Chapter 2: The Door Slams Shut
The click of her door shutting was a gunshot in the quiet room. Ivy didn’t move. She stayed on her knees, the rough texture of the rug imprinting on her skin through her jeans. Her fingers still tingled where they’d brushed the hot, solid plane of his stomach, and her wrists bore the faint, fading memory of his grip—not painful, but desperate, final.
The air felt thin. The sketchbook lay open on the floor beside her, his drawn face staring up at the ceiling. The room, so warm and safe minutes ago, now felt like a crime scene. The scent of his leather jacket, still draped over her chair, was a taunt.
She drew a slow, shaky breath. The rejection was a physical burn, starting in her chest and radiating out to her fingertips. It wasn’t the refusal that cut; it was the raw, animal fear in his eyes when he’d said I can’t. As if touching her, letting her touch him, would break some fundamental law of his existence.
She pushed herself up, her legs unsteady. She walked to the window, pulling his jacket around her shoulders, burying her face in the collar. The courtyard was empty. He was gone, vanished into the maze of the mansion or the woods beyond. The rain had softened to a mist.
For an hour, she just stood there, wrapped in him, feeling foolish and exposed. The tea had gone cold in the mugs. She cleaned up mechanically, wiping the charcoal dust from her hands, closing the sketchbook on his image. But the silence was a roar. The echo of his boots down the hall played on a loop in her mind.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t the quiet understanding from the rooftop. This was a door slammed in her face.
Anger, sharp and unfamiliar, eventually cut through the hurt. It wasn’t a hot anger; it was a cold, clear resolve. He didn’t get to do this. He didn’t get to crawl into her space, show her his unguarded self, and then bolt the second it became real. He didn’t get to make her feel like she’d crossed a line for wanting him.
She knew where he’d go. Not his room—that was just another box with four walls. He’d go to the only place that made sense when his head was loud.
The garage was a cavernous space at the back of the mansion, smelling of gasoline, grease, and old concrete. It housed the Blackbird, a few sedans, and, in the far corner, Logan’s black motorcycle. A single work light hung over a sturdy metal table, and that’s where he was.
He’d taken off his shirt. It lay in a heap on the seat of a tractor. His back was to her, a landscape of roped muscle and old, silvery scars that told stories she’d never heard. He was bent over the engine block of the motorcycle, a wrench in his hand, his shoulders pumping with tense, furious rhythm. The metallic clank of tool on metal was violent, repetitive. He was trying to pound the chaos back into submission.
Ivy stopped at the edge of the light pool. “You forgot your jacket.”
He froze. The wrench hovered for a second before he lowered it slowly to the table. He didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“You shouldn’t have run.”
“I didn’t run.” The lie was gritty.
“You did. You took one look at what you wanted and you fucking ran, Logan.” Her voice didn’t waver. The profanity felt strange in her mouth, but right.
He finally turned. In the harsh work light, he looked carved from stone, his face all harsh angles and deep shadows. Grease smeared his chest and forearms. His eyes were wildfire. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I think I do.”
“You don’t!” he barked, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. He took a step toward her, then stopped himself, a visible tremor running through him. “I’m not some guy you bring home from a gallery opening, Ivy. I’m a hundred-plus years of bad decisions and worse memories. I wake up swinging. I have nightmares that aren’t just dreams, they’re replays. My body is a weapon. Every part of me is dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be!” He was shouting now, his control shredding. “I could hurt you. Not meaning to, but Jesus Christ, look at you.” His gaze swept over her, dwarfed in his jacket, and the fury in his eyes morphed into a pained agony. “I could break you without thinking. My hands… they’re not made for… for whatever gentle thing you think this is.”
She closed the distance between them. He tensed, taking a half-step back as if her approach was a threat. She stopped just inches from him, tilting her head up to hold his wild gaze. The smell of him was different here—sweat and engine oil and pure, undiluted male rage.
“You’re not going to break me,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And it’s not a gentle thing I want. I want you. All of you. The quiet man on the roof and the one who’s terrified of him. I’m not made of glass.”
He made a low, wounded sound in his throat. “Ivy…”
“Stop telling me what I can’t handle.” Her hand came up. She didn’t reach for his face. She pressed her palm flat against the center of his chest, over the furious hammer of his heart. His skin was burning hot, his pectoral muscle solid as granite under her touch. She felt him shudder.
“This is what I want,” she said, feeling the proof of his life pounding against her hand. “This, right here. The real thing. Not the idea. The raw, messy, fucking terrifying thing.”
His control snapped.
A growl tore from him, deep and primal. His hand flew up and clamped over hers, pinning it to his chest. His other arm banded around her waist, and he yanked her clean off her feet, crushing her against him. There was nothing gentle about it. It was a claim.
His mouth came down on hers.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. Hungry, desperate, and bruising. He tasted like tobacco and rage and a wild, bitter need. His tongue swept into her mouth, demanding, possessive. She met him with equal fervor, her hands sliding up to claw into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on as the world tilted.
He walked them backward, never breaking the kiss, until her back hit the cool metal siding of the Blackbird. He pressed his entire body into her, the hard ridge of his erection a blatant, shocking pressure against her belly even through their clothes. The size difference was never more apparent; he surrounded her, consumed her. One of his hands left her waist to fist in the fabric of her sweater at her shoulder, as if he needed an anchor.
“You sure?” he rasped against her mouth, his breath scalding. “Last fucking chance to walk away.”
Her answer was to drag his mouth back to hers, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him groan. She shoved at the waistband of his jeans, her fingers fumbling with the button.
He got the message. With a ragged curse, he let her go just long enough to tear at their clothes. His jeans were shoved down his hips. He yanked her leggings and panties down in one rough pull, the fabric catching at her knees. It was frantic, graceless. He hooked one of her legs around his hip, his hand gripping the back of her thigh, spreading her.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t pause. He guided himself to her entrance, the broad, blunt head of his cock pressing against her. She was wet, ready, her own need a sharp ache, but he was huge. She gasped into his mouth, a sound of shock and anticipation.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice guttural.
She opened her eyes. His face was inches away, his pupils blown wide with lust, his expression a mask of such fierce, precarious devotion it stole her breath. He was holding himself still, trembling with the effort, letting her adjust.
“Logan,” she breathed. “Please.”
He drove into her.
It was a single, deep, obliterating thrust that filled her completely, stretched her, pinned her to the cold metal. A sharp cry was torn from her throat. He swallowed the sound with another brutal kiss, his tongue mimicking the relentless rhythm his hips began to establish.
There was no softness, no slow build. It was raw coupling, a frenzied confirmation of everything they’d left unsaid. The clank of his belt buckle against the metal siding timed with his thrusts. The smell of their sex, musky and sharp, mixed with the garage smells. His grunts were animalistic in her ear. “Fuck… so tight… Christ, Ivy…”
He held her up with effortless strength, her other leg coming up to wrap around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs for leverage. Each slam of his hips rocked her whole body, jolting her spine against the plane. It was overwhelming, a sensory barrage. The burn of the stretch, the delicious friction of him rubbing inside her, the sheer dominance of his body overpowering hers.
One of his hands was splayed against the metal beside her head. The other gripped her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, controlling the angle, driving himself deeper. “Take it,” he growled. “Take all of me. You wanted it… fucking take it.”
She did. She met every thrust, her nails scoring down his sweat-slicked back. Her climax built not as a wave but as a sudden, seismic fracture. It ripped through her without warning, a violent, clenching release that made her scream into his shoulder, her body clamping down around him in relentless pulses.
The feeling of her coming untouched, just from the sheer force of his taking her, shattered his last shred of restraint. With a roar that was half her name, half a wordless snarl, he buried himself to the hilt and emptied into her. His release was hot and deep, pumping into her in thick, endless surges as his big body convulsed against her.
He collapsed forward, his forehead thudding against the metal beside her head, his breath coming in ragged, hot gusts against her neck. He was still inside her, still pulsing. They stayed like that, locked together, the only sounds their struggling breaths and the distant hum of the mansion.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The chill of the metal on her back. The ache between her legs. The heavy, satisfied weight of him. His grip on her thigh softened, his hand stroking a shaky, apologetic path over the skin he’d surely marked.
He was the first to speak, his voice a ruined scratch against her ear. “I hurt you.”
It wasn’t a question. She could feel the slight tremor in his arms where they caged her.
“No,” she whispered, turning her head to press her lips to the sweat-damp column of his throat. “You didn’t.”
He finally pulled out, a slow, intimate slide that made her gasp. Gently, he lowered her until her feet found the floor, holding her steady when her legs wobbled. He reached down and pulled her clothes back up, his movements now careful, almost reverent. He rightened his own jeans but didn’t button them.
He wouldn’t look at her. He stared at a grease spot on the floor, his jaw working.
Ivy reached up and cupped his face, forcing his gaze to hers. The wildness was gone, replaced by a dazed, vulnerable awe. And fear. Still so much fear.
“Come back to my room,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Actually stay this time.”
He searched her face for a long moment. Then, wordlessly, he bent and picked up his discarded shirt. He didn’t put it on. He just took her hand, his grip warm and solid, and led her out of the garage, away from the shadows, and back toward the light.
The walk back through the silent mansion was a journey through spent lightning. His hand never left hers. The empty halls amplified the sound of their footsteps, the wet slide of his jeans, the shaky rhythm of her breathing. She felt raw, every nerve ending exposed and humming.
Her room welcomed them with its familiar scent of lavender and paper. The desk lamp still glowed, casting the sketchbook into soft relief. He paused inside the doorway, a stranger again on the threshold of her sanctuary. The fury that had propelled them in the garage was gone, leaving a heavy, uncertain quiet.
“Close the door,” she said softly, slipping her hand from his to shrug out of his jacket. She hung it on the back of her chair, a deliberate, normal action in the abnormal night.
He pushed the door shut. The latch engaged with a soft, definitive click. He remained there, his back against the wood, watching her. The grease and sweat on his torso gleamed in the low light. He looked like something wild brought indoors, all contained power and wary eyes.
“I need a shower,” he stated, his voice rough.
“Okay.”
He didn’t move. His gaze tracked to the rumpled quilt, to the indentation on the floor where she’d been kneeling. “Ivy.”
“Logan.”
The distance between them felt vast. She walked to her dresser, pulled out a soft, worn t-shirt. It was one of his, left behind weeks ago and never reclaimed. She held it out. “Here.”
He pushed off the door and crossed the room. He didn’t take the shirt. He stopped before her, his large body blocking the light. Gently, he took her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, a touch so vastly different from the possession in the garage it made her throat tighten.
“I wasn’t… gentle,” he said, the words a pained confession.
“I didn’t ask for gentle.”
“I know.” He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. His breath warmed her lips. “That’s what scares me.”
This time, the kiss was different. It was slow. A deep, searching exploration. It tasted like an apology and a question. She melted into it, her hands sliding up his rigid abdomen to rest on his chest. The heat of his skin was a brand.
He pulled back just enough to yank the t-shirt from her grasp and drop it on the floor. His hands went to the hem of her sweater. “Off,” he murmured, and she lifted her arms, letting him peel the soft fabric over her head. Her bra followed with a deft flick of his fingers.
The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin. His eyes darkened as he looked at her. There was no artful seduction in his gaze, just a stark, hungry appreciation that felt more intimate than any touch. He palmed her breast, his calloused thumb sweeping over her nipple until it peaked into a tight bud. A sharp sigh escaped her.
“Bed,” he said, and it was barely a word.
He guided her backward until her knees hit the mattress. She sank down, and he followed, covering her body with his. The weight was immense, anchoring. He kissed a path down her throat, over her collarbone, taking his time. He laved one nipple with his tongue, then drew it deep into his mouth, sucking hard.
“Oh, god,” she gasped, her back arching off the bed.
He switched to the other, giving it the same thorough, relentless attention. His hand slid down her stomach, past the waistband of her leggings, which were still damp from their earlier coupling. He cupped her through the fabric, his palm applying a firm, circling pressure that made her hips jerk.
“So fucking sensitive,” he growled against her skin. “Still wet for me.” He hooked his fingers into the fabric and pulled, dragging her leggings and panties down her legs in one slow, deliberate motion. He tossed them aside, then sat back on his heels to look at her, naked and spread before him on the quilt.
The intensity of his stare was a physical touch. He unbuttoned his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his erection. He was already hard again, thick and flushed in the lamplight. He fisted himself, stroking slowly as he drank the sight of her in.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded, his voice thick. “Let me see you.”
A hot rush of shameful arousal flooded her. She’d never done that, not with someone watching. But his eyes held hers, insisting. Biting her lip, she let her hand drift down her stomach, through the neat thatch of curls. She found her clit, already swollen and eager. A soft moan broke from her as she circled it.
“Yeah,” he breathed, his hand moving on his cock in time with her fingers. “Just like that. Show me how you like it.”
She was on display, completely vulnerable, and the freedom of it was terrifying and exhilarating. Her movements grew bolder, faster. He watched, mesmerized, the muscles in his jaw ticking with strain. “You’re gonna make me come just watching you,” he admitted, a raw edge to his words.
“Don’t,” she pleaded, removing her hand. “I want you inside me.”
With a curse, he moved. He grabbed her hips, flipping her onto her stomach with startling ease. He dragged her up onto her knees, her face pressed into the pillow. The position was submissive, exposed. He ran a hand down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her ass.
“This okay?” The question was gruff, but essential.
“Yes.” The word was muffled by the pillow.
He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear. “I want every part of you,” he whispered, filthy and low. “I’m gonna fuck you so deep you forget your own name.”
He notched himself at her entrance. He pushed in, not with the brutal force of before, but with a relentless, stretching fullness that stole the air from her lungs. He seated himself completely, his pelvis flush against her ass, and stayed there, buried. She felt impossibly full, stretched to a sweet, aching limit.
“Logan,” she whimpered.
His answer was a slow withdrawal, followed by a driving thrust that rocked her forward. He set a punishing, deliberate rhythm, each stroke a deep, claiming slide. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings, his guttural grunts filled the room. He gripped her hip with one hand, the other tangling in her curls to gently pull her head back, arching her spine.
“You take me so goddamn well,” he rasped. “This perfect, tight little cunt is mine.”
The obscenity, paired with the overwhelming sensation, coiled the tension in her belly tighter. He felt it. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he brushed a spot inside her that made her see white. A sharp cry tore from her throat.
“There?” he demanded, hammering against that exact place with unerring precision.
She couldn’t speak. She nodded frantically into the pillow. Her climax was building, a terrifying wave about to break. He fucked her through it, his pace becoming ragged, losing its control. “Come on,” he urged, his voice breaking. “Come all over my cock, Ivy. Do it.”
The wave crashed. It was longer, deeper than in the garage, a convulsive, shattering release that ripped through her with silent screams. Her internal muscles clenched around him in vicious, rhythmic pulses.
It tipped him over the edge. With a choked-off roar, he slammed into her one final time, his body locking as he came. She felt the hot, liquid surge of his release filling her, pulse after pulse, as he shuddered against her back. He collapsed partially on top of her, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in her neck.
They stayed like that, joined, until their breathing evened out. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. He left the bed without a word and disappeared into her small bathroom. She heard the shower turn on.
When he returned, damp and smelling of her soap, he wore only his jeans, unbuttoned at the waist. The t-shirt was still on the floor. He looked at her, curled on her side on the rumpled quilt. Wordlessly, he slid into the bed behind her, molding his big body to the curve of hers. He pulled the quilt over them both. His arm wrapped around her waist, his hand splaying possessively over her lower belly.
“Sleep,” he murmured into her hair.
And she did, sinking into a dreamless, profound darkness wrapped in his heat.
MORNING BRINGS DOUBTS.
The grey light of dawn filtered through the window, painting the room in cool, uncertain tones. Logan was awake. He had been for hours, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing, feeling the slight weight of her in his arms.
The night played behind his eyes in vivid, shameful flashes. The garage. The raw filth of his words. Pinning her against the Blackbird. Flipping her onto her stomach in this very bed. His own unrestrained hunger appalled him. He’d shown her the beast, not the man. He’d given her every reason to be afraid.
She stirred, a soft sigh escaping her. She pushed back into his embrace, a sleepy, trusting motion. The trust was a knife in his gut.
Her skin was smooth under his palm. He thought of the scars that mapped his own body, the history of violence written there. He thought of the sketch in her book—the quiet, still man she wanted to see. A fiction. Last night was the truth. A brutal, sweating, grunting truth. He’d marked her with it, claimed her with it. The scent of him, of them, was deep in her sheets.
What happened when the frenzy faded? When she truly saw what she’d let into her bed? Into her life? He wasn’t a partner. He was a condition. A perpetual threat. The quiet between storms.
His arm felt like a cage around her. Gently, so gently, he extricated himself. He slid from the bed, the cold air hitting his skin. He found his shirt on the floor, pulled it on. He stood looking at her, curled in the space he’d left, her dark hair fanned across the pillow. She looked peaceful. Whole. Unbroken.
For now.
The doubt was a cold stone in his throat. He’d found heaven, and his first instinct was to crawl out of it before his hell contaminated its walls. He was no good for her. Last night proved it. He’d lost control. He would again.
He moved silently, collecting his boots, his jacket from the chair. He paused at the door, one last look. Then he slipped out, pulling it closed without a sound. The mansion was still asleep. He moved through it like a ghost, carrying the smell of her skin on his, and the crushing, certain dread that he had just ruined the only good thing he’d ever held.