Chapter 2 Chapter 2

Harlow

I finished stacking the last of the chairs and wiped the bar one final time. 

The clubhouse felt bigger with everyone gone—echoing, empty, full of the ghosts people left behind in the form of empty bottles and cigarette butts. Wolf’s table still held the faint outline of where his glass had sat. I stared at it longer than I should have, then deliberately turned my back.

The night air hit cold against the sweat on my neck. The lot was mostly clear. A couple of bikes remained near the edge, one of them belonging to a prospect who’d been hovering all night. 

He was young and eager. The kind who still thought a smile and a couple of drinks could buy him something permanent.

I didn’t need permanent. I needed noise in my head that wasn’t Wolf’s voice telling me to go home.

I walked straight to the prospect. He straightened the second he saw me coming, trying to look less like he’d been waiting and more like he’d just happened to linger.

“You heading out?” I asked.

He nodded too fast. “Yeah. Unless… you need a ride or something.”

I stepped into his space, close enough that he had to tip his chin up a fraction. “I need something. Not a ride.”

His throat worked. “Okay.”

That was all the permission either of us required.

We didn’t go far. There was a storage building around the side of the lot that the brothers used for extra parts and the occasional private moment that didn’t need an audience. The door stuck halfway; I shoved it open with my shoulder and pulled him in after me. Darkness swallowed us. I didn’t bother with lights.

I pushed him back against a metal shelf and kissed him hard enough to bruise. He made a startled sound that turned into a groan when my hand dropped to the front of his jeans. He was already half-hard when I worked the button open, dragged the zipper down, and wrapped my fingers around him without ceremony.

“Fuck—” he breathed against my mouth.

“Don’t talk.”

I stroked him once, twice, just enough to get him fully hard, then turned and braced my hands on the edge of a workbench. The wood was rough under my palms. I looked back over my shoulder.

“Now.”

He fumbled with a condom from his wallet—at least he had that much sense—and stepped in behind me. I shoved my jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh. The cool air kissed the backs of my legs. Then his hands were on my hips, gripping too carefully, like he thought I might break.

I didn’t want careful.

“Harder,” I said.

He thrust in on a single stroke. I bit down on a sound and pushed back to meet him. He was average—decent size, nothing special—but it was enough to stretch, enough to burn away the edge for a few minutes. 

I closed my eyes and let my body take over. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the small space. His breathing turned ragged. One of his hands slid up under my shirt, clumsy, trying to find my breast.

I reached back, caught his wrist, and pinned it against my hip instead. “Just fuck me.”

He did. Faster. Rougher. The workbench scraped against the concrete floor with every thrust. I dropped my head and focused on the physical— the thick slide of him, the slap of his hips against my ass, the way my own wetness made everything messy and loud. It should have been enough. It usually was.

Tonight it wasn’t.

Every time I tried to lose myself, Wolf’s voice cut through. Go home, Harlow. The way he’d looked at me across that table. The warning in those two soft words. The heat that had lived between my legs since the second our eyes met. 

I clenched around the prospect and imagined different hands on me—larger, rougher, certain. Imagined a deeper voice in my ear telling me exactly how he was going to ruin me. Imagined the weight of a president’s cut against my back instead of a thin prospect’s hoodie.

The fantasy hit hard. My orgasm surprised me—sharp, almost angry. I bit my lip and rode it out in silence while the prospect groaned and finished a few thrusts later, burying himself deep and shuddering.

He pulled out carefully. I stayed bent over the bench for a few extra seconds, catching my breath, then straightened and dragged my clothes back into place. The condom hit the floor somewhere behind me. I didn’t look.

“That was—” he started.

“Don’t.” I turned and met his eyes in the dark. “We’re done. You don’t get to talk about it. You don’t get to expect it again. Clear?”

He swallowed and nodded. “Clear.”

I left him there and walked back into the lot. My body still hummed, but the restlessness underneath hadn’t moved an inch. If anything, it felt worse—like I’d only fed the thing that wanted Wolf by giving it a cheap substitute.

I swung onto my own bike—a matte-black Sportster I’d bought with cash and no questions asked—and kicked it to life. The engine roared under me, familiar and grounding. I didn’t head toward the apartment I kept on the edge of town. I took the long way, letting the wind strip the scent of the prospect off my skin and the night air cool the flush still sitting high on my cheeks.

By the time I finally pulled up outside the small one-bedroom I rented under a name that wasn’t mine, the sky had started to lighten at the edges. I locked the door behind me, stripped on the way to the shower, and stood under water hot enough to hurt. 

Soap. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror when I stepped out.

Sleep didn’t come easy. It never did after nights like this. I lay on my back in the dark and stared at the ceiling, replaying the exact moment Wolf had stood and told me to go home. The way his voice had dropped. The way my pulse had answered like it belonged to him already.

I pressed my thighs together and hated how easily my body still responded to the memory.

Tomorrow I would go back to the clubhouse. I would pour drinks and trade insults and fuck whoever looked available if the mood struck. I would pretend the president’s rejection rolled off me the same way everything else did.

And I would keep lying to myself that one day the wanting would stop.

It never did. It only got worse.