That gets them. East barks a laugh. “Fucking hell. You hit it again, didn’t you?”
I don’t react. Don’t need to. The image of her writhing on that workbench, legs around my waist, mouth on my neck, begging me not to stop, flashes uninvited across my mind. I roll the toothpick between my teeth. She didn’t wear a hoodie when she showed up, but she left with mine. I pulled it over her after, arms still shaking from taking her on the workbench in the garage. My scent on her, hers on me. Her hum, barely audible, just a breath against my shoulder, sticks in my head all day. A half-written melody.
Nash groans. “Man, we’re over here building the most calculated payback this club’s ever seen, and you’re too busy rearranging her guts to do recon?”
I shrug. “She wasn’t asking questions.”
“She couldn’t breathe,” East mutters. “Respectfully.” My eyes cut to him. He holds up both hands, still grinning. “Hey. Respectfully.”
Knox chuckles. “Well, we know it’s serious. She’s got that post-coital ‘I own this place’ walk. Wearing your hoodie, proud as hell.” She looks like war and want when she walks out. Chin high. Eyes gleaming. Even Frankie raises a brow. Darla smirks. And me? I watch her go, every step tightening a coil low in my gut.
“She’s glowing,” James says. “The kind of glow you see on someone who just conquered a man and a small nation.”
Which, yeah. She kinda does. And I don’t mind. I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. The weight of the room shifts, attention turning toward me.
“She knows it’s coming,” I say. “She’s not stupid.”
East raises a brow. “So she’s just... okay with it?”
“She’s not trying to stop it,” I say. I think about the look in her eyes this morning. Barefaced. Tired. Soft. But not scared. Not distant. That gaze landed with the weight of a bruise; aching, quiet, full of a thousand unsaid things.
Nash tilts his head. “She into it?”
I look up. Meet his eyes. Voice low. “She’s into it.” And fuck, isn’t that the part that scares me? That she’s all the way in—and that means I am too. No matter how deep I bury it, how steady I keep my voice, some part of me already handed itself over the moment she whispered my name, a secret.
James lets out a slow whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
They all stare at me for a second too long. Waiting for me to crack. To shrug. To say it doesn’t mean anything. But I don’t. Because I’m not going to lie about her. Not to them. Not to myself. Let them tease. Let them plot. Let them think this is some game. Because Candace? She’s not a game. She’s mine.The guys eventually move on, talking strategy, throwing out new ideas for how to hit the girls back in this war they’ve started, but my mind doesn’t follow.
I keep thinking about the garage. The way she came at me that first time. Sharp, curious, pretending to hunt for answers, but already vibrating with tension. I saw the shift in her shoulders the second she stepped inside. She came looking for intel. I gave her everything but that.
She let me pull her apart with my mouth and hands instead. Let me show her how much I want her wrecked, worshipped, and undone. She gave it right back. Wrapped her legs around me and lost her damn mind in my arms. I did too. She doesn’t even know it, but she owns me in that space now. That garage. That damn workbench. Every inch of it smells of her. Feels of her. It’s hers now. Just like I am.
Then she came back. Bold, smug, and glowing. Still scheming, still chasing her angle. But underneath it, she came back for more. Back for me. And that should scare me. Should make me pull back.
But when I told her I loved taking care of her, I saw it. The shift. Her mouth parted just slightly, caught off guard. No one has ever said those words and meant them. Not the way I do.
Maybe she doesn’t know it yet, not fully, but I meant every fucking word.
Taking care of her isn’t a job. It’s a privilege.
Theclubhousehassettled.Most of the guys are gone or passed out in the lounge. A few low murmurs come from the corner where someone is losing money over a game of pool, but otherwise, it’s the kind of quiet that only comes later, after the chaos, when the world finally takes a breath. That hourwhere even the hardasses let down their guard. The music is off, the lights dim, and the only thing threading through the air is the faint scent of sugar from the leftover cookies, smoke from earlier, and lemon from the cleaner she always uses behind the bar.
I lean in the doorway, watching her. Candace is behind the bar, back to me, drying glasses without hurry. Her movements are slow, rhythmic, as though she isn’t just cleaning—she’s grounding herself. She’s taken her hair down. My soft hoodie still swallows her frame. Even in the dim light, I can see the curve of a smile tugging at her lips. She’s humming. Quiet. Almost tuneless. But not quite. There’s a beat to it. A rhythm tucked between breaths. A hum that lives in her bones and slips out only when she forgets to be afraid. It reminds me we still have a karaoke night to host. Things paused with what happened to Darla and Chuck. But hearing her hum now? It sounds like maybe she wants to sing again. Just not for anyone else yet.
I stay where I am, just listening, until she turns and catches me standing there. Her eyes widen a little, but she doesn’t jump. Doesn’t brace herself or go stiff the way she used to. She just smiles. Not big. Not teasing. Just… honest. A smile that settles between us without threat.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.” Her voice always lands in my chest, curling slow and smoky. Now it settles more gently, closer to a song I almost remember.
I cross the room slowly, letting the silence stay easy between us. Her hands are still moving, wiping down the counter just to keep them busy. Her fingers brush across the same spot twice. Maybe three times. A motion that doesn’t want to let the moment go. One that holds memory. The garage. The hallway. The way her nails tore down my back when she came, the wayshe clung to me, gripping hard like I was the only thing in her world holding still.
My eyes roam over her; bare legs, my hoodie swallowing the rest of her, hair loose down her back. Her cheeks flush under my gaze, just enough to let me know she’s remembering too.
Maybe what hits hardest isn’t the sex, isn’t the game we keep playing. It’s the way she blushes when I tell her I love taking care of her. The way she freezes, not in fear, but with the weight of something real. Something that means more than either of us is ready to say.
Because it does. To both of us.
