Page 17 of Clay

We’ve got history, baggage, a mess of feelings that need sorting.

But right now, with him standing there, all heat and want, talking feels like a waste of time.

My body’s buzzing, alive with the memory of the forest—the press of his hands, the taste of his mouth—and words can’t touch that. I step closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, and shake my head.

“Later,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm inside. “We can talk later. Right now, it’s time for something else.”

His eyes flash—surprise, then hunger—and that’s all it takes.

I close the gap, my hands fisting in his jacket as I yank him down, and our lips crash together.

It’s passionate, fierce, a collision of need that steals my breath and sets my blood on fire.

Clay groans into my mouth, a low, primal sound that vibrates through me, and his hands slide to my hips, pulling me hard against him. I can feel him—every hard line, every insistent press—and it lights me up, a blaze spreading fast from my core.

We stumble backward, my shoulder bumping the doorframe as he presses into me, his lips moving with a hunger that matches mine.

My fingers dig into Clay’s shoulders, tugging at the leather, and he kicks the door wider, guiding us inside. It’s a clumsy dance—my bare feet slipping on the floor, his boots thudding heavy—and we’re through the threshold, the cottage swallowing us whole.

I break the kiss just long enough to shove the door shut, my hand fumbling with the latch until it clicks, locking the world out.

It’s just us now, the quiet hum of the house drowned by the sound of our breathing, the heat of our bodies filling the space.

He’s on me again before I can blink, backing me against the wall, his mouth dropping to my neck. His teeth graze my skin, just enough to make me gasp, and my hands slide under his jacket, finding the warm cotton of his shirt, the solid muscle beneath.

I pull him closer, needing him flush against me, and he growls low, his hands slipping under my sweater, rough palms skimming my bare sides.

The sensation’s electric, sparking through me, and I tip my head back, giving him more, letting him take it.

“Dylan,” he mutters against my collarbone, voice thick with want, and it’s like gasoline on the fire already roaring inside. I don’t answer—just grab his face, dragging him back to my mouth, kissing him deeper, harder, pouring everything into it.

The past, the hurt, the years apart—it’s all here, tangled in the way we fit, the way we always have. We’re a mess of motion, stumbling through the living room, my hip catching the couch, his elbow knocking a lamp askew. Neither of us cares. It’s just him, me, and this—this thing we can’t stop, won’t stop, not now.

The front door’s shut, the lock engaged, and the world’s gone.

It’s Dylan and Clay, and whatever comes next is about to be hotter than the sun…

Chapter 8

Clay

Inside Dylan’s cottage, the door clicking shut behind us, the air shifts—warm, soft, scented faintly with lavender and wildflowers.

It’s his space, all cozy and calm, a stark contrast to the rumble of my Harley still echoing in my ears and the chaos of my life outside these walls.

My boots thud heavy on the wood floor, out of place in this little haven he’s built, and I catch a glimpse of his study through the open doorway—flowery walls, a desk piled with books, a glow that’s all him.

I’ve got a thousand things I need to say, words piling up in my chest about the heist tomorrow night, about the Wolf Riders, about whether he can stomach the outlaw shit I drag around like a shadow.

I came here to talk, to lay it out—Kreese’s plan, the truck, the money, the risk of cuffs snapping back on my wrists if it goes south. I need to know if he can handle me, all of me, not just the kid he loved seven years ago but the man I am now, patched and rough and living on the edge.

But Dylan is on me, and I’m on him too. All the plans and discussions in the world wouldn’t make a difference now that we’re in this moment of pure heat with one another.

The words I’d rehearsed scatter like ash, burned up by the heat of his mouth, the way he presses himself against me. He’s not here for talking—not now—and fuck if I can think straight with the boy kissing me like this, like he’s starving for it.

My hands slide to his hips, gripping tight, and I grind into Dylan, hard and firm.

I’m turned on—Christ, I’m more than turned on, my blood’s roaring, every nerve lit up by his touch.

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