Page 13 of Boulder's Weight

Boulder's bike is parked nearby, sleek and dangerous.

"I'm staying at the clubhouse," he says, handing me a helmet. "You good if we head there?"

The clubhouse.

Where other club members will be.

Where I'll be exposed to more people who might recognize me if they've spent time in Billings.

It's a risk.

But going back to my empty apartment, of falling into the black hole of my thoughts and fears, is suddenly unbearable.

Family business stays in the family. I’ll find you, sis.

I can remember the words he wrote like the note is still in front of me.

It was the final sign I needed to leave Billings, and I’m not letting my fear control me tonight.

"What happens in Chihuahua stays in Chihuahua, right?" I say, forcing a playfulness I don't fully feel.

Boulder's answering smile is predatory. "If that's what you want, Montana."

Montana, I guess that must be a new nickname for me.

The ride to the clubhouse is a blur of wind and adrenaline.

I hold onto Boulder's waist, feeling the solid warmth of him, the power of the machine between our legs.

It's intoxicating, this feeling of freedom, of recklessness.

By the time we arrive, I'm more than ready for what's about to happen.

Boulder barely has the door to his room closed before my back hits the wall, his mouth hot and demanding on mine.

There's nothing gentle about this—it's primal, desperate, exactly what I need to drown out the noise in my head.

It reminds me of being back in Billings, the need, the rush, every bit of heat that coursed through us that night.

His hands are everywhere, pulling at my clothes, mapping my skin like he's trying to memorize every inch.

I'm just as frantic, tugging his cut down his arms, pulling his shirt over his head, running my palms over the tattoos that cover his chest and arms.

"Condom," I gasp as his lips trail down my neck.

He pulls away long enough to grab one from a drawer, then returns to me.

When he lifts me, I wrap my legs around his waist, and he pushes into me in one smooth thrust. I cry out, not caring who might hear.

"Fuck, Montana," he groans against my neck. "You feel so goddamn good."

The stretch of him filling me is exquisite, borderline painful in the best possible way.

I dig my nails into his shoulders, anchoring myself as he begins to move.

Each thrust drives me harder against the wall, the friction delicious against my sensitive skin.

"Harder," I demand, my voice ragged with need. "Don't you dare fucking hold back."

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