Page 22 of Saber's Claim
I turn to face him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with hooded eyes.
“I should go.” It’s hard to say those words out loud, but I mean them. “I don’t want to be the reason your club falls apart.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Saber, I can’t stay here.”
“You can, and you will stay here.” He pushes off the wall. One step toward me. “In this club, we protect our Old Ladies. That’s not negotiable. That’s not up for a vote. It’s how this works.”
My heart is slamming. “Is that what I am?”
He’s close now. Close enough that I have to tip my chin back to hold his eyes, and the height difference puts my mouth level with his collarbone.
“If you want to be.”
“What does that mean? Being your Old Lady.”
“It means you’re mine. Not the club’s.Mine.” That last word comes out in a growl. “It means every man who wears this patch treats you with respect, or he answers to me. It means nobody touches you. Nobody threatens you. You are under my protection, and that protection doesn’t expire.”
“And what do I give up?”
“Nothing.” His jaw loosens. “You’re not giving anything up, Shelby. This isn’t a cage. It’s a claim. And a claim only works if you want it.”
I hold his eyes. Saber is standing here, telling me I have a choice.
Nobody has ever let me choose.
“I already told you,” I say. “I like that I’m yours.”
His hand comes up. Fingers slide along my jaw, tilting my head back, and this time he doesn’t pull back. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss isn’t careful.
He kisses me like the argument is still burning in his blood, and I’m the only thing that makes sense. His other hand finds my hip, pulling me flush against him, and the heat of his bare chest burns through the thin cotton of his shirt on my body. My hands land on his stomach, feeling hard muscle and warm skin. And they travel up. Over his ribs. Over tattoos. Over scars I’ll ask about later.
His tongue drags across my lower lip. I open for him, and his mouth swallows the sound I make. He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall, and his body holds me there.
His hand fists in my hair. Pulls my head back. His mouth breaks from mine and drags down the side of my neck, open and hot, teeth grazing the tendon below my ear. My back arches off the wall, pressing into him, and the hardness between his legs is thick against my stomach.
“Do you want this?” His mouth is on my throat. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes. I want this. I want you.”
He makes a sound against my skin—low, rough, like I’ve ripped something loose inside him. His hands find the hem of the t-shirt and pull it over my head in one motion. I’m in underwear and nothing else, and the air hits my bare skin.
He looks at me, taking in every inch. My breasts, my waist, the curve of my hips. His eyes go dark, and his hands flex at his sides, and he’s holding himself back with a restraint that’s cracking at the edges.
“Fuck.” And that’s all he says.
I reach for him, but he drops to his knees.
Both knees. On the floor in front of me. The President of the Hellborn Kings, on his knees before me, his hands sliding up the outside of my thighs.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and pulls them down. I step out of them. He lifts my left leg over his shoulder, and his lips are on the inside of my thigh, and my head falls back.
He doesn’t tease. He drags his tongue up my inner thigh, and when he reaches where I’m aching for him, his mouth closes over me, and my knees buckle.
His hands catch my hips, and he presses me against the wall. He licks and sucks, and the sound that tears out of me is loud enough that anyone in the hallway would hear it.
I don’t care.
