Chapter 1

The rain hammered the windshield as Aria sat in her car, hands shaking on the steering wheel. Her phone buzzed again—another text from Marcus.

"You can't just walk away from us, babe. Come back. We can work this out."

She turned the phone face down. Three years with Marcus, and she was finally done with his controlling bullshit. Done with him tracking her every move, questioning her friends, telling her what to wear.

The neon sign of Murphy's Tavern flickered through the rain. It wasn't her kind of place—all chrome and leather jackets—but right now she needed somewhere Marcus would never think to look.

The bar reeked of beer and motor oil. Heads turned when she walked in wearing her scrubs from the hospital. She felt like a lamb in a wolf den, but she needed this. One drink. One moment of not being Marcus's perfect girlfriend.

"Whiskey," she told the bartender. "Make it a double."

"Rough night?"

The voice came from her left. Deep, gravelly, like it had been dragged over broken glass. She turned and her breath caught.

He was everything Marcus wasn't. Dark hair that needed a cut, stubble covering a sharp jaw, and eyes so blue they looked like winter storms. His leather jacket hung open over a black t-shirt that showed off arms covered in tattoos. A patch on his vest read "Iron Vultures MC" with "VP" underneath. Vice President. Of a motorcycle club. Everything her med school professors would warn her about.

"You could say that." She threw back the whiskey, feeling it burn.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really." She studied his face. Strong features, a small scar through his left eyebrow. "I want to forget about it."

Something dark flickered in his eyes. "I can help with that."

He moved closer, and she caught his scent—leather, gasoline, and something purely male that made her stomach flip. When was the last time Marcus made her feel anything?

"I don't even know your name," she whispered.

"Do you want to?"

She looked into those storm-blue eyes and felt reckless. Wild. Free for the first time in months.

"No."

His lips curved into a smile that was pure sin.

"Good girl."

He didn't touch her at the bar. Not really. Just leaned in close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that his leather sleeve brushed her arm and sent sparks skittering across her skin.

"Finish your drink," he said, and it wasn't a suggestion. It was a command, delivered in that gravel-rough voice that made her thighs clench under her scrubs.

She knocked back the rest of the whiskey, the burn barely registering through the haze of adrenaline and recklessness. When she set the glass down, his hand was there, palm up, waiting. She stared at it—the knuckles scarred, the nails short and clean despite the grease stains on his cuticles.

"Trust me," he said.

She shouldn't. God, she shouldn't. But she placed her hand in his anyway, and his fingers closed around hers, warm and calloused and strong.

They walked out of Murphy's into the rain. She expected him to lead her to a car, but instead he stopped beside a massive Harley, black chrome gleaming under the streetlight, rain beading on the leather seat.

"Ever ridden?" he asked, swinging his leg over the bike with practiced ease.

"Never."

"Hold on tight. Wrap your arms around me and don't let go."

He handed her a helmet—too big, but clean—and she strapped it on with shaking fingers. Then she climbed on behind him, her scrubs riding up, her thighs spreading to accommodate the bulk of the machine between her legs. She pressed against his back, her breasts flattening against the leather of his vest, her arms circling his waist.

"Ready?" he called over the roar of the engine as it kicked to life beneath them, vibrating between her legs in a way that made her gasp.

"Yes."

The bike surged forward, and she squealed, clutching him harder. The rain stung her bare arms, cold and biting, but his body was furnace-hot against her, solid and real. They flew through the streets, the world blurring into streaks of neon and shadow, Marcus and the hospital and her careful life left somewhere in the exhaust fumes.

She wasn't Aria anymore. She wasn't Marcus's girlfriend, wasn't the perfect med student, wasn't anyone at all. She was just a body pressed against a stranger, flying through the night with no destination and no regrets.

He drove them to the edge of town, where the streetlights ended and the warehouses began. They pulled into a garage—his, she assumed, from the way he killed the engine and dismounted with easy familiarity. The space smelled of motor oil and metal, dimly lit by a single hanging bulb that cast long shadows across the concrete floor.

She climbed off the bike on unsteady legs, her thighs trembling from the vibration, her heart hammering against her ribs. He took off his helmet, then hers, his fingers lingering on her jaw as he unbuckled the strap.

"Still sure you don't want my name?" he asked, his thumb tracing her lower lip.

"Still sure," she whispered, but her voice shook.

"Good."

He kissed her then, finally, his mouth hot and demanding against hers, tasting like whiskey and rain and danger. She melted into it, her hands fisting in his vest, pulling him closer. He walked her backward until her shoulder blades hit the workbench, the edge biting into her lower back, and then his hands were everywhere—cupping her breasts through her scrub top, sliding down to grip her ass, lifting her onto the metal surface.

"Fuck," he muttered against her throat, his mouth finding her pulse point and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "You smell like soap and vanilla. I want to eat you alive."

"Then do it," she challenged, arching into him.

His eyes flashed, dark and dangerous, and then his hands were pushing her knees apart, stepping between her spread thighs. The position was obscene, her scrubs doing nothing to hide how wet she was, how ready. He pressed the heel of his palm against her through the thin fabric, and she moaned, her head falling back.

"Jesus, you're already soaked," he growled, rubbing her in slow, firm circles. "Is this from the ride? Or is this for me?"

"Both," she gasped, grinding against his hand. "Please—"

"Please what? Tell me what you want, good girl. Use your words."

"I want you to fuck me," she said, the words foreign and thrilling on her tongue. "I want you to make me forget everything."

"That I can do."

He grabbed her scrub top and pulled it over her head in one swift motion, leaving her in just her bra—a sensible cotton thing that suddenly felt ridiculous next to his dangerous leather. But he didn't seem to care. He stared at her like she was a masterpiece, his gaze roaming her exposed skin with hunger that made her feel beautiful, powerful, wanted.

"Perfect," he breathed, and then his mouth was on her breast, sucking her nipple through the fabric of her bra, his tongue hot and wet and driving her insane.

"Off," she demanded, tugging at his vest. "I want to see you."

He stepped back just enough to strip, peeling off the leather and the black tee beneath, and then he was bare-chested in the dim light, and she forgot how to breathe. The tattoos she'd glimpsed earlier were a tapestry across his skin—vultures and skulls and script she couldn't read, all rippling over muscle that spoke of hard living and harder fights. A dusting of dark hair trailed from his navel down into his jeans, and she followed it with her eyes, hungry for what she knew waited there.

"Your turn," he said, his voice rough.

She slid off the workbench, her legs shaky, and reached for the drawstring of her scrub pants. She pushed them down, stepping out of them along with her shoes, until she stood before him in nothing but her bra and panties—the plain, practical kind she'd put on that morning without knowing they'd end up on a stranger's floor.

"Fucking hell," he groaned, his hand moving to cup himself through his jeans. "You're killing me, sweetheart."

"Then stop holding back."

He moved fast, closing the distance between them and lifting her back onto the workbench. This time there was nothing between them but thin cotton and denim, the heat of his erection pressing hard and heavy against her core. He kissed her again, deeper, messier, his tongue sweeping through her mouth like he owned it, like he owned her, and god help her, she wanted him to.

"I need to taste you," he muttered, dropping to his knees suddenly, his big hands shoving her knees wider.

"What—oh god—"

He buried his face between her thighs, his mouth hot through her panties, and she screamed, her hands flying to his hair, gripping the dark strands as he licked her, sucked her, nipped at her sensitive flesh through the wet fabric. The sensation was electric, overwhelming, his stubble scraping her inner thighs in a way that would definitely leave marks.

"Can't wait," he growled, hooking his fingers in her panties and dragging them down her legs. "Need you bare."

Then his mouth was on her, really on her, his tongue parting her folds and finding her clit with unerring accuracy. He ate her like a starving man, his groans vibrating against her, his hands gripping her hips to hold her still as she bucked and writhed on the workbench. Tools clattered to the floor around them—wrenches and screwdrivers—but neither of them cared.

"So sweet," he murmured, looking up at her with those storm-blue eyes, his mouth shining with her arousal. "So fucking sweet. I could die here."

"Don't stop," she begged, her heels digging into his back. "Please, don't stop—"

He didn't. He pushed two fingers into her, curling them to find that spot that made her see stars, and sucked her clit between his lips, and she came apart with a scream that echoed off the garage walls, her body convulsing, her vision going white at the edges.

Before she could come down, he was standing, unbuckling his belt with shaking hands, his jaw clenched with restraint. "Tell me you want this," he demanded, his voice barely human. "Tell me you want me inside you."

"Yes," she sobbed, reaching for him. "Please, yes, I need you—"

He freed himself from his jeans, thick and heavy and impossibly hard, and she had a moment to think—no barrier, nothing between them, just skin on skin—before he was there, the head of him nudging at her entrance, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in.

He pushed into her slowly, stretching her, filling her, bare and hot and perfect, until she was full to bursting with him, with this stranger, with this perfect mistake. They both groaned, foreheads pressed together, sharing breath, sharing heat.

"Fuck, you're tight," he gritted out, his whole body trembling with the effort to hold still. "And so fucking wet. You feel that? Nothing between us. Just you and me."

"Move," she commanded, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck me. Fill me up."

His control snapped.

He pulled out and slammed back in, the workbench screeching against the concrete floor with the force of it. He set a brutal pace, pounding into her like he was trying to break her, or claim her, or both, and she took it, begged for it, scratched his back raw and urged him on with teeth and desperate cries.

"Harder," she demanded. "More—give me everything—"

"Going to come inside you," he growled against her throat, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. "Going to fill this sweet cunt until you're dripping. Tell me you want it."

"Yes," she screamed, her second orgasm building fast and fierce. "Come inside me. Please, I want to feel it—"

He lifted her off the bench without breaking their connection, carrying her to the worn couch in the corner, laying her down and following her, never stopping that relentless rhythm. On the couch, he could get deeper, angle his hips to hit that spot inside her that made her toes curl, and she was climbing again, spiraling toward the edge.

"Look at me," he commanded, gripping her chin. "When I fill you, you look at me. I want to see your eyes."

She locked gazes with him—those impossible blue eyes, wild and fierce—and let go. The orgasm crashed through her like a freight train, tearing a scream from her throat, her body clamping down on him, milking him.

"Fuck—oh god, take it—" he snarled, and then he buried himself to the hilt, his body going rigid, his head thrown back as he spilled inside her in hot, pulsing waves. She felt every twitch, every jet of warmth flooding her, filling her, marking her from the inside out. He kept thrusting through it, working himself deep, making sure she took every drop.

He collapsed on top of her, heavy and sweating and still pulsing inside her, his seed already leaking out around him, trickling down her thigh. For long minutes, they lay there, tangled and panting, the rain still hammering against the garage roof, the world outside forgotten.

"Stay," he whispered into her hair, his arm tightening around her waist, his hand possessively covering her lower belly where he'd left his mark. "Just until morning."

She should have said no. She should have dressed and run.

But instead, she closed her eyes and let his warmth surround her, feeling him softening inside her, his essence already taking root, knowing that when dawn came, she would disappear—but for now, just for now, she was his completely.

She woke before dawn, his arm heavy around her waist. In the gray morning light, reality crept back in. What had she done?

His face was peaceful in sleep, younger somehow. But the tattoos were still there. The Iron Vultures patch lay crumpled on the floor next to her scrubs. This wasn't her world. This wasn't her life. Moving carefully, she slipped from his arms and dressed in silence. At the door, she turned back for one last look.

He was still sleeping, dark hair falling across his forehead. Beautiful and dangerous and everything she couldn't have.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus again.

The real world was calling her back.

She walked out of the garage and into the rain, leaving the stranger and the best night of her life behind. Some mistakes were worth making once. But only once.

She was three steps from her car when she saw it. A silver Audi parked across the street, nose out, wipers off, rain sheeting down the windshield so thick she couldn't see inside.

But the engine was running.

Aria stood in the downpour with her keys biting into her palm. Marcus knew the hospital. Marcus knew her apartment, her coffee shop, the exact route she drove home.

Marcus had no reason on earth to know about this street.