Chapter Three

Chapter Three

GWEN

The air feels thick with tension, and the field before me is a mess of tire marks, scattered debris, and blood. I stand there, fists clenched, heart pounding. Creed is on the ground, blood blooming across his chest and running down one arm. The gauze that covers it looks like a macabre flower.

I scan the chaos, my resolve steeling. Maybe this is why I'm here? I've been floating through life, trying to find my purpose for a while now. Perhaps if I find out who's gunning for the Royal Bastards and sell my story, I'll cement myself as a real reporter, or maybe I'll simply find a place to call home here with this club.

Blue and red lights flash, sirens wailing as the cops pour onto the field like ants.

"Step back!" one cop barks, his hand hovering near his gun. Another kneels by Creed, his radio crackling with the urgency of life and death. "Dispatch, this is Officer Murphy. We have a gunshot victim at the Pumpkin Hill Creek Reserve. Requesting immediate medical assistance, please send an ambulance, over."

Questions fly hard and fast. "What happened here?"

"Who did this?"

The club members exchange glances. Silence hangs heavy, but survival trumps pride. For once, they are not at odds with the badges.

"Drive-by," Highway grumbles, his voice sounding like gravel mixed with frustration. "Didn't see who."

"Never saw it coming," Justice adds, his gaze locked on Creed's prone form.

"Unknown assailants," I offer, meeting the officer's probing eyes. There's no room for half-truths when blood is spilled.

"Stay put. We're gonna need to take your statements," the cop insists, flipping open a notebook.

As another officer approaches, it's evident he commands authority, and everyone instinctively clears a path for him. He leans over Creed, his expression turning to a frown when he scrutinizes him closely. Then, his gaze shifts, methodically meeting the eyes of each of us in turn.

"Is this a gang thing or a cartel thing?"

Reaper crosses his arms over his chest and looks the man up and down. "We don't know. We came out here to party. This isn't on us."

"Yeah, I saw your permit cross my desk. Didn't think you all would be stupid enough to open fire on each other."

Reaper's arms drop to his sides, and he leans forward, eyes blazing at the officer. "This wasn't us. We don't shoot our own."

The man glances down at Creed and drags one shoulder up to his ear. "Make no difference to me if you kill each other."

"Excuse me." I hold my camera up and snap a picture of the man. "Gwen Fullerton for National Geographic. I was out here doing a piece on the Royal Bastards. Am I to assume the Jacksonville PD isn't going to pursue those responsible, Officer…" I let my question hang there, waiting for this arrogant man to answer.

"You work for National Geographic?"

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a card and hand it to him. He scans my business card, puts one hand on his hip, and makes a tut-tutting noise.

"Are you trying to tell me…" he waves my card around and grins at me, "… that you're not one of these club whores but a genuine reporter?"

"You can read, can't you?"

Highway's hand rubs the small of my back. I know it's meant to calm me down, but this police officer is beyond rude.

Both hands go to his hips, and he leans forward. "I'm Sheriff Roy Baker. And just what is National Geographic doing with bikers?"

"I'm doing a piece about the urban rebel, the life of those who live outside the norm, of those who are free and unencumbered by the laws forced upon them by society." I smile warmly at the man, and he looks a little uncertain as the lies fall easily from my lips.

"You get any photos of this altercation?"

"No, sir. I had only just arrived and was scrambling for my life when the bullets went flying. You're welcome to check."

I hold out my camera to him, and Reaper's eyes widen. While he was talking to the sheriff, I sent the pictures of the day to the cloud and deleted them from my camera.

"Murphy," the Sheriff commands. "Escort this woman to your squad car and check her camera. If there's anything on it, secure it as evidence."

"You can't do that," I protest.

The sheriff looks me up and down. "Now, lady, you just watch me."

Officer Murphy places his hand on my elbow, and Highway steps toward him with a growl. His hand drops, and he points to a police car.

"Ma'am, if you'll come this way?"

Highway's eyes meet mine, and I place a hand on his chest. "I'll be right back."

He steps back and gives Officer Murphy a stare that makes the man swallow loudly. Despite the grim surroundings, a smile creases on my face. For a man who couldn't get himself to talk to me, Highway sure seems invested.

When we get to the squad car, I hold out my camera for Officer Murphy.

"Ma'am, if you could please just show me what's on it?"

"Sure. You're not good with technology?"

He shakes his head. "It's not that. I can see this probably cost you more than I make in a week, hell, maybe a month. I don't want to break it."

With a chuckle, I show him the photographs on my camera.

"You took pictures of the dirt?"

Nodding, I say, "When the gunfire started, I hit the ground and must have had my finger on the button." I shrug. "My usual gig is wildlife, not… this."

Officer Murphy places a hand on my upper arm. "You shouldn't be out here, ma'am."

"Please, call me Gwen."

Highway moves up behind Officer Murphy and clears his throat.

The officer immediately drops his hand and moves back. "Ahh, seems like the lady didn't get photos of anything important." The officer tips his hat at me. "Ma'am, I mean Gwen, we won't need to take your camera into evidence." He walks away, only glancing back at me once as he rejoins his boss near Creed.

"You know he's harmless."

Highway purses his lips together. "He's a cop."

"And that makes him trouble?"

"For the club, yes." Highway looks around. "I need to check on my people and want you to be safe. You know Winchester, yeah?"

"He's your sergeant at arms, right?"

"Find him. He'll be near someone who's injured or dead."

Reaching out, I place my hand on his chest and move closer to him. "Why can't I stay with you?"

"The police are going to keep us here. Winchester has a car. Ask him to borrow it." His hand covers mine. "Then go home. Stay there until I come for you." Highway bends at the knees to look me in the eyes and nods as though he needs me to do as I'm told.

"Okay." I look at our hands joined together on his chest. "But you'll find me later?"

"I said I would."

"No matter how late?"

He huffs out a laugh. "Yes, Gwen."

"Good." I slide my hand out from under his and search for Winchester.

The sergeant at arms stands apart from the fray, a pillar of calm in a storm of panic and police tape. His eyes are sharp as he assesses the scene. They dart from cop to cop, reading them like a biker reads the road.

"Winchester," I call out, my voice slicing through the murmur of uneasy bikers.

He turns, his gaze locking onto mine. There's a flicker of surprise that he quickly masks beneath a stoic fa?ade.

"Got a minute?" I ask, jerking my head toward the edge of the chaos.

He nods once, an almost imperceptible dip of his chin, and we move away from prying ears.

"Here's the deal," I start without a preamble. "Highway wants me to borrow your car and leave."

Winchester's jaw sets hard, his distrust for the badges around us almost tangible. I read caution in the lines of his face and see it in the way he gives nothing away.

"My car?"

"Yep. He seems to think law enforcement is going to keep you lot here for hours, but I'm just a journalist who saw nothing, so I should be let go."

Winchester raises an eyebrow. "You saw nothing?"

"Well, that's what they think." I hold up my camera.

He smirks. "It's a fucking mess. Are you going to the clubhouse?"

"Highway said to go home."

With a quick shake of his head, he says, "No. You're going to get those pictures printed and then come back to the clubhouse."

A tall, good-looking man with dirty-blond hair approaches us, blood dripping from his arm. "Winchester," he says by way of greeting, then fixes me with an intense stare.

"Ghost, this is Gwen. She's a reporter. Ghost is visiting from Iowa."

"Ahh, Lucy said there were other chapters here today. You're a long way from home," I say, meeting his piercing blue eyes.

He nods, his gaze shifting around. "Yeah, I thought the sun and sand would be good for me, but this? Nah, this is bad."

"It is," agrees Winchester with a nod. He points to Ghost's arm. "You got hit?"

"Just a graze." Ghost flexes his arm to inspect the wound, and I'm struck by how rugged and masculine he is.

"You should get it looked at. You don't want an infection," I say.

The two men exchange a glance before Ghost smiles at me. "I think I'll live." His eyes shift to the police cruisers in the distance. "How long before you think they'll let us leave?"

"Those with warrants will get pulled in, but the sooner we give them statements, the sooner we'll be out of here," replies Winchester.

"I've no desire to tangle with the law. One stint in jail is enough for me. Where's Creed?" Ghost asks.

Winchester looks around and shrugs. "No idea."

"You don't know? Oh, shit. Sorry."

Winchester straightens up. "Don't know what?"

"He got shot. He says it's a through and through, but they're working on him now."

Winchester's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Don't you think you should have led with that?"

"Sorry, I—"

"Where is he?" demands Winchester.

I point in the direction I came from. "Over there."

"How many are dead and injured?" asks Ghost.

"Three dead and six injured." He looks past me to a body in the field. "Whoever did this, they're not stopping. We need to find them first. Information is ammo," he says quietly.

"Exactly," I reply. "And right now, we're shooting blanks, but maybe I have something on film."

Winchester studies me, his eyes assessing, deciding if I can be trusted. Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulls out a set of keys.

"It's the old red truck parked down there." He points toward his vehicle. "Make sure you clear it with the cops before you leave."

"Will do."

"I'll be seeing you, Lucy's sister."

"Gwen."

"I know." Winchester smirks then goes back to his MC brothers, and I head for Sheriff Roy Baker.

He's standing next to a couple of his men. The sheriff sees me coming, and his lips turn down in distaste.

"Excuse me, Sheriff?" He nods. "I was wondering if I could go?"

"Have you given a statement?"

"No, but—"

"Then no." The sheriff moves away from me with a dismissive flick of his hand.

Not wanting to be here any longer than I need to, I chase after him. "Well, perhaps I could ask you a few questions, Sheriff?"

He stops moving and turns to face me. "Questions?"

"Yes, sir. For instance, have the police got any suspects in the assassination attempt on the Royal Bastards?"

"Assassination attempt?" He rolls his eyes. "Seems more like the usual gun play between these fellas. You mark my words."

"Ahh, so the local PD already has a bias against the Royal Bastards and has jumped to conclusions without any evidence to back it up?"

Sheriff Roy Baker frowns. "You can go. Leave your name and address with Officer Murphy, and don't leave town."

"Can I get an official statement from you, Sheriff?"

"Not at this time. Now, go." He again waves a hand at me dismissively and walks away.

With a casual shrug, I stroll over to Winchester's old truck and hoist myself into the driver's seat. It protests with a coughing splutter as I turn the key, but soon, it settles into a smooth purr. As I drive away from the field, I glance in the rearview mirror.

There stands Highway, solitary, his gaze fixed on me as I depart.

It's so like him.

Observant.

Always watching.

Yet seemingly content with claiming little, if anything, for himself.

His distant demeanor is as deep as it is mysterious.

***

As I hop out of the truck, Dad greets me with a curious glance.

"New car?"

With a giggle, I shake my head. "Nah, borrowed it from one of the MC boys."

His lips turn down, and he stares at the old red beast. "She's definitely seen better days."

Slamming the door closed, I agree. "Maybe, but she runs well." Dad has begrudgingly approved of Lucy and Reaper, but I'm not sure how he'll react to me being so close to an encounter with gun play, so I decide not to tell him about the sniper attack on the MC. I notice he has his briefcase in his grip, so instead, I ask, "Heading to work?"

"I have a meeting with one of the best plastic surgeon practices here in Jacksonville. I'm going to see if we're a good match for each other." Dad wraps me in a quick hug and plants a kiss on my cheek. "See you when I get back."

Holding up my camera, I say, "I'm going to develop these and then drop them off at the MC, so I might not be home."

"Okay, honey. Be safe." Dad climbs into his sleek silver Mercedes and drives away.

It's funny, when we lived in Miami, he would interrogate me about where I was going, but ever since we moved here, he's mellowed. I like to think it's because he trusts the MC to look after us more than he did his old circle of uptight friends.

Me telling him there was a gunfight wouldn't do either of us any good. The less Dad knows, the better, although he'll probably roast me for it later when it hits the news.

Walking into the house, I go downstairs to my workroom. Turning on my computer, I log into my cloud and download all the photographs I've taken, scrutinizing each one. The images aren't clear, but you can definitely make out faces, and maybe one of the MC brothers will recognize someone.

Clicking on all the images, I hit print and wait for the machine to give me hardcopies to take to the clubhouse.

***

I'm in the belly of the dimly lit clubhouse.

Most of the women are missing, and the men either look angry or defeated. The stench of spilled beer and old smoke hangs heavily in the air, a testament to countless nights of revelry, now overshadowed by the current mood. Winchester is leaning across a scarred table, his eyes lock onto mine, and a subtle lift of his chin serves as a greeting and an invitation to join him.

The clubhouse feels too quiet. My footsteps seem to echo as I walk across the room. Some of the men are drinking, but there's not a lot of conversation. It feels as though all eyes are on me as I sit opposite Winchester.

"Highway left a while ago to bring you here."

Glancing around the room, I put the A4 manila envelope on the table. "You told me to get these printed and get my ass back here."

His eyes flick to the envelope, then back to me. "Seems our road captain likes you. He said he told you to wait."

With a sigh, I say, "He did, but you told me to get these printed. Couldn't you have told him that?" Winchester shrugs. "How'd things go with the cops? Is Creed okay?"

A half-smile plays across Winchester's face. "They've kept a couple of us on outstanding warrants, but they'll be fine. As for Creed, he's a tough bastard. Although the way Devil is fussing over him, you'd think the man was on his deathbed." He gives the tabletop a couple of thoughtful taps. "We need to wait for Reaper before we look at your photos."

"Where is he?"

"With Highway on their way to get you."

Closing my eyes, I sigh. "Ahh, shit."

"Yep, that's about the size of it."

Pulling out my cell phone, I dial Highway.

His voice, rough as sandpaper, cuts through the silence, "Where the fuck are you?"

Cringing, I rush my words. "Sorry! I'm at the clubhouse. I printed the photographs and wanted to get them to you as soon as possible."

"You were told to wait."

His tone brings an involuntary roll of my eyes, causing Winchester to laugh. "Jesus, you and Winchester sound the same. I'm here."

Silence greets me on the other end of the line.

"Highway?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. I'll do as I'm told next time."

"You're damn straight you will."

The line goes dead, and I look at Winchester. "He's upset."

"He'll get over it." Winchester picks up his drink and swirls the liquid around in his glass. "Let's play a game. Memorize the faces in this room. Who comes, who goes."

I nod, taking mental snapshots of the MC. A burly man with a serpent tattoo strides in, and I commit his face to memory. A couple of men at the bar are standing together, whispering.

"If we weren't on friendly ground, I'd tell you to keep your back to the wall," Winchester continues, his gaze never wavering from the entrance. "Always see the exit. The key to not being seen is to blend in." He glances around the room. "For you, that would be jeans and a leather jacket. In this instance, it would be your camouflage."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Winchester ignores my comment and says, "Your eyes, they're your best weapon. Learn to listen with them."

"Listen with my eyes?" I question, skepticism edging my tone.

"See the twitch before the fist. The glance before the gun."

"Got it," I reply as I understand his meaning.

"Good." He gives a short nod, satisfied. "Now, let's get you closer to the fire."

Standing, I pick up the envelope, and Winchester guides me through the clubhouse and out to a bonfire, his hand firm on my back. We sidle up to a group of brothers, close enough to eavesdrop, far enough to remain unseen.

"Observe their hands, their feet," he directs. "Details, Gwen. Details tell stories."

I hone in on a group in the corner, rough voices spilling tales of turf and trouble. My heart hammers as I soak up every word, every gesture.

"Who they fear, who they respect," Winchester murmurs, reading my focus. "It's all there if you know how to look."

"Like a game of chess," I say, catching on.

"Exactly," he confirms, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Remember, it's not just rival MCs or cartels. It's a world where every shadow could be an enemy."

"Or an ally," I counter, thinking of the alliances I've started to forge.

"True," he concedes, and there's a flicker of respect in his eyes. "You learn fast."

"Yo, Winchester!" Turning, a man and a woman are moving toward us. "How's Creed?"

"He's fine… it's not like he hasn't been shot before." Winchester points at me. "This is Gwen, she's Lucy's sister. Gwen, this is Dutch and Una from the UK."

Holding out my hand, Dutch shakes it firmly. "There are Royal Bastards in England?"

Una laughs. "They're everywhere."

"We were sent to oversee a couple of business deals." His eyes flick to Winchester. "But our business is done, so I'm thinking Una and I will head home as soon as we're able."

"Thought you two would want to hang around?" Winchester asks.

"We've been here for two weeks, and after this? It's time for us to get back to home soil." Dutch places a possessive tattooed arm around Una.

"Gun control in the UK is a hell of a lot better than here, right?"

Una winks at me. "Yes and no."

A car pulls up, and I watch Reaper and Highway hurry into the clubhouse. "We should get inside." Winchester holds out a hand to Dutch. "Don't leave yet. Give it a day or two just to be safe."

Dutch lets go of Una and shakes his hand. "As you wish."

Winchester nods solemnly and puts a hand on my elbow, guiding me back inside.

As the clubhouse door closes with a thud, the pungent odor of spilled beer overwhelms me. Winchester is at my side, his eyes scanning the room. I assume he is looking for his VP. First, I see Highway and then Reaper following close behind.

Holding up the envelope, I extend it to Reaper. "These are for you."

Reaper looks me up and down, then takes it out of my hand. "Are you okay? When you weren't at home…" He glances at Highway. "Well, we were worried."

"Sorry, there was a communication breakdown." I give Winchester a sideways look. "And I thought you'd want these sooner rather than later."

Highway frowns. "We have no fucking idea who's gunning for us, and you decide to come here by yourself?"

Taken aback by his tone, I reply, "Yes, I did. Hell, you lot let me drive home alone in one of your MC's trucks. If someone was gunning for you and watching you, did it occur to you they may have followed me?"

Highway cocks his head to the side and stares at me, barely controlled anger rolling off him in waves.

"She has a point," chimes in Winchester.

Reaper holds up the envelope. "Enough." He slaps Winchester on the shoulder. "She's fine, and we have the photographs. Let's take a look."

The three men walk into a room, the one reserved for church. Aware of my status as an outsider, I'm conscious that entry is off-limits to me under normal circumstances.

Reaper turns and points at me. "Are you coming?"

His unexpected invitation momentarily throws me. Seizing the moment, I quicken my pace to join them, driven by curiosity and anticipation. The door swings open to reveal a large wooden table with the MC logo carved into its center. Chairs are arranged all around it, standing sentinel. My initial rush of excitement gives way to a hint of anticlimax. After all the secrecy and the strict boundaries set around this room, I had half-expected more. Something clandestine, perhaps. Yet here it stands, a simple meeting room.

"What?" asks Reaper as he stares at me.

With a quick smile, I reply, "Nothing."

He frowns and then sits at the head of the table with Highway and Winchester sitting on either side of him. Without saying a word, Highway pulls out the chair next to him, indicating I should sit there.

"Thank you," I say as I take my place at the table.

Reaper pulls out the photographs, stares at each one, hands them to Winchester, who passes them to Highway, and finally to me. No one speaks as they study the images before them. I'm waiting for the last picture. This one is the most blurry, but it is a close-up of one of the shooters.

"Fuck," mutters Reaper, his gaze fixed on the indistinct figure captured in the image before he tosses it to Winchester.

"Motherfuckers." Winchester's lips form a tight line as he slides it across the table to Highway.

"I'm sorry the image isn't clearer. I was hoping you might know who he is?"

Highway studies the photograph intently, then holds it out to me. "Not who specifically, but that tattoo on his wrist? It's the mark of the Crimson Wheelers MC."

"Is that good or bad?" I ask.

"Fucking bad," hisses Reaper. "We all know who's behind this now."

"Who?" I ask.

The men exchange silent glances, their reluctance to speak unsettling.

"Come on," I urge. "I risked my life to get these shots. At least give me the who and the why."

"Club business," Highway and Reaper say in unison.

Standing, I look down at Highway. "Well, fuck you too."

Winchester's laughter echoes behind me as I storm out of the room and through the clubhouse doors. I'm halfway across the compound when Highway catches up, his grip tight as he whirls me around to face him.

"What?" I reply with more force than intended.

He releases my arm. "Thank you for the photographs."

I scoff. "You chased me out of the clubhouse for that? To say thank you?"

Highway points at the clubhouse. "It's the way we do things. You're not one of us."

Throwing my hands in the air, I turn once more and head for Winchester's truck. "Understood!"

Pulling the keys out of my pocket, I wrench open the door, but Highway's arm wraps around my waist, and he turns me around.

"What?"

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "The club appreciates you getting us those pictures." I roll my eyes and stare up at the sky. "Gwen, look at me."

Highway is far too close to me. Sucking in a deep breath, I lock eyes with him. "I get it… I'm a woman. If I had a penis, you'd share, but I don't. That's some deep male bullshit if I've ever heard it."

"That's got nothing to do with it." His eyes drop to my lips. "Even if you were a man, we wouldn't share. You're not a Bastard…" he pauses for a moment, then adds, "… and if you were a man, I wouldn't do this."

His hand moves up my back, he grips my ponytail as his other arm crushes me against him, and then Highway's lips find mine. In shock and totally unprepared, I let out a cry, and his tongue takes advantage, exploring my mouth.

At first, I press against his chest, trying to push him off, but as his lips meet mine with an intensity that ignites something primal within me, my resistance wanes. Tongues dance in a frenzy of desire, and his hand traces a path across my body, setting my nerves ablaze with each electrifying touch. My fingers claw at his T-shirt in a desperate bid to feel the warmth of the skin beneath.

Highway breaks the kiss, his eyes searching mine as his breaths come hard and fast. With a primal growl, he grabs my hand and yanks me across the compound, through the clubhouse, and up a flight of stairs. He walks down a hallway, opens a door, pulls me inside, and slams it shut behind us. Before I can even comprehend our surroundings or the whirlwind of events unfolding, his lips capture mine again.

This all feels way too fast. I'm not this woman. I don't sleep with someone until I know them.

Highway runs his chin up my neck—maybe I am this woman.

Clumsy fingers move to his belt as I struggle to undo it while his hands explore my body, and I find myself pressing against him, desperate for more. Highway pulls my shirt up over my head and removes his own, exposing all his tattoos. He roughly yanks down my bra, and his mouth captures one of my nipples. I cry out as his tongue flicks across its sensitive surface.

Holding him there as he sucks and teases me, my thighs feel like they are on fire, and I moan out in frustration when he stops.

Highway drops to his knees. "Sit," he orders.

Not wanting this to stop, I do as he demands. Highway removes my boots and pushes me back on the bed. His fingers undo my belt, and he pulls my jeans and underwear down my legs. I'm bare in front of him but feel no embarrassment or self-consciousness—he makes me feel sexy.

Scooting up the bed, Highway watches me, takes off his belt, kicks off his boots, and undoes the top button of his jeans. With a predatory smile, Highway crawls up the bed. He blows on my pussy, sending a shiver through me. He smiles as he moves farther up my body, where his lips meet mine as he lowers himself over me. At first, I'm frustrated he's not naked, but the feel of denim against my pussy is exciting. I spread my legs further and wrap them around his waist as we kiss, grinding into him with abandon.

Reaching between us, Highway touches my clit, and I arch into him, desperately wanting more. With deft fingers, he teases me, bringing me to the edge and back many times.

"Please, I need more," I beg.

"Will you do as you're told?"

His question surprises me, and I look at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

Highway smiles. He moves down my body, his tongue going between my folds, where he licks and sucks. The orgasm is almost upon me. This man knows what he's doing—I'm about to shatter into a million pieces. With both hands wrapped in his hair, I spread my legs wider, holding him in place.

Highways stops and sits back on bended knees. "Will you do as you're told?" he asks once more as his fingers move in and out of me.

This time, there's no hesitation. I nod as his thumb applies pressure to my clit, and all rational thought leaves me.

"Say it," he demands.

"Yes."

Highway stands and lets his jeans fall to the floor. He's perfect. All muscle, tattoos, and a huge cock which is hard and glistening on its tip.

"Will you do as you're told?" he asks again.

"Yes, I'll do as I'm told."

A smile spreads across his face as he strokes himself up and down. "Good girl."

He bends and kisses from my knee to my pussy, where he brings me once again to the brink. This time, he doesn't stop, and my orgasm washes through me. I then feel him push his way inside as his thumb applies pressure to my clit. The waves of ecstasy keep coming as he pounds into me.

"So. Fucking. Tight." Highway grunts. "And now you're mine."

I'm on fire as he fucks me. His huge cock hits the right spot with every thrust. Every kiss and grunt intensifies the sensations sweeping through me. Our bodies are slick with sweat as we move in unison. Highway pulls out, stands, grabs my ankles, drags me down the bed, and then flips me over.

"On your knees."

I do as I'm told and go up on all fours. Slowly, he pushes himself inside me, then just as slowly, he pulls out. Highway then moves faster, and my arms shake as he goes deeper.

"Yes," I cry out.

"Harder?"

"Yes!"

Highway's cock keeps hitting me just right. I need to move and find another release.

Rocking back, I match his pace. The sound of our bodies colliding and the occasional grunt fills the room. My orgasm courses through my veins, and I come so hard I cry out his name.

"Good girl," he growls.

Highway thrusts inside me one last time as his seed fills me.

We are locked together. My body is a quivering mess, and when he pulls out of me, I cry out. Overwhelmed, a sob escapes me and then another. My arms and legs are locked in place, unable to move. Tears course down my cheeks as I try to control my emotions and this feeling of finding my perfect mate. It's then that something warm touches my pussy and ass. He's cleaning me with a washcloth.

"It's okay," he whispers. "Sometimes it can feel very intense."

I nod, unable to do anything else.

Highway lies on the bed and drags me up so I'm lying on his chest. His fingers stroke my hair and back as I lay there, not moving or speaking.

Exhausted and sated, I fall asleep in his arms, feeling protected, cared for, and well and truly fucked.