Page 43 of Fang

As I groan in response, she pulls my shirt over my head. Her hands immediately return to trace the contours of my chest, my shoulders, and that sensitive spot where my neck meets my collarbone. Her touch is both curious and confident as she explores my body.

I reach for the hem of her borrowed t-shirt, drawing it upward with deliberate slowness. Unlike our frantic undressing in Mexico City, this time I want to savor each newly revealed inch of her skin. She raises her arms, allowing me to pull the fabric over her head, leaving her in just a simple black bra. The sight of her—slightly flushed, eyes dark with desire, trust written in every line of her body—makes my breath catch.

“You’re stunning,” I whisper.

“So are you.” A delicate, feminine smile spreads across her lips.

We undress each other slowly, with reverence rather than urgency. I learn her body with my hands and mouth—the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her gasp, the curve of her hip that fits perfectly in my palm, the small birthmark on her right shoulder blade shaped like a comma. She explores me with equal attention—fingers tracing the scar on my ribs from a motorcycle accident years ago, mouth discovering how my breath hitches when she kisses the inside of my wrist.

The cheap motel bed creaks beneath us as we stretch out together, skin against skin with nothing between us now. The yellow lamplight paints her body in gold and shadow, highlighting the dip of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, the strong lines of her thighs. I trace these contours with my fingertips, then my lips, then my tongue, drawing soft sounds from her that I memorize.

When I settle between her legs, tasting her most intimate places, her fingers tangle in my hair, guiding me where she needs me most. I follow her lead, learning the rhythm and pressure that makes her thighs tremble, that pulls my name from her lips in a broken whisper. Her body tenses as she comes for me, melting beneath my mouth.

She pulls me up afterward, kissing me deeply, tasting herself on my lips without hesitation. “I need you,” she murmurs, her hand sliding between us to guide me home.

I enter her slowly, watching her face as our bodies join. Her eyes stay open, locked on mine, allowing me to see every flicker of pleasure, every unguarded reaction. It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced—this silent communication, this mutual vulnerability, this perfect synchronization of bodies and breath.

We move together, finding a rhythm that builds steadily rather than frantically. The bed protests beneath us, its squeaking springs keeping time with our movements, but I barely notice. My world has narrowed to Mina—the soft sounds she makes when I hit just the right spot, the way her nails dig into my shoulders when I deepen my thrusts, the flutter of her eyelids when pleasure threatens to overwhelm her.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, needing to see her, to maintain this connection that feels more significant than mere physical pleasure.

Her eyes open, green and luminous in the dim light.

“I’m here,” she promises, the words carrying weight beyond their simple meaning.

When release approaches, it builds like a wave rather than a lightning strike—inevitable, powerful, all-consuming. She comes first, her body tightening around mine, her breath catching on my name. The sight of her pleasure, unguarded and real, sends me over the edge after her. For a moment that stretches into infinity, there is nothing but this—our bodies joined, our breaths mingled, our hearts beating in temporary synchrony.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied. Her head rests on my chest, while my arm wraps around her shoulders, keeping her close. The cheap digital clock on the nightstand blinks 2:17 AM in red numbers, a reminder that time continues to pass despite this bubble we’ve created.

“We have hours to go,” Mina murmurs, her finger tracing idle patterns on my chest. “What do we do until then?”

I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. “We rest. When Vapor gets here, it will be time to strategize. But for now, it’s just us.” My hand strokes along her spine, feeling each vertebra, each shift of muscle beneath her soft skin. “And we remember what we’re fighting for.”

She lifts her head to look at me, her expression serious despite our intimacy. “Rory,” she says.

“Yes,” I agree, then add softly, “And this. Whatever this is.”

She doesn’t respond with words, just settles her head back on my chest, her arm tightening around my waist. I don’t push for definitions or promises. In our world, tomorrow is never guaranteed. This moment—her warmth against me, her trust given freely, her breath steady against my skin—is enough.

Outside, the night deepens toward dawn. Somewhere in this coastal town, cartel soldiers patrol in search of us. Tomorrow, we’ll face whatever comes with the full might of the club behind us. But for now, in this temporary sanctuary, we can allow ourselves this stolen peace. I don’t know what to call this thing between us, but it doesn’t matter. Labeling it won’t make it any more real. It’s already undeniable.

Chapter 17: Mina

Three sharp knocks on the motel door send my heart racing. I glance at Fang, who nods once, his hand sliding to the gun at his waist before approaching the door. He checks the peephole, then steps back, shoulders relaxing a fraction.

This is it.

The club has arrived.

The door swings open, and Vapor strides in first, his presence immediately filling our shabby motel room like a storm front rolling in. Behind him, leather cuts creak and boots thud against worn carpet as the rest of the brothers file in, each face set with grim determination.

I straighten my spine, conscious of how I must look to them—the cartel hacker they barely know, asking them to risk their lives on foreign soil. Vapor’s piercing blue eyes find mine immediately, his gaze calculating and intense. He gives me a slight nod, not quite approval, but acknowledgment at least.

Ice enters next, his platinum hair catching the cheap motel lighting, making him look even more otherworldly than usual. He carries a small projector under one arm, which he hands to Fang without a word. Behind him comes Bones, massive and imposing, his dark skin gleaming with sweat from the tropical heat. Diablo follows, his eyes scanning every corner of the room with professional suspicion. Tank is the last through the door,younger than the others but no less dangerous, his linebacker build making the already small room feel claustrophobic.

I peek past them and see a dozen more men hanging out near a couple of vans in the parking lot. They obviously couldn’t rent bikes, because that would have been a huge red flag for the cartel. Riding down would have taken too long.

“Lock it,” Vapor orders, cutting off my view.

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