Page 55 of Storm's Deliverance

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

STORM

“Bit fucking brutal, wasn’t it?”I mutter, nodding towards the door.

He stands perfectly still, long enough that I begin to get concerned. I frown and wave a hand in front of his face. “Hello?” I call. “You having a stroke or something?”

Nothing.

I narrow my eyes. “Drix?” Without warning, he moves. One second, I’m standing in front of him, the next, the floor disappears beneath my feet. A startled squeal escapes me as he hooks his hands beneath my thighs and effortlessly lifts me into the air. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and I grab his broad shoulders to steady myself. “What the…”” He doesn’t answer. He simply walks with purposeful claim, as though carrying me like this is the most natural thing in the world. “Drix.” I laugh. “Why have you picked me up?”

“You were going to fight.”

I blink. “What?”

“Ginny.” His jaw ticks. “You were ready to throw hands.”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”

His brow arches.

“I wasn’t about to let her talk about me, or shit on our lifestyle.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “I know.”

“And?”

“I liked it.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He reaches the breakfast bar and gently sits me on the cool countertop, instead of one of the stools. He doesn’t step away. Instead, he remains between my knees, his hands resting lightly against my bare thighs.

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there. His blue eyes hold mine.

“Drix?” I whisper. His expression changes, the teasing disappears, and the humour fades. What’s left steals the air from my lungs.

“Kiss me,” he demands. He doesn’t move. Not an inch. His hands remain warm against my thighs, but it’s his eyes that hold me captive. Blue. Burning. Watching me with a hunger so carefully restrained it makes my pulse race.

“Drix...” I whisper his name again.

His jaw flexes. “Kiss me.” Not a demand. It’s a plea disguised as one. “I’m not asking twice.”

“There’s the biker I know,” I quip. I slide my hands higher into his hair, feeling the tension wound through every muscle beneath my fingertips.

He’s holding himself back. Again. Always. The thought both melts me and infuriates me. Slowly, deliberately, I lean in until my lips barely ghost over his. He doesn’t chase. He waits, giving me every opportunity to change my mind. Instead, I close the distance, pressing my lips to his. This kiss is mine. It’s not stolen, not fuelled by homemade alcohol, and not born from angeror frustration. A choice. My choice. His breath catches as my mouth lingers against his. Tentative and exploring.

I feel the exact moment his restraint begins to splinter. His fingers tighten against my thighs, and a barely audible groan rumbles deep in his chest. Still, he lets me lead.

A smile tugs at my lips against his mouth. “You really are going to make me do all the work?”

His forehead rests against mine. “You have no idea how close I am to losing every ounce of self-control.”

“Then stop fighting it.”

His eyes open. Raw. Unprotected. “If I stop...” he says quietly, “there’s no halfway with me.”