Page 64 of Carver
“I’m going to come with you,” Dom grunts. “You’re clenching all over my cock. I want to be buried inside of you.”
We normally couldn’t do that unless he wore a condom, Dom just about always pulled out.
“Yes,” I hiss, claiming his lips again.
I smother my moans of pleasure with his mouth, especially as Dom drives harder, thrusting madly for a few seconds. He seats himself deep inside of me, moving with me until he can’t anymore. I jerk and shiver harder when I feel the hot jets of him coming deep inside of me. I break the kiss and let him band his arms around my back and hold me close while his motions slow and mine follow.
His breath becomes my breath, his pleasure mine. He holds me close until our breathing settles, until our skin cools, and our brains come back online.
Instead of shifting me off of him, he carefully shifts me to the side. I catch myself, arranging myself on my side. He pulls out, but replaces his cock with his fingers, tucking his come back inside of me. He keeps his hand at my entrance for a few heartbeats before he wraps his arm around me, banding me close.
I’ve never felt so safe. So loved. So at peace. “I love you,” I whisper-sigh as my eyes start to close, all the orgasms and the early morning, the full day of Ellie’s party, catching up.
It’s the best thing in the world that the last words I get to hear before I drift off are the ones that hold his declaration of love reverberating against my shoulder as he kisses me there, given so freely for me to hold in my heart.
Chapter 18
Carver
In a newly renovated studio with lots of bright natural lighting, stainless work benches, fresh paint and spotless surfaces… I almost crave the dirt.
I have anti-fatigue mats for standing on concrete while I work, but I still miss the feel of the dirt floor beneath my boots. My grandpa’s old, scarred, beat up workbenches with the sag here and there, slightly tilted and far from level were sometimes inconvenient, but I’m so used to reaching for tools there, sitting down to think, touching the surfaces worn smooth, that these new workbenches feel almost clinical.
I don’t want to be an ungrateful asshole. I’m certainly not going to complain. I did think about going back to my place and ripping out the workbenches to bring them here, but decided against it. I wanted this to be a fresh start. Whatever I feel nostalgic about is mostly just habit. I haven’t been in my new studio long enough to fully appreciate how functional it is. If I want to make changes, I can do that.
Kael and Dravin asked me what I envisioned for a studio space. Kael even made me do a brainstorming chart like in elementary and made a checklist of absolute must haves. She did hire contractors to take out one of the overhead doors and install a bank of windows, but other than that, all the work was completed by guys from the club. They’d helped out Atlas and Willa when it came to renovating the building they purchased to use as Willa’s antique store. Years ago, when Crow bought his tattoo studio, they did the renovations there as well. They’vedone houses, garages, and many of them were around when the clubhouse was converted from an old factory.
With so many hands, the work progressed rapidly. There was no bullshitting, no breaks, no one showing up pissed and getting fired, or slacking off. The most extensive renovations transformed the garage’s old office space into a gallery, complete with two back offices, a storage room, and a huge amount of floor space. The walls are now pristine white, there’s adequate lighting, and salvaged hardwood was installed.
Despite sometimes working a full shift at the club’s garage, or tattooing, or doing hair, everyone came out in shifts. The work went on for just about twenty-four hours a day, but that meant that the building was transformed in less than two weeks.
The beep at the man door chimes and I spin around from the sketch that I’ve been working on for the past few hours.
It’s ambitious, and it has to match the proportions of the stone that arrived two days ago. The marble is gorgeous. It’s far past what I was expecting from the photos. I spent half a day staring down the stone, waiting for inspiration. It came in the middle of the night.
Bronte found me at four in the morning, sitting at the kitchen table with a homemade cappuccino and my sketchpad. She didn’t ask me if I was stressed about the documents I’d be signing later. She just kissed me and told me that if I needed her, to call or text.
I took her truck to the shop, and I’ve been sitting here at this workbench since five, roughing out sketches that just aren’t fullyright.
Maybe Iamdistracted.
Whatever I wanted to get from my place, if anything, it’s too late now.
The club’s lawyer, Lynette, is here. She’s followed in by her man, Bullet. Dravin is with them. He closes and locks the door behind him. Knowing that they’d be coming, I opened it twenty minutes ago and sent Dravin a text.
Lynette is tall and statuesque, and in a black pencil skirt and a white blouse, she looks very lawyerly.
She’s also noticeably pregnant.
“You should have worn your jacket. It’s cold out there.” Bullet fusses over her, running his hands over her shoulders like she just went through a traumatic experience and he’s assuring himself that she’s fine.
She pats his cheek affectionately, smiling at him in that patronizing way that says she knows that he hates when she does things like that because he’s a grown man, a big biker, a former soldier,andhe owns the newly finished gun range. He’s too deadly for cheek pats.
“The car was ten feet from the door. It’s notthatcold either.”
There’s a bit of a breeze today, but it’s sunny and it hasn’t rained for a week.
Bullet grumbles, still overprotective, but he stops fussing when I stand up and gesture to the workbench. Lynette sets her leather bag down and extracts a pile of documents.
