I told myself this contract would finally give me the security I refuse to name out loud, something no one could take away once the ink dried. Eamon Woolf stands between me and that safety, his broad chest marked by a jagged burn scar that matches the crescent on my thigh, both of us carrying evidence of past betrayals. Every negotiation pulls his gaze lower, and my body leaks in answer before I can hide it.
The storage room is too small for what happens in it. When the front of my shirt gives me away, he moves closer instead of turning away. His eyes stay on the proof of what he can make me do. The whole club will demand their share once he claims it, and I cannot decide if that terrifies me or makes me ache harder for his mouth.
