For long minutes she was gloriously alive, fully in the moment, all flesh and bone and longing. The sensation of falling, twisting through air with him, thought disintegrating, the world becoming this man. He had both hands on the sides of her head, holding fast, controlling the kiss. His lips were chapped but his mouth soft on hers. As he grew more heated beneath her, she began to moan softly through his teeth, slitting her eyes closed. She was overwhelmed by how well they were fitting together. He kissed exactly how she loved to kiss and be kissed.

He was beginning to open to her, all want and need, she could feel it in the way his skeleton was revealing itself to her, jutting hipbones, the bending shoulder, his breastbone, and it was making her delirious.

With a deliberate movement full of male intent, he had her in his arms and was rolling her beneath him, one thigh between hers, her hip tight in his grasp. She broke the kiss and arched up into him and he brought his face down into her throat and she called out his name. He braced his hands on either side of her head and ground down into her, canting his hips and she felt him hard, all steel purpose.

He was kissing her again and the soft exploratory kissing was gone. His tongue was deep in her mouth, brushing across hers, up behind her teeth and she was kissing him in return hard and hungry.

She was ravenous with hunger for him. The desire to consume and be consumed. But it was too much, too fast. She was panicking slightly at how utterly out of control she was becoming. Lifelong armour thickened on her skin and she could not give herself over. She brought her hands up to his back, the bunching muscles, the well of his spine, and slid them to his shoulders where she urged him over onto his side. He rolled and pulled her body tight against his.

She felt him relax, her face against his neck listening to him breathe.

He leaned up on an elbow, looking down at her, his pupils blown. She brought her hand up to his face, tracing the scars, the edge of his goatee. He closed his eyes and leaned his head into her hand. His face had aged and weathered into the rugged visage he showed to the world, but now he looked boyish, the hooded eyes, the dimples ruined by the terrible Glasgow grin. She felt insanely lucky to be so close to him and she kissed the corners of his mouth, his cheeks and then lay back against his arm, looking up at him.

"What is it, Tara?"

She asked herself the same question.

"Wut, you never did it in a graveyard before?" he growled affectionately.

She frowned. "No."

He laughed. "Good. Me neither."

She felt his small joke grow larger in her mind, senselessly stripping it of levity. "Is that what this is?"

"Is that what what is?" He cocked his head, one eye nearly closed. She recognized the twist in his mouth as anger. "Oh, right. That's exactly what this is. We're all the way out here for tiffin so I can get a fine bit of tail."

She had no response to this. He gently let her go. She rolled onto her back away from him, shielding her eyes with one hand from his gaze.

He sat up and reached for his cut, fishing a pack of smokes out. He leaned back on one hand and retrieved a matte black Zippo from his jean pocket. She watched him through her fingers as he went through the habitual motions of lipping out a cigarette, lighting it and tossing the pack and lighter back onto his vest. Everything about him appealed to her and she scowled thinking of how she had put him off and with no discernible reason. Old habits were so ingrained into her she was surprised her skin wasn't tree bark. She didn't seem to be able to break free of it. She sighed and he looked down at her.

"You run hot and cold, lass. You call me at two in the morning to help you out but then you don't want me to help you." He paused. "I know that you want your hands on me." He pulled her arm down, away from her face, gripping her wrist. "You said you wanted to talk. Talk."

She had become transparent, shivering glass. He seemed to sense this, watching her from behind a guarded but kind expression. Slowly she sat up and surprised herself by motioning for the cigarette. He handed it over and she took a deep drag. The smoke filled her lungs and she welcomed the moment of hazy dizziness. She handed it back.

"I'm sorry, Filip."

"Jaysus, stop already with the fuckin apologies." He grabbed for the bottle of wine. "I get it. You're sorry. For what though?"

She screwed her knuckles into her eyes, she was suddenly afraid that she might cry. "I really like you," she whispered.

"And that's what you're apologizing for?"

She laughed now, pressing her fingertips beneath her lower lashes, nodding. "No. No." She lowered her hands, looking at him, smiling sadly. "I'm a mess."

He raised an eyebrow at this. "We're all injured, luv."

"I'm scared. All the time."

She watched as his male hackles rose, the dangerous and feral outlaw. "Of what?"

She shook her head, embarrassed now. "Of myself. Of this life."

His face softened, he handed her the wine, watching her. "That's a waste of time and energy, right. Unless you're thinking of checking out, this is what we've been given and hiding from it cuz you're scared of it is pointless."

"I know." She drank. They had nearly finished the bottle. "I don't know. You're making me feel alive."

"That is not a bad thing, lass." He ground the butt out into the grass. ""You don't have to protect yourself from me, Tara. Let's start over. We'll eat and you tell me about all the people you saw with their insides on their outsides this week. I got a strong stomach."

She smiled, then leaned toward him and kissed him. He grabbed for her neck and rolled his forehead against hers.

After lunch, they packed everything away. He had one of the apples in his hand, taking big crunching bites. She put her socks and boots back on and he offered her a hand up. He didn't let go and they slowly meandered the walkways through headstones and mausoleums. He stopped, he had eaten the apple down to the core, leaning back on one leg he pulled his arm back and threw it far over the fence. Something in the fluid movement of his body had her biting her upper lip.

In front of the bike, he pulled her again into his arms, rocking her, pressing his mouth against her ear, whispering nonsense.

"You got an amazing body, girl."

"I thought you said I was too thin."

"Mmmm. Musta been them scrubs. You're a fuckin goddess."

"Fil," she laughed, pleased.


At her house, he parked the bike in the street and she knew this meant he wasn't staying. He walked her up to the door, carrying the backpack. She turned and watched him. The familiar sadness was rising like a tide within her, slow but steady. She reached out both hands and he dropped the pack and took them.

"You know most of the guys are in the nick? Doing soft time?"

She had read of the bust, the executions, and she nodded wondering where he was going with this information.

"I have to be at the clubhouse, aye?"

"Of course. Yes," she was starting to babble and he leaned forward and kissed her quickly quiet.

"Hush. I'm telling you that I need to set things up with Piney. Opie's got himself in deep with Lyla and I wouldn't take him from that. So, dinner tomorrow night?"

She nodded, smiling. She hadn't expected that.

"Nothing fancy. We can take the Cutlass though. Maybe Catfish Charlie's on the river?"

Not an MC haunt. But dark and out of town. "I can't wait," she whispered and reached up for him.

He pressed her up against the door, kissing her with a wild abandon that took her breath away. Again. He was getting bolder with his hands, had them up under her tank top, flat-palming the skin of her back, over her ribs, up beneath her shoulder blades. It was electrifying. And she wanted her bones hotwired.

But he was wary now, she could sense it despite the sparks, and he kissed out of her mouth, his lips against her cheek. He nuzzled his way to her ear.

"I gotta tell you, Tara, I can't remember the last time I wanted so bad to crawl inside someone."

She smiled against the side of his head.

He kissed her, close mouthed and stood back. "Tomorrow night," he said simply and turned away.

She watched him, the routine of the motorcycle, the masculine movements of his body and the machine and then he was gone.