it,” he breathes out on a sigh. His fingers weave through my raven locks and pull me in for a kiss. “I need to be inside you.”

I lift myself up, position him at my folds, and lower onto his cock at the same time that his hips tilt up. He hits all the right spots. My eyes drift closed, and I start a rhythm with my hips that match the chaotic beat of my pulse against my temples. Sharp, but lingering thrusts connect us at my core, and we feed off each other’s pleasure. Tate continues to taste, touch and please me with his lips, tongue, teeth, and hands.

I’m lost.

We both are.

It’s a sacred moment, together.

I kiss him, slow and lingering, relishing the sparks of light flashing behind my eyes. He seems to understand. His hand comes up to cradle my neck just as I think about pulling away. Our kiss deepens as an orgasm starts to build from deep inside my abdomen. All I have to do is let go.

He trails his fingers down my spine in a delicate tease I never would’ve thought could unleash my climax. That touch tips the scales for both of us. I’m so used to seeing him get off from all the extra toys and pain and wicked play that we both bring to the table. But this, simple, gentle intimacy, makes all those times pale in comparison. It’s the idea that we’re enough, just us. As my body trembles above him and rides out the last slow burn of my ecstasy, he grips my hips in his palms, extending the moment as he comes too. He moans and shudders under me, and his fingertips dig into my hips.

I lower my chest to him, curling up against his warmth. Closing my eyes, I rest my head in the hollow of his neck, and his arm twines around my back, nestling me. The feel of Tate’s lips brushing my forehead is the last sensation I remember before I drift off to sleep in his arms.