Page 60 of Vandal Unbound

My world just turned a blistering white, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same again. And it wasn’t just the orgasm, the aftershocks of which still ripple through my body.

It was the intimacy of what happened in this room tonight.

It was being with a man who was willing to accept his own frailties. A man who would rather leave me than bring anything other than his best self to me and my daughter.

Guilt mingles with my euphoria as I come down, and I close my eyes and try to drown out the thoughts that risk ruining this moment for me.

I should tell Vandal about my connection to Alvarez. But the risk is that if I tell him, he won’t go and get well. He’ll stay here with me, with increased vigilance, instead of taking the steps he still needs to heal.

He crawls up my body, the mattress shifting beneath his solid weight, and I open my eyes to find him watching me.

More, he’s studying me. As if trying to memorize the lines of my face. Nobody has ever looked at me like this before.

Desired me? Yes.

But this feels different in ways I struggle to articulate.

“Feel good?” he asks.

I smile softly. “That’s one word for it.”

A lock of dark hair falls over his face, and before I can stop myself, I reach up and push it back from his face.

His eyes soften at the ordinary, everyday gesture.

I lift onto one elbow to brush my mouth against his. “You taste like me,” I say.

He cups the back of my neck, holding me tightly so I can’t escape him, not that I’d want to, as he kisses me again.

With one hand, I reach for his belt.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says.

“You don’t have to have everything fixed to simply be here tonight. Life is a constellation of perfectly timed moments. Let this be one of them, Vandal. Please.”

I don’t know where the wellspring of wisdom comes from, but it eases us both.

Vandal stands and removes his leather cut.

“I’ve never seen you without it,” I say. It changes him from the biker to the man. Softens his image a little.

The black T-shirt peels over his head next and…

“Oh my…”

Vandal bashfully runs a hand down his chest. “I’m a little out of shape.”

“There is nothing out of shape about you.” He’s muscular, so maybe without five weeks of surgical recovery and alcohol and likely poor nutritional choices, his abs would be even more defined than they already are. “You’re a work of art.”

He smiles at that. “Now I know you’re talking bullshit.”

I shake my head. “Get naked and let me touch you until you believe me.”

As he turns to toss his T-shirt onto the dresser, I see a huge Iron Outlaws Motorcycle Club tattoo on his back. Like the patches on his leather cut, but instead it’s skin and vibrant ink.

“That should be my line.” But he unbuckles his belt as he toes his boots off while I take in all the tattoos that grace his body. There’s a ram on his ribs. It’s beautifully designed, the colors so vivid, with thick curled horns. There are words I can’t read properly from here. And both arms are full sleeves of black and gray realism with pops of color.

When he’s naked, I’m a little intimidated by the size of his cock. It’s thick and long and curves a little to the left.