The shift from the sofa to the bedroom isn't fast. It’s not a frantic scramble born of sudden heat or a desperate attempt to drown out the noise of the world.
It’s slow, deliberate, and quiet… an unspoken agreement made in the space between one deep, bruising kiss and the next.
Locke’s hand stays locked on the small of my back as we stand up, his arm heavy and solid around my waist, anchoring me to his side as we walk down the dark hallway.
He pushes the door open with his boot, holding me close until the latch clicks quietly shut behind us.
In the dim light, the room feels entirely secluded, isolated from the club, the warehouse, and the violent echoes of Old County Road. Here, behind closed doors, there are no Vice Presidents, no President's daughters, and no cold iron boundaries.
