The thought hit me like a fist to the gut, and guilt crashed over me in waves. Julie had cleaned my wounds after club business. Had tended to me with the same quiet competence, the same gentle hands. And here I was, letting another woman touchme the same way. Letting Hope see the parts of me that Julie had known so intimately.
I should pull away. Should stop this before it goes any further.
But I couldn’t. Because this wasn’t Julie. This was Hope. And Hope was here, real and solid andminein a way that terrified me and made me feel alive for the first time since Julie’s death.
She moved to my ribs, her fingers ghosting over the bruises with a tenderness that made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the cracked bones beneath. I could feel the heat of her palm through the thin barrier of her touch, could smell the jasmine scent that clung to her skin, and my body responded despite the pain.
My cock stirred, hardening against the confines of my jeans, and I shifted uncomfortably. Hope’s eyes flicked down, then back up to my face, and I saw the flush creep across her cheeks. She knew. She could see what she was doing to me.
“You need to see a doctor,” she whispered quietly, her eyes still focused on my side, but her voice had gone slightly breathless.
“I’m fine.”
“Chapman—”
“I’m fine,” I repeated, my voice firmer this time.
She looked up at me then, her dark eyes searching mine. I saw the worry there, the fear she was trying to hide. Fear for me. Fear of what could have happened. Fear of what was still to come. And I saw something else, too. Something that made my pulse quicken and my breath catch.
Desire. She wanted me. Despite the blood and the bruises and the violence I had just unleashed, she wanted me. But it was more than that. I could see it in the way she looked at me. Like she was seeing past the executioner, past the killer, past thedarkness. Like she was seeingme. The man beneath all the death and grief and guilt.
And she wasn’t running.
Her hand was still resting on my ribs, warm and gentle, and I became acutely aware of how close she was. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, could count the freckles scattered across her nose, could feel the warmth of her breath against my skin.
The air between us shifted and thickened with tension. I watched her throat work as she swallowed, watched the way her pupils dilated, watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She was feeling it too—this pull, this magnetic force drawing us together.
I reached out slowly, carefully, and took both of her hands in mine. She stilled, the washcloth slipping from her fingers and landing on the bed between us. I brought her hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to the palm of her left hand first. Her skin was soft, warm, and I felt her fingers tremble slightly against my mouth.
She’s afraid, I realized. Not of me. But of this. Of what we were becoming. Of the consequences that would follow.
I kissed her right palm next, slower this time, my eyes never leaving hers. I watched the way her pupils dilated, the way her lips parted slightly, the way her breathing quickened. I could feel her pulse racing beneath my lips, could see the flush spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt.
“Hope,” I said, my voice rough and low.
“Chapman,” she whispered back, and the sound of my name on her lips undid me. Not my club name. My real name. And she was saying it like it mattered. LikeImattered.
I stood slowly, pulling her up with me. She came willingly, her hands still clasped in mine, her body close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. I released her handsand cupped her face instead, my palms cradling her jaw, my thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. She looked up at me, her eyes wide and trusting, and I felt something in my chest crack open.
She trusts me.After everything. After the pond. After the garage. After watching me beat two men bloody with my bare hands. She still trusted me. The realization was humbling and terrifying in equal measure. I didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her. But God help me, I wanted it. Wanted her. Wanted this moment to stretch on forever. I wanted to lose myself in her and forget everything else.
“Tell me to stop,” I said, giving her one last chance to walk away. Giving her the choice I should have given her at the pond.
She shook her head, her hands coming up to rest on my chest, right over my heart. “I don’t want you to stop.”
God help me.
That was all I needed.
I lowered my head and kissed her, and the world fell away.
It started tentatively. A question, a request. My lips brushed against hers, softly, testing, waiting for her response. She answered by pressing closer, her mouth opening slightly, and I groaned low in my throat as I deepened the kiss. Her taste flooded my senses—sweet and warm and intoxicating—as I slid my tongue against hers, exploring, claiming, and she met me stroke for stroke, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of my neck.
The kiss turned urgent and desperate. I could feel the need building between us, could feel the way her body molded against mine, soft curves pressing against hard muscle. My hands slid down from her face to her waist, pulling her flush against me, and she gasped into my mouth when she felt the hard length of me pressing against her stomach. The sound sent a bolt of heat straight to my groin, making my cock throb almost painfully. Ibacked her toward the bed, my hands sliding under her shirt, desperate to feel her skin. She was so warm, so soft, and I couldn’t get enough.
But beneath the desire, beneath the need, there was something else.
Fear.Fear that this was the last time. Fear that once Shadow found out, once the club learned what I had done, I would lose her. Fear that I was about to destroy the one good thing I had found in the wreckage of my life.