Chapter 3: The Phone Call
The morning light through the loft’s eastern windows was a solid, accusing thing. It sliced across the floor, illuminating swirling galaxies of dust in the air. Lily woke to the rich, bitter scent of coffee and to the sight of Darian’s broad back. He was standing at the window, phone to his ear, utterly still.
His voice was a low, contained rumble. “No. That’s not an option.” A pause. He scrubbed a hand over the dark stubble on his jaw. “Then make it one. I don’t care what it costs.”
Lily pulled the afghan tighter around her naked shoulders. The memories of the night before—his mouth between her legs, the fierce possession in his thrusts, the warm ache he’d left deep inside her—collided with the cold, present reality of his posture. The fear, momentarily buried, began a slow creep up her spine.
He ended the call, his hand gripping the phone so tight the plastic casing creaked. He didn’t move for a full minute, just stared out at the waking city.
“Darian?” Her voice was sleep-rough, small.
He turned. The honeyed light caught the planes of his face, highlighting the tension there. The softness he reserved only for her was gone, filed away. What remained was the contractor. The strategist. “We need to go. For a few days.”
“Go where?”
“A place. Up north. Isolated.” He walked to the small kitchenette, poured a mug of coffee, and brought it to her. His knuckles were scraped, she noticed. Freshly so. “Drink this. Get dressed. Pack casual, warm things. Nothing fancy.”
She took the mug, the heat seeping into her palms. “What did that call mean? Who was it?”
“It means my ledger needs balancing.” He said it flatly, as if commenting on the weather. “And the person holding the pen is getting impatient. It’s a negotiation. But I don’t negotiate from a position of weakness, and having you here, in the open, is a weakness. For me.”
The statement should have chilled her. Instead, a strange, hot flicker of something primal stirred in her belly. To be his vulnerability. To be so essential that his entire strategy shifted around her.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the arch of her cheekbone. “You’re not scared?”
“I am.” She looked up at him, letting him see the truth of it. “But I’m more scared of being somewhere you’re not.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His dark eyes scanned her face, and she saw the control in him fray at the edges, just for a second. That fraying always manifested as a dark, possessive heat.
His gaze dropped to the mug in her hands, then to the slight tremor in her fingers. “You’re still shaking.”
Before she could answer, he took the mug and set it on the floor. He took her hand, his calloused fingers enveloping hers, and led her not toward the sleeping area, but into the heart of the workshop. Toward the massive, half-finished dining table. Its surface was sanded smooth, a testament to hours of his careful labor.
“What are you doing?” she asked, though her body already knew, already softened in anticipation.
“Giving you something solid to hold onto. Something real.” His voice had dropped into that register that liquified her bones. “And I need it too. Need to feel you, claim you, before we step into the shit.”
He positioned her before the table. “Bend over. Palms flat on the wood.”
The cool, smooth surface met her skin. Behind her, she heard the rustle of his clothes, the zip of his jeans. The morning air kissed the backs of her thighs as he pushed her skirt up to her waist. She was exposed, open, her cleft still tender and slick from the night before.
He didn’t tease. He spread her legs wider with a firm nudge of his knee. One hand gripped the swell of her hip, his thumb digging into the soft flesh. The broad, blunt head of his cock nudged at her entrance, finding her wet and ready for him even now.
“This cunt,” he murmured, a note of awe beneath the grit. “Always fucking ready for me. Always so perfect.”
He pushed in. Not slow, not gentle. A single, deep, shearing stroke that filled her completely, stole the breath from her lungs. The angle was different, deeper, hitting places that made her see bursts of light behind her eyelids. He leaned over her, his chest a hot, heavy weight against her back, his mouth at her ear.
“Hold onto that table, baby. Don’t let go.”
He withdrew and slammed back in. The sound was obscene—a wet, meaty slap of flesh, the rhythmic creak of the table’s legs taking his weight. Each thrust jolted her forward, her palms squeaking on the polished wood. He set a punishing pace, each drive meant to brand, to imprint.
His free hand snaked around her front, fingers finding her nipple through the thin cotton of her camisole. He pinched, hard, the sharp pain bleating into bright pleasure. She cried out, a ragged sound lost in the cavernous space.
“You take this so good,” he grunted, his breath hot against her neck. “Taking my cock like a fucking champion while the world tries to burn down. My brave girl.”
The praise, filthy and fervent, sank into her deeper than his flesh. She clenched around him, pulling a guttural groan from his chest.
“Yeah. Squeeze me. Milk me. Show me this sweet pussy is mine.” His hand left her breast, sliding down her trembling stomach, through her damp curls, to find her clit. He rubbed tight, frantic circles, the pressure perfect and relentless. “You’re going to come for me, baby. Gonna make you scream it. And then we’re going to get the fuck out of here.”
She was hurtling toward it, the twin assaults of his body and his words dismantling her. The fear, the uncertainty, the danger—it all fused into a single, white-hot point of sensation centered where he filled and possessed her.
“Daddy, I’m—!”
“Now.” The command was a cracked whip.
She broke. Her orgasm erupted, a silent, breathless seizure that locked her muscles and pulled a high, sharp whine from her throat. Her inner walls fluttered and clenched around his driving cock in frantic, rhythmic pulses.
With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the root and held. A raw, shattered sound tore from him as he came, his release flooding her in hot, pulsing jets. He ground against her, ensuring every last drop was spent deep inside, marking his territory. Claiming her.
He stayed there for long moments, slumped over her, both of them panting, slick with sweat. The smell of sex and cedar hung thick in the air. Slowly, he softened and slipped from her body. A warm trickle followed, down her inner thigh.
He righted her gently, turning her to face him. His eyes were still dark, but the sharpest edge of the fury was gone, banked for now. He kissed her, slow and deep, tasting of coffee and her.
“Go shower,” he said, his voice rough. “Pack. Ten minutes.”
In the shower, the water washed away the physical evidence but not the feeling. The profound soreness, the phantom weight of him inside her, the echo of his words. She dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, throwing a few things into an overnight bag with trembling hands.
When she emerged, he was by the door. He’d changed into dark cargos and a black henley. A heavy duffel bag sat at his feet. He was loading something into a leather holster at his hip. She saw the dull gleam of a pistol’s slide before he concealed it under his jacket.
He saw her looking. He didn’t apologize, didn’t explain. He just held out his hand. “Time to go.”
She took it. His grip was absolute.
He killed the lights, plunging the beautiful, sun-drenched workshop into gloom. As he opened the steel door to the back alley, he paused, one last look over his shoulder at the space—the table they’d just defiled, the couch where he’d soothed her, the tools of his peaceful life.
Then he pulled her out into the cool, waiting morning, locking the door on everything behind them.