Raiden (Satan’s Angels MC #2)

Chapter 8

Ella

M y mom used to say that life never turns out like we expect it to.

She was so right about that. Most of it is either bad luck or happy flukes.

Thank fucking god it’s the latter for us and sometime in the late afternoon, we break through the trees into the exact clearing we left yesterday.

I could weep at the sight of our bikes, standing untouched, at the ramshackle hunter’s cabin sagging through the fresh growth of new trees and tall grass, at the utter relief on Raiden’s exhausted face. I probably look just as haggard, but I have no fucks to give.

We’re no longer lost, we don’t have to hike down the highway and find someone to stop and help us. We’re not going to have to spend another night in the woods without food or water, since that ran out hours ago. We’re not going to encounter a bear or have to try our hand at bushcraft we’re probably both shit at, whether Raiden did Scouts or not.

We’re not going to die out here.

Raiden turns his head slowly and looks at me. Fuck if the past day and a half hasn’t changed us both. We’re too tired for any sort of animosity. I watch a tremble roll through him and know he’s feeling the same bone-deep relief that I am.

“The first thing we’re going to do is get the food out of my bike. We’ll eat and then we’ll ride back to Hart. We’re not going back to the clubhouse. We’re going to my place. We need to come up with a story that’s less embarrassing than what really happened out here, get it straight, and then we’ll go back and report to Gray. He can buy this hellhole if he likes but fuck me if I’m ever coming back here.”

I’m not exactly sure how to take that. I never thought I’d see the inside of Raiden’s house. I never thought he’d look at me or talk to me or let me into his head or his life in the slightest. I know this is a special one-off moment, and I shouldn’t read too much into it. I shouldn’t want to read into it.

It’s not just him caught up in this moment of blissful freedom.

It’s not just that.

It shocks the hell out of me when he throws back his head to the late sinking sun and laughs. The sound bursts out of him, loud and glorious, gritty and almost… pretty. It echoes wildly out here, bouncing off the trees and the endless sky. I don’t know who’s more surprised at the sound. Him or me. He almost looks guilty over laughter.

I’m too tired to argue with his plan. He wants to tell everyone we didn’t get lost out here? Whatever. He can have his pride. It can be our secret. At least it’s one thing we’ll share from here on out.

That and the night we spent together out there in the wilderness. I’ve been in scary situations. Shit I thought I wasn’t going to live through. I told him about the warehouse. That sea of blood, the way I hacked a path through bodies, choosing me over them, my panic and adrenaline so high I wasn’t even human, is going to stay with me for the rest of my life.

Last night was cold, uncomfortable, and hungry, but not more than that. I wasn’t truly afraid. I knew we’d find our way out eventually. Those hours changed something inside of me, altering me forever the way that night at the warehouse did. I’m not marked through trauma or death, but the fingerprints are there, and they can’t be erased. It’s like Raiden reached inside of me and tugged on something I don’t like to admit is there. I feel different.

I don’t know why. I want to thump the ache behind my ribs hard enough to leave real, physical pain that I can understand.

Raiden heads directly to his saddlebags and pulls out granola bars, trail mix, an extra metal bottle of water that is probably still cold because ice is supposed to last in those things for days. My stomach cramps with hunger on instinct, but it’s not the food that my mouth waters for.

I wanted Raiden physically before.

Now, I want something more.

It feels dangerously close to a match next to the iced over parts of me. Parts that have never thawed for anyone, other areas that have iced over because of my past. My stomach tightens and roils with more than just the pangs of hunger.

“Here.” Raiden holds out the trail mix bag. “It hasn’t been that long but go slow.” He takes the water bottle in his other hand. “This too. Slow sips.”

I make myself walk normally, past all the uncomfortable shit going on in my body and in my head. This marriage was never going to be easy. Giving my body if it was required? I could do that. I’ve been doing it since I was sixteen. Sex isn’t hard. Sometimes, it’s not even that bad. That opening up and the kiss after? It was dangerous.

I grab the bag from him and methodically chew nuts and raisins, chunks of chocolate, pieces of coconut and other seeds, without looking his way.

Raiden fishes for something else in his bag, his body bending and moving in lyrical waves. I look away and keep my gaze trained on the woods we just walked out of, until I smell the sweet scent of cloves and licorice, an underlying sweetness mixed in. It’s unmistakably pipe tobacco.

My mouth falls open at Raiden leaning casually against his bike, puffing hard on a pipe. Who the fuck still smokes one of those? I love the smell. Cigarettes and weed are pretty much a biker’s second cologne, but this smell? It’s like stepping back in time, into a darkened library, a dim lit study with ancient, old books.

Once he gets it started, he smokes it casually, the delicious scent burning from the bowl drifting through the clearing. The pose and the smoke doesn’t quite blind me to the fact that there’s an obvious tension radiating from Raiden. He should be relieved that we’re back at our bikes. He was just laughing. There’s nothing carefree about him now. The set of his shoulders is too tight. His huge body looks painfully stiff. There’s an intensity about him as thick as the smoke he’s masking it with.

I seal up the bag and pass it back. “We’re going to roll out?”

“Soon as I finish this.”

I sip a bit of water and leave it on the ground beside Raiden’s boot. I don’t want to reach past him to tuck it away in the saddlebag. There’s no more taunting him, no teasing him, no more games. The woods stripped us bare and neither of us want to be without clothes. We need to carefully dress again, put ourselves back in order, and remember who we are.

A few minutes later, we pack up and roll out. We head down the small corduroy dirt road back to the gravel and then to the main road.

It’s the first time in a long time that I haven’t enjoyed a ride. I love the road, the air, the open sky, the freedom. It’s never failed to clear my head before. The wind is cold. It’s still early and it’s fall. The air has a new chill that summer lacks.

I follow behind Raiden a safe distance until we reach his house. He doesn’t park on the street in front. He circles around back. There’s no garage, but he does have a gravel parking spot in front of a white wooden fence.

The house is nothing special. A bungalow that blends in with all the others, probably sixties, beige stucco with a few dark navy-blue bands that wrap from the back, around the side, and to the front. There’s a narrow sidewalk that takes us to the front yard. The fence drops off, lowering to waist high with a gate in the middle. An overhang shadows the doorstep complete with three concrete stairs, and an ornate, wrought iron black railing that connects them. The gold mailbox on by the large front window and the door angled to the side looks new.

Raiden sticks a key into the deadbolt on the wooden door with the three diamond pattern glass inserts.

I manage not to grunt at the complete lack of security. Does he think nothing will happen to him? Or does he just not care?

“Wizard has cameras set up in the front and back, he would have gotten an alert the second we rolled into the alley. I come here once a week to physically check that everything is fine. It might not look like it’s secure, and that’s what I want, I don’t want to live in a prison.”

He hits the light switch on the wall right by the door. The house is definitely sixties, a virtual time capsule from the floral green wallpaper to the shag green carpet.

“Whoa!”

The furniture is correct too. A large green sectional curved into an L with a round coffee table built in, pole lamps, side tables with lamps that have the weird yellow and green squiggly glass, a heavy amber swag lamp in the corner. There’s no TV. The far side of the room is taken up with a large and ornate wood fireplace. The wood is fake, the white and red marble behind it cheesy. I love it and immediately walk over to run my fingertips over the surface.

I pull down one shelf and find the bar I knew would be there and then open the other side, expecting the record player, but it’s gone.

“My mom had one of these in one of the houses we rented. It was in the basement, but we both were obsessed. I was little, like nine, I think. Or ten. Way too young to drink, obviously, but we’d have tea parties down there and listen to old music.”

“I have a record player.” He points to the other side that I haven’t even looked at yet. The built in shelves look custom to the house. They’re filled with books and on the lowest one, a chrome record player with speakers on the floor beside the shelves, the other components underneath.

“I’m so shit with technology that I don’t even know if that’s an amp or a receiver.”

He ignores me, runs his fingers over the spines of a few of the books, then slides open the bottom part of the built-in to reveal a storage compartment with hundreds of records.

“Did this stuff come with the place or did you buy it?”

He slips a record from the sleeve, lifts the brown plastic lid on the record player, and gets it situated. It’s one of those that drops down before it plays, which adds an extra layer of charm and magic.

I didn’t expect any of this. The classical music is just as jarring and surprising as the inside of the house. I don’t know what it is. Some kind of symphony probably, but who composed it and what letter, if it has a letter, is beyond me. I’ve read pretty much all the classics, but the music? I was never one of those kinds of people that liked to do things just to be seen or let what others were doing dictate my interests.

The stereo is good. The music envelops the room. I can almost see the appeal of a real symphony or orchestra.

Raiden stalks into the kitchen, turning the light on in there too.

Without asking me if I’d like any, he fills two bowls with sugary cereal. Gets a carton of milk out of a near-empty fridge. He pours without sniffing it, which means he must have bought it recently. The house doesn’t have that shut in, unlived in feel, even if it does look like the previous owners left seventy years ago and will be back soon.

The kitchen has also been suspended in time. It’s also overpoweringly green with dark olive tile backsplash, green countertops that don’t look original, and light wood cabinets that probably are.

The music isn’t as loud in here.

“What are the lamps called? The ones with the weird glass shades?” In my past, admitting my own ignorance was something I would never do. I’d rather read a thousand books trying to find an elusive answer than reveal that I didn’t come from a privileged background. I dressed the part, looked the part, played the fucking game. I was never once ashamed of who I was at heart, but the pretending, the pretense, the utter ridiculousness of the whole academic world still tastes sour in my mouth. At the same time… I miss it.

It was the knowledge I loved.

It’s the honest part of it that I miss, knowledge and learning just for the sake of it, for the sheer pleasure of it.

“Spaghetti lamps, I think.”

I giggle like a kid. It makes sense. The shades do look like layers of spaghetti looped up to make a round ball, painted bright yellow and green after they dried.

Raiden doesn’t look at me strangely over the girlish laughter. He doesn’t look at me at all, not even when he pushes the bowl of cereal my way. I’m not going to insult him by not eating and I’m starving.

The first bite tastes far better than it should. Honey and graham crackers. Raiden takes a few bites, leaning against the counter, then abruptly sets the bowl aside. “Going to shower.”

“Okay.”

What the hell else am I supposed to say?

I could just leave. I could come up with a plan myself and we could stick to it. I could tell him that no one fucking cares if we got lost and we’re fine now. So fucking what if we spent a night in the woods? We could say it took a long time to cover all that land. We planned to stay overnight anyway. It would be the work of a few seconds to voice my thoughts and then I could abandon this cereal, get the hell out of this oddly charming little house with the sweet music that I don’t hate at all. I could thrust myself back into fresh air, get my normal tough front back in place, and flip Raiden and rest of the world a big fuck you.

Maybe I’m too hungry.

Maybe I’m just exhausted.

Whatever it is, I don’t want to fight.

And I don’t truly want to leave.

It’s the story of my life right here. Living in a world I don’t truly belong in, fighting like the devil to be accepted because I just can’t give up and take no for an answer.

“Do you mind if I check out your books?”

“No.”

I can’t tell what kind of no that is. Piss off, don’t you dare touch my books, or of course I wouldn’t mind, I have nothing to hide, they’re just books.

He leaves me with that to decode.

Tired of standing, I hoist myself up on the counter and eat cereal like people do in movies, but never in real life. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe other people sit on their counters all the time.

The house must have good insulation. I don’t hear the shower start.

I finish eating and put my bowl in the sink, rinsing it out of habit. Raiden’s sits on the counter, untouched. I’d put it in the old mustard yellow fridge, but the soggy factor would be gag worthy.

I go check out the bookcase instead.

The record is still playing, the sleeve lying to the side. I pick it up, brushing my finger over the scrolling cover. A Collection of Bach.

Obviously, I know all the names of the classic composers, but I wouldn’t be able to pick out one piece from another. I like this. I might look it up, add a few songs to my playlists. It’s darker and broodier than most classical, but not so dark and broody that it’s unbearably dramatic.

The books are predominantly about finance. Given that Raiden used to be the club’s treasurer, it makes sense. Raiden loves numbers like I love classics and history. Passion is passion and to each their own. There are a few classics mixed in. Mostly adventure books like Robinson Crusoe, and Treasure Island. A few by Alexandre Dumas.

Raiden’s steps behind me make me turn, excitement bubbling inside. I want to ask him if he’s read them. Which one he liked best? Get into a discussion that lasts for hours because this is my passion and if he’s read some of my all-time favorites, then that’s just- just… I don’t know. Amazing ?

My mouth dries out at the sight of him. Naked down to his jeans, a fine sheen of sweat standing out on the defined muscles in his shoulders and arms, the dark ink swirling starkly over his pectorals, trailing deliciously down his carved abs. His jeans hang low on his hips, the waistband of his boxers and a strip of black fabric exposed, prominently showcasing the Adonis V.

I can’t breathe or move. In direct contrast to my paralyzed body, my pulse starts slamming wildly.

“What…” The word is all breath. I can’t force it into more until I swallow violently. “What are we doing here?”

He could kiss me. Pull me up against him. Thrust me up against the wall. I’d melt for him, open for him like I did in the woods. He’s half-dressed and very clearly has not showered.

It’s not hot in here. The sheen of sweat glistening on his naked body isn’t right.

“Raiden?”

He shakes his head, his haunted, vacant eyes sweeping to mine as he comes back to himself.

“Shower’s yours if you want it. I’m good.”

“Uhh, I think I’ll just grab one back at the clubhouse.” I watch his face, as guarded as his skin is bare. “Do you want to talk, or should we leave?”

He’s silent. Unmoving. Is this a different kind of panic attack? Does he do this, tunnel into himself and just disappear? He seems so vacant and hollowed out.

The most dangerous animals are the wounded ones, but I put a hand on his bare arm anyway. He starts, rearing back. He twists away from me, his hand covering the puckered scar on his shoulder.

I slowly put my hands up where he can see them. “It’s okay. Do you want to go? We can go. No. I’ll go. You can stay.”

His fingers smooth over the old wound. Whoever tattooed him did an amazing job of working the ink over it. I don’t think most artists would be able to touch something like that. It’s not huge, but the skin is ridged and jagged. The ink almost makes it disappear.

“I fucking hate showers.”

“O-oh.”

He keeps caressing that scar. I watch, until his hand forms a fist and he thumps it angrily against his shoulder. “They were the worst part of prison.”

“Oh my god.”

“Not like that. Not for me. Just… this. This was how I almost died.” He traces the line from the scar to his heart. “This is where they wanted to put that goddamn shiv. Didn’t even know the guy. The fucker just didn’t like the look of me. Wanted me to die for it.”

I’m not a therapist. I don’t know how to deal with this level of trauma. I don’t even know how to deal with my own past. I know that blood soaks into the mind. Into memory. Into muscle and body and bone. Once it coats you, you’re never clean again. You learn to live with that, you reinvent yourself, you put one foot in front of the other, or you crawl if you have to, but you keep moving forward and you don’t look back. Back is death. Back is destruction. There’s only forward or blackness.

I’ve felt that dark reaching for me. It’s comforting, like a blanket, but if you don’t have the strength to throw it off when you no longer need the quiet and the escape of tunneling into a part of yourself where nothing exists except silence, then it can claim you.

“Coffee. You have a coffee maker? I’ll get some going. It’s warm. That’s what we need.”

“I don’t want fucking coffee.”

I’d taken a step towards the kitchen, but I stop. Do I want to deal with this unspoken level of brokenness that this man is hiding so well?

Is he hiding it? Or does it come and go?

The dark, the panic, the sick feeling in the pit of the stomach and the back of the mind? It’s quite clear that he doesn’t allow his sister or his club brothers, not even Gray who has been his best friend for life, to see this. What do they all think? That the five years he was gone didn’t happen? That he’s just fine?

He let me see out in the woods. He didn’t have a choice. He hated it.

But here?

He could ask me to leave. I want to. He hasn’t. Do I really want to go at all?

“What do you want then?” It’s meaner than I want to sound.

I don’t know how I want it to come out. I don’t know how to offer comfort. I don’t know why he’s showing me this part of himself. A single night, a confession about a shitty night I lived through, getting lost, a panic attack, a kiss—none of that makes us friends.

It doesn’t make us lovers.

It doesn’t mean trust. It doesn’t change who we are. I’m still the daughter of the man who did this to him and made him like this. He should want me to pay the price of undoing it, but the spiteful burning rage behind his dark eyes staring boldly into me, is gone.

“Just a shower. Just to be fucking clean.”

“Clean? That’s not for people like you and me. Not for the life we’re living. You can’t scrub that away.”

“What is there then?”

“Only a brutal form of acceptance and then you move on. What you’re doing. It’s not wrong, even if it’s not working.” The record stops abruptly, turning to static as it spins and spins. “Have you ever talked to someone about it?”

He snorts. “About what? The shit in here?” He lifts his hand like he’s going to thump himself in the temple, but I step toward him quickly. His hand freezes halfway.

“What you’re afraid of might be in the past. It might be over, but your brain doesn’t know that and so it’s very real. PTSD won’t just go away. You need treatment.”

“Talking to some doctor who hasn’t experienced shit all in his life isn’t going to help.”

“Try a her then.”

He narrows his eyes dangerously. I go on the defensive, then realize what I’m doing. We’re always so dramatic that I laugh, loosening myself up purposefully. “Christ. Look at us. You want a shower? Let’s go. I’ll be right in there with you, on the other side of the curtain. I can even talk to you if you want. I might be annoying. You might hate me. I might even be the enemy, but you already know I’m a good shot and now you know I’m good with a knife. Nothing’s getting through me.”

His eyes widen at my self-deprecating tone. “The problem with you, Widow, is that you’re so likable. It’s a character flaw you should work on fixing.”

“I think the term you’re really looking for is attractive. It’s been a problem my whole life. When you look like a whore, people assume you are one.”

His eyes darken. “Don’t say that.”

He whips around, snatches the record off the player and shoves it into the sleeve. He’s tense as he picks out another, practically tears it out, and gets it into place. Opera. Dark, broody, wild sounding music and a woman’s voice that has such a range her talent is undeniable, even if the genre of music isn’t something I’d normally enjoy.

I clear my throat at a lull in the song. “When you’re naturally seductive, blonde with big tits and a good ass, it draws the wrong kind of attention.”

“I said likable, not beautiful.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes.”

“You’re confusing likeability with lust.”

My body feels tight at his frown. A surge of violent heat rips through me. If we need to talk about anything, it’s not getting lost in the woods. It’s what happened in there. That kiss. “I can see that you want me. You want to own me. Devour me. You want to change me. Punish me. Make me pay . You think you can convert me with your kisses and your cock. You think you can break me and that in return, I’ll fix you.”

The air pressurizes with the tension flowing between us. As if the music was made to mirror the situation, the voice increases, sweeping up to a dramatic high note. “Stop telling me what I think,” Raiden demands over it.

“So you don’t want to kiss me? You’re not hard as a lead pipe right now?” That’s not fair. I can clearly see the outline of him in his jeans, but I can see that he’s also battling with himself. He doesn’t want to want me. The feeling is mutual.

The feeling is confusing as fuck.

He’s never looked at me the way every other man who has wanted me has.

“I do. I am. But the other shit isn’t true.”

“The only thing we’ve ever going to do is hate fuck if it comes down to it. That’s never going to change. You do know that.”

“Yes. No. Fuck.”

“I’m leaving.” I don’t hate Raiden. I don’t want to hurt him. The safest thing to do is get out of here.

It’s a quick path to the door. My boots whisper soft sighs over the high pile green carpet. It looks like the fur on the back of a monster. The door is so, so close.

“Widow.” Raiden’s strong voice booms louder than the music. I don’t want to pause, but my feet come to a stop against my wishes. “Wait.”

If I asked you not to leave, would you still go?

“Yes.” I whirl, the anger and frustration that’s been percolating inside of me my whole life boiling over. “It’s always the same thing. I don’t want to be dominated. I don’t want to be broken. I don’t want to fix or be fixed. I just want to be . I am who I am. I have never met a man who wanted that or appreciated it. I have never been with a man in any way who wasn’t afraid or intimidated by me and who didn’t want to reduce me to something else.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Just of the shower.” I’m always meanest when I’m closest to being truly exposed and vulnerable.

He winces as my words hit their mark but agrees. “Just of the fucking shower.”

I can handle anything else. I could walk away from anything else. But this? This unexpected vulnerability is disarming. I can feel myself collapsing, my resistance wavering.

I might never love Raiden, but this is frightening.

I ball my hands into fists, but the fight has bled out of me. “I’m sorry. That was beyond unforgivable. Cruelty isn’t my style.”

“We already know we bring out the worst in each other.”

What if that wild current could be properly channeled into a useful circuit? “My apology still stands. I can’t ask you to get help and insult you and shame you in the next breath.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. This is the first time I truly see how exhausted he looks. “I’m fine. Just go. I’ll shower and be back at the clubhouse in an hour.”

Reverse psychology usually doesn’t work, but there’s no way I’m going now. Unfortunately, I always have to rise to a challenge. “I’ll stay. But we should get back. I haven’t even turned my phone on.”

His brows crash together. “Mine’s dead. The constant searching for a signal finally did it in.”

He pulls it out of his pocket and goes to the kitchen, plugging it into a charger on the counter. I walk to the bathroom door down the hall and lean casually against the wall. Neither of us say anything as he walks past me and steps inside. He pauses, stares down the tub and shower combo with the black shower curtain cutting across it. The bathroom is pink. Fucking. Pink. Flowered wallpaper. Pink subway tiles. Pink free standing sink, pink toilet, pink tub. I love how ancient it is and that he hasn’t remodeled any of this.

He takes a breath, ragged and sawing in and out of wheezing lungs. “Fuck.” He curses, balling up a fist. He’s facing the mirror and there’s no way I can let him break something so historical. Punching glass never did anyone any good anyway.

His arms are slick with sweat again when I charge in behind him and take them in my hands. My fingers bite into his biceps. “Fuck the shower. Let’s go for a ride. We’ll take a long way to the clubhouse.” His eyes are blown from adrenaline, shadowed and vacant. “Raiden. I said, let’s go.”

I have to reposition my hold. The sweat is pouring off him like he’s making his own shower. I don’t think anyone, including myself, realizes how serious this is. How could I have just mocked him?

Doesn’t matter how sorry I am. The words are out. I’ll find a way to apologize with action. I’ll find someone he could talk to, someone who could help. He won’t want it, and I won’t force him, but just knowing that a real person exists, who might not be so bad… that has to be worth something.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. He shrugs me off, whips the curtain aside, and cranks the water on. The spray is so hot that steam rolls off it.

“Hey!” I dodge around him, adjusting the temperature.

He’s half terrorized as his eyes fix on my face again. It takes a lot to scare me, but whatever is happening right now, the ghosts living in his body, the memories that refuse to give him back, I feel like I’m fighting against something supernatural.

His hand snaps out, closing around my throat. The fear turns to terror. I scrabble at his fingers with my hands claw-like, until I realize that he’s just holding me there. He’s not squeezing. His thumb smooths over the side of my neck, against my crazed pulse.

“It’s been a long time since you had any sense of rightness or security. I’m so sorry that my father came into your world and tried to ruin the one good place you had left when it mattered most that it was there for you.”

I take one hand off his wrist and wrap it around his throat, holding him the way he’s holding me, just feeling his heartbeat thrum in his neck. It’s beating far faster than mine and mine sure hasn’t settled yet.

My terror is nothing compared to the fear seated deep inside of him.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him so tight he almost crushes me. He steps into the shower, pulling me with him.

“Wait! My leather—”

He unzips it and shucks it off. It’s just my tank and my ripped-up jeans that get soaked when he steps under the spray. I’m taking most of it, acting as a shield, but he’s soaked just from holding me. He smells like sweat and sweet cloves from the pipe tobacco, gas, and man.

I’m the one who cups his face and runs a finger over his cheekbone. I’m the one who arches up towards his mouth. I don’t hesitate to press my lips against his. I’m the one who melts into him, crushing the hard length of his cock between us as I tilt my head, inviting him to kiss me deeper. I feed my whimpers to his lips, until he comes alive, licking them off my tongue, panting when he angles his face, kissing me with the same sudden fire that bewitched us both in the woods.

I turn him slowly, guiding us in the most incremental, gentle dance, until he’s the one under the spray. He groans, but it’s not pain or fear that skates over my lips. It’s just pleasure. He makes another noise, half growl, half beast, when I snatch up the bottle of bodywash, pour a generous amount into my palm, and run my hands over his shoulders, his pecs, down his arms, over his chest and stomach. I stay away from the scar. I don’t want to trigger him by touching it. I smooth both hands down his arm, lifting his hand and stopping at the wrist. I bring his inked hand to my mouth and suck on his index finger, hollowing out my cheeks like I would if I was sucking something else.

Truth is… I’ve never had anyone as tattooed as Raiden. No one near built like him. My dad kept his horny band of bastards away from his princess. I’ve never fucked or been fucked by anyone who wasn’t white collar. Boring. I’ve never had anyone unleash themselves with me. There was always a thin line with those men between what they found exciting and what they found whorish. A nice, proper woman didn’t do the wild things she had in her head. She didn’t ask for what she truly craved and she didn’t lead them into it. She never, ever, took control.

The only time I’ve ever been wild was the one time I needed to defend myself, but assault is not the same thing as consensually engaging with someone and I do know that. Maybe because it happened to me later, or possibly because he wasn’t able to do anything more than scare me after I fought back. The injustice of the situation curdled my blood, but I never lumped all men into the category of abuser and was never thrown straight back into trauma with other people after.

I don’t think there’s anything I could do that could emasculate someone like Raiden. The beast inside of him, chained up and obscured, cries out to the elemental parts of me.

I double his fingers up and suck two of them into my mouth. His eyes get hazy with lust. He moves his hand away gently and places it on my hip, silently asking permission. I nudge his hand up, under the hem of my soaked tank.

He tries to peel it up. It rolls up a few inches on itself and stops. He gets the other hand there and tries to forcefully get it off. It doesn’t budge.

I lift my arms in the air, laughing. What a disaster we are. It’s a disaster that I don’t mind one bit.

“I’m going to eviscerate this,” he grinds out as his frustration spills over.

“Don’t you dare.” I work my shirt up myself, peeling the waterlogged fabric over my breasts. Before he can attack my bra and tear it in half in his desperation, I undo the clasp and throw it with a wet smack outside of the tub.

As annoying as the unwanted attention is, there are rare moments when I appreciate my breasts beyond measure. Right now, seeing the awe on Raiden’s face as he drinks me, half naked, fills me with warmth.

I have never in my life thought that I was made for a man. I belong only to me. Right now, I wouldn’t mind sharing. I drag my eyes from Raiden’s face and drink my fill of him in equal measure. I wouldn’t mind him sharing himself either. I think we’d be a good fit. A match for each other.

I palm one heavy breast, running my fingers over the slick nipple. It’s already standing well on end.

Raiden drops to his knees. It’s not a narrow tub—more short and wide—but it’s still a bad fit for a man his size. He’s paying zero attention to the water now. He’s eye level with my breasts. He cups one, the orb heavy, overflowing his palm.

“Fuck, Widow.”

He ravages my breasts, biting and suckling them. His mouth is warmer than the shower, wetter, divine. He scrapes his teeth over my nipples, sending hot pulses down to my clit. I writhe against him, half struggling against the sharp sting of the bites, half arching into him for more of the divine sweetness of his mouth.

He sucks my nipple deep into his mouth while he undoes the zipper of my jeans. If he thought getting my tank off was difficult, these jeans barely go on dry.

“Want to taste your cunt, babe. Want to be inside of you with my fingers, my tongue, my cock.”

I caress his face, turning it up to me. “Don’t call me babe. If you can get me out of this shower and remove my pants without tearing them in half, then we’ll talk. And don’t use that word. I don’t like it.”

I do realize that I was the one who called his club prudish and ridiculous and here I am, flushing red because I don’t like that kind of language. It always bothered me to no end hearing my dad’s club brothers talk like that. I got used to what they do, how rough they are, pretty much everything. Got used to the club whores, the drugs, the booze, and everything else that went with hard living. I can fuck this or fuck that, but I just can’t with the C-word. It makes my skin crawl.

Raiden studies me hard, which makes me blush deeper.

He shuts off the water, stands up, and gets out of the tub. He drips all over the floor, but he passes the lone black towel to me.

“Sorry.” It’s a rough, scratchy apology, but it’s sincere. “You won’t hear it from me again.”

I unwind the towel from my shoulders, my face still hot, my body a thousand times hotter. I share it with him, draping it around our waists, trapping it between our bodies while I twine my arms around his neck and arch up to kiss him.

“If you’re up for a challenge, I’d still like these jeans off. Badly.” I turn my face into his neck. The strong scent of cloves still remains, mixed with the bodywash. “Just between us, just for today, just here, it’s not Widow either. It’s Ella.”