Page 7 of Colt
It had taken me six months to convince her to date me. Another year before she agreed to move in. Two more years before she said yes when I asked her to be my old lady, to make it official, immediately followed by a wedding.
I’d be patient for all of it. Earned every inch.
So the first night I finally got her to bed, I thought I knew exactly how it would go—slow and careful.
I was wrong.
She looked at me from across the room, something shifting behind her eyes, and pushed me down onto the mattress and climbed on before I’d finished processing the move. I reached for her, wanting to slow it down, take my time—
“I’ll tell you when to slow down,” she said. And started moving.
She fucked me hard and certain, hands flat on my chest, hips rolling in a rhythm that made it clear she’d been thinking about exactly this. Every time I tried to flip her, take some control back, she locked her thighs around me and kept me exactly where she wanted. She knew what she wanted. She wanted it deep, wanted it fast.
“Harder,” she said at some point. Not a request.
I gave her everything she asked for.
When she came she clenched tight and hot around me, my name half-gone in the moan before she could finish saying it. I lasted about ten more seconds.
Afterward, she curled against my side—soft and warm and quiet, entirely the sweet and careful woman I’d thought I’d been courting for six months.
Other nights I took my time. Got her on her back and worked my way down until careful and measured had nothing to do with anything.
She was grabby when she got close—sheets, pillow, whatever was within reach. The first time she got her hands in my hair she pulled hard, both fists, completely unaware she was doing it. I felt it all the way down my spine.
I didn’t stop. She didn’t let go.
The sound she made when she came from that was something I thought about for years.
There were slower nights too. Her underneath me, no agenda, just long and deep and unhurried. She’d stop trying to set the pace and just hold on—hands on my arms, wherever she could reach.
“You have to stop,” she’d said once, her voice gone soft and wrecked. “I can’t think when you—”
She hadn’t actually wanted me to stop. I hadn’t stopped.
“I’m not cut out for this life,” she’d told me more than once. “I’m not tough enough.”
“You’re the toughest person I know,” I’d always answered. And I’d meant it. Not tough like a biker, not tough like someone who could throw a punch. Tough like someone who’d grown up in foster care and still believed in people. Tough like someone who worked two jobs to put herself through community college. Tough like someone who’d looked at a scary biker in a gas station parking lot and decided to trust him anyway.
I’d thought I knew her. I’d thought she knew me. I’d thought what we had was solid, unshakeable, the kind of love that survived anything.
I’d been a fucking fool.
The night she disappeared, I’d been on a club run to Corpus Christi. Three days of hard riding and harder business, the kind of thing I couldn’t talk about even to her. When I’d finally made it back to our apartment, she was gone.
Not just gone—erased. Her clothes were missing from the closet. Her books were gone from the shelves. The little touches that made the place hers—the throw pillows, the plants, the photos of us stuck to the fridge with magnets—all of it, vanished.
And our bank account—the joint one we’d set up after we got married—was empty. Every penny of our savings, gone.
I’d torn the apartment apart looking for a note, a clue, something to explain how my wife could just disappear without a word. Nothing. She’d been thorough.
It was my Death’s Head brothers who finally told me the truth.
The clubhouse had been somber when I’d arrived, frantically looking for Lilac. Brothers wouldn’t meet my eyes. Scar, the club VP at the time, had pulled me aside.
“Brother, I’m sorry.” He’d handed me an envelope, his face grim. “You need to see this.”
Inside were photos. Lilac with another man. Timestamps from the weeks before she vanished. Bank statements showing large withdrawals—our money, gone. A motel receipt.
