vanyaghost

The Garrison wasn’t my kind of place. It reeked of old money and new problems, filled with men in expensive suits and women who knew exactly what they were worth. Everything about it was curated—mahogany walls, dim golden lighting, whispers of jazz threading through the air.

I’d been roped into coming, convinced by a friend who had promised me just one drink—and then promptly vanished into a corner booth with some guy whose name she wouldn’t remember tomorrow.

And so, I was left alone at the bar, lazily stirring my vodka soda, debating whether I should send the "emergency call me now" text and slip out unnoticed.

Then I felt it.

The unmistakable weight of someone watching.

Not a passing glance. Not some drunk idiot trying to get my attention.

No—this was different.

This was slow. Intentional. A gaze that settled over me like cigarette smoke, curling around my skin, leaving a mark before I even turned my head.

And when I did—

I swear the whole damn room narrowed to just him.

He sat at the far end of the bar, posture easy, but eyes sharp. A whiskey glass rested in his hand, the liquid catching the dim glow of the lights above. A cigarette twirled lazily between his fingers, though he made no move to light it.

His suit—dark, immaculate, undoubtedly expensive—fit like a second skin, but he wore it with the kind of effortless confidence that made me think he could just as easily command a room in nothing but rolled-up sleeves and bloodstained knuckles.

And he was looking at me.

Not just looking.

Studying.

Like he was already two steps ahead of whatever conversation we hadn’t even started yet.

The corner of his mouth curved—just slightly, just enough to tell me that he knew exactly what he was doing.

I arched a brow, lifting my glass to my lips. Not a chance, mate.

His smirk deepened.

And just like that, he stood, cutting through the bar’s low hum of conversation with nothing but presence alone.

Before I could think better of it, he was there—sliding into the empty space beside me, his scent of whiskey, smoke, and something distinctly dangerous curling into my lungs.

He let the silence settle between us, let it stretch just long enough to make me aware of the fact that I was waiting for him to speak first.

Then—

“You were about to leave.”

His voice was smooth, edged with something that belonged to a different time, a different world.

I glanced at him, unimpressed. “And you thought I needed a reason to stay?”

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. “No. I thought you needed an excuse.”

I took a slow sip of my drink. “You always this sure of yourself?”

“Not sure,” he mused. “Certain.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “What’s the difference?”

He took a sip of his whiskey, gaze never leaving mine. “Sure is when you think you’re right.” He set his glass down, leaning in just slightly, just enough to make my pulse skip. “Certain is when you know you are.”

A slow heat curled in my stomach.

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve let him have his fun and left him in the wake of my indifference.

Instead, I turned slightly toward him, matching the tilt of his body with my own.

“Alright,” I murmured. “If you’re so certain, tell me this—what am I drinking?”

His eyes flicked to my glass, then back to me, his smirk deepening like I had just played right into his hands.

“Vodka soda,” he said, voice smooth as sin. “You wanted something simple. No frills, nothing too strong. A drink you could leave behind without a second thought.” He tilted his head. “Because you weren’t planning on staying.”

My stomach flipped.

I masked it with a scoff. “Lucky guess.”

His smirk didn’t falter. “Not luck.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Alright, Mr. Certain—what else?”

He traced the rim of his whiskey glass with one slow finger. “You’re here with a friend, but she’s abandoned you by now.”

I lifted a brow. “How do you know that?”

“You’ve checked your phone twice since I walked over, but you’re not texting anyone. Just looking.” He paused, gaze flicking over my expression. “Either she’s with someone, or she’s gone entirely. Either way—you’re here alone.”

Damn it.

He was right.

I shifted in my seat, ignoring the way his eyes flicked to the movement like he noticed everything.

“You always psychoanalyze women at bars?” I asked, arching a brow.

His smirk deepened. “Only the interesting ones.”

The bartender slid another whiskey toward him, and as he reached for it, I caught sight of the tattoos peeking out beneath the cuff of his sleeve.

Not decorative. Not careless.

The kind of marks that meant something.

The kind that made me think this man was not just some businessman stopping in for a nightcap.

I hesitated.

Then, finally, I asked, “And you are?”

He lifted his whiskey, watching me over the rim.

Then—

“Thomas Shelby.”

My breath hitched.

Because I knew that name.

Not from social media. Not from magazine spreads of men in custom suits and corner offices.

No.

I knew it from whispered conversations. From the way people said it in hushed tones, like the name itself was too dangerous to hold in their mouths for long.

From stories of power. Of money. Of violence.

The kind of name that meant you were either important enough to know it—

Or stupid enough to ignore it.

My fingers curled around my glass. “Thomas Shelby,” I repeated, tasting the weight of it on my tongue.

He smiled, slow and wicked.

“At your service.”

I swallowed, heart pounding.

He wasn’t just playing a game.

My first mistake was holding his gaze too long.

My second mistake was not looking away.

Because Thomas Shelby wasn’t just dangerous—he was the kind of man who knew he was dangerous. The kind who could make a simple conversation feel like a game of high-stakes poker, where I didn’t know if I was playing against him or already in his palm.

And right now, with his sharp blue eyes locked onto mine, I had a sinking feeling I was losing.

But God, what a way to lose.

I swallowed the last sip of my drink, setting the glass down with deliberate ease, as if I wasn’t hyper-aware of how close he was now, how the air between us had shifted—something thick and electric humming in the space that separated us.

“You always introduce yourself like that?” I asked, my voice steady despite the way my pulse betrayed me.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “Like what?”

“Like a warning.”

The corner of his mouth curved. “Would you rather I lie?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I think you like the way people react to your name.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, leaning in just enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.

“And how did you react, then?” His voice was low, smooth, wrapping around me like velvet and smoke.

I lifted my chin slightly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering me. “I haven’t decided yet.”

His smirk deepened. “No?”

“No.” I held my ground, matching his energy. “You could be trouble.”

His gaze flicked over me, slow and knowing. “Trouble, is it?”

He exhaled, the scent of whiskey curling between us as he leaned in just slightly—just enough that his breath ghosted against my cheek, the faintest whisper of warmth on my skin.

“Trouble doesn’t ask for permission, love,” he murmured. “If I was trouble, you’d already know.”

I should’ve pulled away.

I should’ve told him he was getting too close.

Instead, I let the moment stretch.

His eyes flickered down to my lips, just briefly, just enough to make my stomach twist with something dark and thrilling.

My voice was quieter when I spoke again. “And what if I don’t mind a little trouble?”

His lips parted, his gaze flicking back to mine, something sharp and dangerous glinting in those impossibly blue eyes.

Then—

A slow, lazy smirk.

“I’d say you’re playing with fire.”

I swallowed, pulse hammering.

“And you?” I asked, my voice barely a murmur now. “Do you like fire?”

His smirk faded just slightly—replaced by something deeper. Something unreadable.

“I don’t mind getting burned,” he said.

His fingers grazed the rim of his whiskey glass, slow, absent, like he was considering something.

Then, just as the air between us thickened, just as my breath hitched—

He pulled back.

Deliberate. Measured. Like he wanted me to feel the loss of space.

And damn him, I did.

I exhaled slowly, watching as he took one last sip of his drink before setting it down with an air of finality.

Then, with infuriating ease, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and slipped it between his lips.

He didn’t light it.

Didn’t even try.

Just watched me.

Waiting.

I tilted my head slightly, feeling bolder than I should. “You always carry those around just to look intimidating?”

He exhaled through his nose, amused. “Something like that.”

I smirked, leaning in just slightly. “Or maybe it’s just a habit you can’t kick.”

His lips parted slightly, the cigarette shifting as his smirk grew.

“Are we talking about the cigarette, love?” he murmured.

My stomach twisted.

I should have looked away. I should have laughed it off.

Instead—

I plucked the cigarette from his lips with two fingers.

His brows lifted slightly in amusement, but he didn’t stop me.

Didn’t even move.

Just watched.

Daring me.

I brought it to my lips, letting it linger there for just a second, the faint taste of smoke and whiskey still clinging to the filter.

Then, slowly, deliberately, I set it down on the bar between us.

“You tell me,” I murmured, holding his gaze.

Something flickered in his expression—something dark and interested.

Then—

He laughed.

Not loud. Not showy.

Just a deep, quiet chuckle. Like he wasn’t used to being surprised. Like he wasn’t used to losing.

And yet, the way he was looking at me now—

It felt a hell of a lot like he didn’t mind.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “You’re a bold little thing, aren’t you?”

I smirked, reaching for my drink. “Takes one to know one.”

His gaze darkened, lingering on my lips before flicking back up to my eyes.

Then—

A slow, wicked grin.

“You’re trouble, love,” he murmured, voice edged with something close to admiration.

I took a sip of my drink, feigning nonchalance.

“You started it.”

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “And you’re finishing it, are you?”

I set my glass down, tilting my head slightly. “Depends.”

His brows lifted. “On what?”

I let the moment stretch, feeling the heat crackle between us.

Then, with a smirk of my own, I said—

“On whether or not you’re planning on actually doing something about it.”

His smirk faded.

Not in disappointment.

Not in amusement.

But in something deeper.

Something dangerous.

His fingers brushed against mine, slow and deliberate. Just enough to make my breath catch.

Then—

He leaned in, voice dark and smooth as velvet.

“Careful, love.” His breath ghosted against my skin. “You might just get what you’re asking for.”

And just like that—

I knew.

I wasn’t just playing with fire.

I was already burning.

His fingers were still resting against mine, the lightest touch—barely there, but enough to make my skin hum. He could’ve pulled away. Could’ve laughed it off, leaned back, put the game to rest.

But instead, he tilted his head, studied me in that slow, dangerous way—like he was debating something.

Then, just as I thought he might call my bluff—

He pushed back his whiskey, took one last slow sip, and stood.

No words. No warning.

Just an unspoken follow me as he turned toward the door.

I hesitated for only a second—just long enough for common sense to remind me that this was Thomas fucking Shelby, and this was probably a bad idea.

Then, with a steadying breath, I slid off my barstool, grabbed my purse, and followed him out into the night.

The air outside was crisp, tinged with the faint smell of rain and city lights. The streets were quieter now, the usual hum of nightlife fading into something softer, more intimate.

Thomas stood by the curb, rolling his cigarette between his fingers, as if debating whether to light it.

Then, he glanced at me. “You coming, then?”

I lifted a brow. “Depends. Where are we going?”

He exhaled through his nose, amused. “Not afraid, are you?”

I stepped closer, the space between us narrowing to something charged, something electric.

“Should I be?”

His lips twitched. “Probably.”

I smirked, tilting my head slightly. “Then you’re not very good at keeping secrets, are you?”

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it.

Then, with a slow smirk of his own, he turned toward the sleek black car parked just down the street. A Bentley. Vintage. Of course.

He pulled open the passenger door, one hand resting casually on the frame as he looked at me expectantly.

I crossed my arms, playing coy. “And if I say no?”

His smirk deepened. “Then you’ll spend the rest of the night wondering where I was taking you.”

Damn him.

I hated that he was right.

With a sigh that was far too dramatic for my own liking, I stepped forward, sliding into the passenger seat.

Thomas shut the door behind me, rounding the car with effortless ease before settling into the driver’s seat.

He didn’t start the engine right away.

Instead, he turned toward me, resting one arm on the steering wheel, watching me like he was still deciding something.

Then—

“You ever been on the back of a bike before?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “A motorcycle?”

He hummed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “That a problem?”

I scoffed. “Let me guess—vintage, too?”

His smirk widened slightly, but he didn’t confirm or deny it.

Instead, he leaned toward me—just slightly, just enough for his voice to drop into something lower, something meant just for me.

“If you’re going to get on the back of my bike, love…” His fingers brushed against my knee, light as a whisper, but enough to make my breath hitch. “…you’re going to have to hold on tight.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

I shouldn’t have wanted this. Shouldn’t have wanted him.

But suddenly, the thought of my arms wrapped around his torso, pressed against the heat of his body as the city blurred past us—

It was all I could think about.

I swallowed, feigning nonchalance. “I think I can manage.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he finally started the engine.

“Let’s find out, then.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were at a private garage tucked between narrow city streets, the scent of oil and leather thick in the air.

The moment I laid eyes on the bike, I knew I had been right.

Vintage. Sleek. A classic.

Black and chrome, polished to a shine, looking like it had been pulled straight from another era.

Of course it was perfect. Of course it was his.

Thomas walked over to it, tossing his suit jacket over the seat before pulling a helmet from the rack.

Then, with that same infuriating smirk, he extended it toward me.

“Last chance to back out.”

I lifted my chin, taking the helmet without hesitation. “Not a chance, Shelby.”

He chuckled, low and warm, before grabbing his own helmet and swinging a leg over the bike with practiced ease.

I hesitated for only a second before doing the same, sliding onto the seat behind him.

The moment my arms wrapped around his waist, I felt it—

The solid warmth of him, the way his body fit against mine like we had done this a hundred times before.

He smelled like whiskey and smoke, like leather and something distinctly him.

I swallowed, tightening my grip slightly as the engine roared to life beneath us.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “Comfortable?”

I smirked, letting my fingers tease against the fabric of his shirt.

“I could get used to it.”

His chuckle was barely audible over the purr of the engine.

“Hold on, love.”

And then, before I could even process it—

He took off.

The city blurred around us, neon lights streaking past, the wind whipping through my hair as I pressed against his back, gripping tighter as the bike cut through the night like a blade.

I should’ve been afraid.

But all I felt was alive.

Thomas rode like he owned the streets, smooth and effortless, his body moving with each turn like he was carved from the same steel as the bike beneath us.

And me?

I wasn’t just along for the ride.

I was falling.

Falling into something reckless. Something dangerous.

Something I wasn’t sure I wanted to escape.

The bike slowed as we reached the edge of the city, pulling off onto a quiet stretch of road overlooking the skyline.

The moment the engine cut off, silence settled between us—thick and heavy, the air charged with something unsaid.

Neither of us moved.

Then, slowly, Thomas turned his head, his voice lower now, rougher.

“Still think you can handle a little trouble?”

I let out a slow breath, heartbeat hammering.

Then, with a smirk of my own, I leaned in—

Close enough that my lips nearly brushed his ear.

“I know I can.”

His fingers curled against the handlebar, knuckles white.

And just like that—

He turned fully, eyes dark, gaze locked onto mine like a hunter deciding whether to strike.

I didn’t look away.

Didn’t even blink.

And then—

His hand found my thigh, slow and deliberate, fingertips tracing fire up my skin.

And when he spoke again, his voice was barely a murmur—

“Careful, love.” His lips ghosted over my jaw. “I might just take you at your word.”

And God help me—

I wanted him to.

“I never say things I don’t mean, Shelby.”

A sharp inhale.

And then—

He moved.

One second, I was pressed against his back, the wind still tangled in my hair, the city lights stretching out before us—

The next, I was beneath him, my back against the cool leather seat of the bike, his body caging mine, hands braced on either side of my hips.

I gasped, pulse hammering as his weight pressed into me, his knee slipping between my legs—firm, unyielding, just enough to make my breath hitch.

He smirked, watching me with dark, unreadable eyes.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, love.”

I lifted my chin, refusing to break first.

“So are you.”

His fingers found my wrist, his grip firm but careful, tracing slow, lazy circles against my skin.

“You should be afraid of me.”

I swallowed, heartbeat slamming against my ribs.

“Maybe I want to be afraid.”

Something flickered in his expression—something dark, something sharp.

And then, before I could take another breath, his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was possession.

A claiming.

His lips crashed against mine, fierce and demanding, his hand sliding into my hair, tilting my head back as he kissed me like he had every intention of ruining me.

And God help me—

I wanted him to.

I gasped against his mouth, my hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer, deeper, heat coiling low in my stomach as he pressed his knee harder between my thighs.

A low sound escaped my throat before I could stop it.

His smirk was immediate.

“Fuck, you sound good like that,” he muttered against my lips.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an easy victory. Instead, I tilted my hips just slightly—just enough to press against his knee in return.

His grip tightened, a sharp inhale through his teeth, his fingers digging into my thighs.

“Oh, you’re playing dirty now,” he murmured, voice rough.

I smirked, feigning innocence. “Who, me?”

A dark chuckle. “I should warn you, love—”

His fingers moved, skimming up beneath my dress, teasing, tracing maddeningly slow lines up the inside of my thighs.

My breath hitched, my nails digging into his shoulders.

“—I don’t lose.”

And then, before I could fire back—

He tilted his head, his mouth finding the curve of my neck again, kissing, biting, sucking.

My fingers clenched against him, my body arching involuntarily, heat coiling low in my stomach.

“Fuck,” I whispered, barely a breath.

He groaned low against my skin, his hands gripping me tighter, his lips trailing lower, his teeth scraping my neck.

He growled against my lips, his grip tightening in my hair.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re asking for,” he muttered, his voice rough, edged with something dangerous.

I smirked, breathless. “Then maybe you should show me.”

The moment he kissed me, the rest of the world blurred.

The cool night air, the distant hum of the city below, the rough leather seat beneath me—it all faded, swallowed whole by the sharp, intoxicating pull of Thomas Shelby.

His lips were demanding, his grip firm—one hand buried in my hair, the other sliding down my side, slow and deliberate. He kissed like a man who didn’t just take what he wanted—he made sure you felt it, deep in your bones, deep in the parts of you that would remember him long after he was gone.

I gasped against his mouth, and that was all the invitation he needed.

His hands moved, sliding down to grip my thighs, and before I could so much as catch my breath, he lifted me. Effortless, as if I weighed nothing at all.

A sharp gasp escaped my lips as my legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, my hands bracing against his shoulders.

He smirked against my skin, his breath warm as he murmured, “Still think you can handle a little trouble, love?”

I tightened my grip on his jacket, my nails grazing against the fabric. “You ask too many questions, Shelby.”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Then, without warning—

He turned, pressing me back against the bike, his body caging mine, pinning me there with nothing but the solid weight of him.

The heat of his body bled through his clothes, through mine, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me there like he had no intention of letting me go.

And God help me—

I didn’t want him to.

His mouth was at my jaw now, lips trailing lower, grazing along my neck in a slow, deliberate tease. His stubble scraped against my skin, sending a sharp pulse of heat straight through me.

I gasped, my head tilting back, exposing more of my throat to him, my fingers curling into the leather of his jacket.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough, strained—like he was barely holding himself back.

I smirked, breathless. “Something wrong?”

His grip on my thighs tightened. “You really don’t know when to stop pushing, do you?”

“Maybe I want to see how far I can push you.”

A sharp inhale.

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just beneath my jaw, his tongue flicking against it just enough to make me shudder.

I barely had time to process the heat pooling low in my stomach before his hands moved—sliding up beneath the hem of my dress, his fingertips grazing the soft, sensitive skin of my thighs.

My breath hitched, my pulse hammering so hard I could feel it.

His hands moved higher.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my grip tightening on his shoulders, my entire body coiled with anticipation, with want, with the undeniable realization that I had walked straight into the lion’s den—

And I was not getting out unscathed.

His fingers traced slow, teasing patterns against the inside of my thigh, his touch light, infuriatingly light.

I squirmed against him, trying to close the space between us, but he only chuckled, his grip tightening, holding me still.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured, his voice dark, amused.

I exhaled sharply. “And you’re cruel.”

He chuckled, his lips brushing against mine, teasing. “I did warn you.”

I huffed, frustration curling through me, my nails digging into his jacket.

He kissed me like he had been waiting for this moment all night—fierce, hungry, claiming. His hands gripped my thighs tighter, his body pressing me harder against the bike, until there was nothing left between us but heat and fabric and the maddening ache of needing more.

I moaned against his lips, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, and suddenly, his hands moved—gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him.

The feeling of him—hard and ready beneath me—sent a bolt of white-hot need straight through me.

I gasped, and he took full advantage—his tongue slipping past my lips, deepening the kiss, stealing my breath and any remaining sense of control I thought I had.

He pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing against mine as he murmured, “You sure you can handle this, love?”

I exhaled shakily, my entire body thrumming with anticipation.

I tightened my legs around his waist, my nails dragging lightly against the nape of his neck.

“Why don’t you find out?”

His smirk was wicked.

The world had narrowed down to heat, leather, and the solid press of Thomas Shelby between my thighs.

He wasn’t stopping.

He was stalling—drawing it out, making me feel every agonizing second of restraint before he finally decided to snap.

And God help me, I wanted him to snap.

His fingers traced slow, lazy circles along my thighs, slipping under the hem of my dress, barely brushing where I wanted him most. I let out a shaky breath, my nails digging into the back of his neck.

He smirked against my skin, pressing a teasing kiss just below my jaw.

“Getting impatient, are we?”

I exhaled sharply. “You’re insufferable.”

“Am I?” His hand inched higher, fingertips teasing along the lace of my underwear. Barely there. Not nearly enough.

I swallowed, my breath catching as he tilted his head, watching me like he enjoyed the way I squirmed beneath him.

Then—

His lips brushed against my ear.

“Tell me where you want me, love.”

A slow ache coiled low in my stomach, heat pooling between my thighs.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an easy victory. Instead, I shifted slightly, pressing myself against his hand.

His smirk deepened.

Then—

He moved.

A single finger, pressing down over the lace, teasing, just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight through me.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my grip tightening on his shoulders.

He stilled, his mouth hovering over mine, his voice dark, taunting.

“Is that what you wanted?”

I hated that I couldn’t think straight, that my body was already betraying me, that I was already tilting my hips against his hand, chasing the friction.

“Thomas—”

“Say it.” His voice dipped lower, rougher.

I swallowed, my pulse hammering. “I need you.”

A low growl rumbled in his chest.

Then—

The sound of fabric tearing.

I gasped, barely processing the cool air against my skin before his hand was on me—no barriers, no teasing now, just slow, torturous pressure right where I needed it.

I let out a sharp moan, my head falling back.

“Fuck, you sound good like that,” he muttered, his voice laced with something dark, something hungry.

His fingers moved with lazy confidence, tracing slow, maddening circles, never quite giving me enough, making me ache for it.

I whimpered, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps, my hips shifting against him.

His smirk was wicked.

Then—

He stopped.

I let out a choked noise of protest, my eyes snapping open.

“Thomas, don’t you dare—”

He gripped my chin, tilting my head so our eyes met.

His smirk deepened. “You want more?”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

He chuckled, low and dark. “Such a stubborn little thing.”

Then, without warning—

He slid two fingers inside.

I cried out, my nails scraping against his shoulders, my head falling forward against his chest.

“Fuck,” I gasped.

He groaned, his grip tightening on my waist, his breath hot against my temple. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t need to.

He took his time, watching me, listening, his fingers moving in slow, devastating strokes, his thumb circling just enough to make my thighs tremble.

I clenched around him, my breath ragged, my entire body burning.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear. “You’re already so fucking wet for me.”

I barely had time to process the words before his pace changed—faster now, harder, his thumb pressing just right, his fingers curling inside me, finding that spot that had my entire body shattering.

I gasped, my back arching, my fingers fisting in his shirt as I came apart around him.

His name fell from my lips like a prayer, breathless, desperate.

He groaned low in his throat, his other hand tightening on my waist, his mouth grazing along my jaw.

I was still trembling when he finally slowed, his fingers slipping from me, leaving me aching, breathless, completely undone.

He pulled back slightly, watching me with something dark, something possessive in his gaze.

Then, with infuriating calm, he lifted his fingers to his lips, tasting me with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue.

I swallowed hard, my breath still uneven, my entire body throbbing.

His smirk was pure sin.

“You’re fucking ruined for anyone else, love.”

I exhaled shakily, my heart still hammering.

Then, despite the weakness in my legs, I shoved at his chest, making him stumble back just slightly.

He chuckled, looking utterly pleased with himself.

I straightened, my legs still trembling, but my voice was steady when I said,

“Don’t get cocky, Shelby.”

He grinned, stepping closer again, his hands finding my waist.

“Too late for that.”

I rolled my eyes.

But before I could retort, he grabbed my chin, tilting my face up to his.

His expression shifted—still smug, but darker now, his voice dropping lower.

“You do know I’m nowhere near finished with you, right?”

A shiver ran down my spine.

Then, before I could respond—

He kissed me.

Deep, slow, thorough.

Like a promise.

Like a warning.

And fuck—

I was ready for whatever came next.

I barely had a moment to catch my breath before Thomas was moving again.

His grip on my waist was firm, guiding, pulling me forward until I was flush against him, heat radiating from his body like a slow-burning fire. His lips trailed lower, brushing against my jaw, then my throat, teasing, tasting—until he reached my collarbone, where he bit down, just enough to make me gasp.

I swore I felt him smirk against my skin.

“You like that,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

That was a mistake.

Because suddenly, Thomas swung a leg over the motorcycle, straddling it backwards and I was being lifted, his hands gripping my thighs as he hoisted me onto his lap.

I gasped, my fingers scrambling for purchase, instinctively grabbing his shoulders to steady myself.

His smirk was dark, wicked.

“There she is,” he murmured, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below my ear. “I was starting to wonder if I’d have to work harder for those pretty little noises.”

I hated him.

I wanted him.

I couldn’t think when he touched me like this.

I tried to regain some semblance of control, curling my fingers into his collar, yanking him closer until our lips crashed together, my teeth grazing his lower lip in retaliation.

A low growl rumbled in his chest.

Then—

His hands moved, gripping my hips, pressing me down onto his thigh, making sure I felt exactly what he was doing to me.

My breath hitched.

“Fuck, Tommy—”

His grin sharpened, his fingers tightening just enough to keep me right where he wanted me.

“Oh, now you’re using my name properly?” His voice was all smooth arrogance, all sinister charm.

I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

I also wanted to bite his fucking lip again.

Before I could decide which urge to give into, he rolled his hips against me, his fingers digging into my thighs as he guided my movement against him.

My head tipped back, my breath shattered, a sharp sound escaping my lips before I could stop it.

His grip tightened.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice dark and dangerous, his breath hot against my throat. “Let me hear you, love.”

I should have resisted.

I should have at least tried.

But his fingers were digging into my thighs, his thigh pressing between mine, and my body was already betraying me, my hips tilting forward to chase the friction he was so generously providing.

His smirk deepened.

“Fuck—” My fingers fisted in his shirt, my body trembling as heat coiled low in my stomach, every movement sending another pulse of electricity straight through me.

He tilted his head, watching me with a dark intensity, like he was committing every little reaction to memory.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he muttered, his grip tightening, forcing me to keep going, making me take what I needed.

I moaned, my legs clenching around him, my body so close to snapping.

He must have felt it, because his lips brushed against my ear, his voice dipping into something low and filthy.

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

A sharp, shattering heat rushed through me, my body tightening, my breath catching on a choked sound as I came undone against him, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

His hands held me steady, kept me anchored, kept me his.

I was wrecked, ruined, entirely at his mercy.

And he fucking knew it.

His smirk was lazy, satisfied, cocky as hell.

I barely had time to recover before he reached for my chin, tilting my face toward him, forcing me to look at him.

His voice was a quiet, simmering promise.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

A shiver ran through me.

I swallowed hard, my breath still ragged.

Then, slowly, I matched his smirk, lifting a brow in challenge.

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

His eyes darkened.

And then—

I wasn’t waiting anymore.

Thomas Shelby was not a patient man.

And neither was I.

The moment I threw that challenge at him, something shifted. Something snapped.

His smirk vanished, replaced by something darker—something primal.

His fingers dug under my thighs, pushing me up, stumbling backwards off the bike, legs trembling. He swung his leg up off the bike in one fluid motion and pulled me closer, his eyes dark.

Thomas grabbed me, flipped me, bending me slightly over the bike.

My chest hit the cool leather seat, my fingers gripping the edge of the bike as I let out a startled gasp.

“Tommy—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, his hands sliding down my spine, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of me.

A slow, lazy drag of his fingers over my hip, teasing the inside of my thigh, just enough to make me shiver, to make my breath catch.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice laced with pure satisfaction. “So fucking desperate for it.”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

That was a mistake.

Because suddenly—

I let out a sharp inhale, my dress bunched up around my waist, cool air kissing my bare skin as he dragged my ruined underwear down my thighs in one swift motion.

A low, appreciative hum rumbled from his chest. “Look at you…” His hand slid between my legs, fingers skimming—barely touching—before pressing just enough to make me squirm against him.

I bit my lip, desperate for more, my body already aching for him.

He chuckled, dark and unforgiving, his free hand gripping my waist. “Tell me, love,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through my wetness, taunting. “Is this for me?”

I hated how smug he sounded.

I hated that he already knew the answer.

Still, I refused to give in so easily.

I lifted my head, turning slightly to glance back at him, meeting those icy blue eyes with a defiant smirk.

“You’re wasting time, Shelby.”

His fingers tightened on my hips, holding me in place.

My body went taut, trembling, as I felt the press of him against me, hard and unrelenting, teasing, just barely there.

I swallowed, my breath ragged.

“Thomas—”

“Say it,” he murmured, his voice a dark, taunting whisper against my ear. “Say you want it.”

I should have fought it—made him work for it—but I was already gone, already ruined by his touch, already too far past the point of caring.

“I want it,” I breathed.

A low, satisfied chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Then—

He pushed inside.

I let out a sharp gasp, my body stretching around him, my nails digging into the leather seat as I tried to catch my breath.

“Fuck,” Tommy hissed, his grip bruising on my hips as he stilled for a brief moment, feeling just how tight I was around him.

I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—he was everywhere.

Then—he moved.

Slow at first. Deep, controlled, dragging it out just to make me feel it.

I whimpered, my nails scraping the leather, my body already clenching around him, desperate for more.

He must have felt it, because he groaned, his grip tightening, his pace quickening, each thrust harder, deeper, ruthless.

My moans filled the air, mingling with the distant hum of the city below, but up here—in this moment—there was nothing else.

Nothing but Tommy. His hands. His body. His fucking name falling from my lips like a prayer.

A sharp cry tore from my lips, my body rocking against the bike, the entire world melting away, leaving only this, only him, only the raw, devastating pleasure of him claiming me completely.

His grip on my hips tightened, holding me exactly where he wanted me, forcing me to take everything he gave.

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he muttered, his voice raw, wrecked.

I could barely breathe, could barely think, the pleasure building too fast, my body already coiling toward the edge, desperate, helpless against the way he took me apart so easily.

His fingers slid between my legs, pressing exactly where I needed, rubbing circles, pushing me closer to the edge with every relentless thrust.

My breath broke, my legs trembling, my body teetering on the edge.

Then—his lips brushed against my ear, his voice a raw, possessive growl.

“Come for me.”

And just like that—I shattered.

Pleasure ripped through me, my body clenching around him, my head falling forward as I cried out his name, every muscle tightening as wave after devastating wave crashed over me.

Tommy groaned, his rhythm faltering, his hand fisting in my hair as he followed, his body tensing before he spilled inside me, my name a rough whisper against my skin.

For a long moment, neither of us moved.

I was wrecked—utterly spent, my body boneless against the bike, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

Tommy let out a slow, uneven breath, his hands sliding down my sides, his touch softer now, gentler—as if he was steadying me, grounding me.

Then—

He pressed a slow, possessive kiss to the base of my spine.

And just like that—I knew I was his.

Time blurred.

Minutes, maybe an hour later, I found myself still tangled up in him, my bare back against his chest, my legs over his lap as we recovered, the night air cool against my heated skin.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it, taking a slow drag before pressing it between my lips, his fingers brushing against my mouth.

I inhaled deeply, the smoke calming, familiar, the taste of him still lingering on my tongue.

Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, charged, something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.

Finally, he exhaled, his lips ghosting over my shoulder.

“You’re mine now.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t even a demand.

It was a fact.

I turned slightly, arching a brow, pretending to consider.

“Oh?” I mused, blowing out a slow stream of smoke. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

His low chuckle vibrated against my skin.

“You didn’t have to.”

His fingers traced lazy circles along my thigh, possessive, casual—like he already owned me.

Like I wouldn’t dare walk away.

And the worst part?

He was right.