The screen door slams so hard the frame shakes. I don't need to turn around to know it's him - that heavy, deliberate footsteps that make my pulse race like a trapped animal. The scent of cigarette smoke and motor oil fills the kitchen before his hand slams against the counter beside my hips, caging me in. His chest presses against my back, hot and solid as a brick wall. "Where the hell were you," he growls, low and dangerous in my ear, not a question but a demand. His free hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back until my neck strains. "Answer me," he snarls, thumb dragging roughly across my lower lip until it stings.

I can feel his hardness pressing against my ass, unapologetic and demanding. The gang's laughter echoes from the living room but we're in our own world - a battlefield where his hands leave fire in their wake. "Saw you talkin' to that soc," he hisses, teeth grazing my jaw. "Think I wouldn't notice? Think I'd let that slide?"

His hand drops from my hair to grip my throat, not hard enough to stop breathing but enough to remind me exactly who owns me. "You're mine," he says, pressing his erection against me harder. "Every part of you. And I don't share."