The Dangerous Edge
1601 Words
The engine cuts off.
Silence rushes in to fill the space, heavy and expectant.
Dahlia sits perfectly still on the couch, her tea long gone cold on the side table. Her pulse thrums in her throat as she listens to the sound of boots on gravel. The front door opening.
Then closing.
Beck stands in the entryway.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
She sees it immediately. The tension coiled through his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the way his hands hang loose at his sides like he's forcing himself not to clench them into fists.
Something went wrong today.
Something bad.
His eyes find hers across the room, and there's a darkness there she hasn't seen before. Not anger, exactly.
Something deeper.
More dangerous.
He looks at her like he's not sure whether he wants her here or whether he needs to be alone.
Like he's at war with himself.
"You should go upstairs," he says quietly.
His voice is rough.
Controlled. But barely.
Dahlia doesn't move.
"Deke told me you'd be in a bad headspace," she says evenly.
"He was right."
"He told me to give you space."
Beck's jaw tightens. "Smart advice."
"Probably."
A beat of silence.
"So why are you still sitting there?" he asks.
She holds his gaze. "Because I'm not afraid of you."
Something flickers in his expression.
Surprise, maybe. Or disbelief.
"You should be," he says.
"But I'm not."
He takes a step forward. Then stops himself.
"Dahlia." Her name is a warning. "I'm not in the mood for company right now."
"I know."
"Then go upstairs."
She stands instead.
His eyes track the movement, his entire body going still.
She crosses the room slowly. Deliberately. Until she's standing directly in front of him.
Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see the storm raging behind his eyes.
"Beck," she says softly.
He doesn't respond. Just stares at her like he's trying to figure out what the hell she's doing.
Then she drops to her knees.
His breath catches.
"Dahlia—"
She doesn't let him finish. Her hands move to his belt, unfastening it with steady fingers. He's hard already. She can feel it through the denim and when she pulls his c**k free, the weight of it in her hand sends a thrill through her.
"You don't have to—"
She takes him into her mouth.
Deep.
The sound he makes is guttural.
Raw.
His hand flies to the wall beside him, bracing himself as she works him with purpose. No teasing. No hesitation. Just the wet heat of her mouth and the deliberate rhythm of her movements.
She feels the tension in him shift. Feels the way his breathing changes, the way his hips jerk forward involuntarily.
For a moment, he lets it happen.
Lets her pull him out of whatever dark spiral he's been caught in all day.
But then his hand tangles in her hair, and he pulls her back.
"Stop."
She looks up at him, her lips swollen, her breathing uneven.
"Beck—"
"Not like this."
His voice is strained.
Almost desperate.
He pulls her to her feet, and before she can process what's happening, he spins her around and bends her over the arm of the couch.
Her hands brace against the cushions as he yanks her jeans down, his movements rough and urgent.
Then he's inside her.
One hard thrust that steals the breath from her lungs.
"f**k," she gasps.
He doesn't give her time to adjust. Just f***s her hard and fast, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force.
It's rough.
Intense.
Almost punishing.
But then his hand slides up her spine.
Gentle.
Reverent.
The contradiction makes her chest tighten.
He slows.
Just slightly. His thrusts still deep but no longer frantic.
One hand moves to her shoulder, pulling her back against him so her spine curves. So he can reach deeper.
"You're real," he mutters, almost to himself.
She doesn't understand at first.
Then his hand slides around to her throat. Not squeezing, just holding and she feels the way his breath shudders against her neck.
"You're actually here."
There's something vulnerable in his voice. Something that doesn't match the roughness of his movements.
Like he can't quite believe she stayed.
Like he expected her to run.
"I'm here," she whispers.
His grip tightens.
Not painful.
Just grounding.
"Say it again."
"I'm here, Beck."
He groans, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he f***s her slower now. Deeper. Each thrust deliberate and controlled.
She can feel the shift in him. The way the dangerous edge is softening into something else.
Need.
Raw, unfiltered need.
His hand slides from her throat to her breast, cupping it through her shirt. His thumb brushes over her n****e, and she arches into the touch.
"You feel so f*****g good," he mutters against her skin.
She can't respond.
Can't do anything but hold on as he takes her apart piece by piece.
When his hand slides between her legs, finding her c**t, she cries out.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me feel you."
She's already close. Has been since the moment he pushed inside her.
His fingers work her in tight circles, and the combination of his c**k and his hand is too much.
"Beck—"
"Come for me."
The command breaks her.
She comes hard, her body clenching around him as the orgasm rips through her. She hears herself cry out, hears the way his breathing hitches in response.
He follows seconds later, his grip on her tightening as he buries himself deep and spills inside her.
For a moment, they're both frozen. Breathing hard. Bodies locked together.
Then he pulls out slowly, and she feels the loss immediately.
But before she can move, his arms wrap around her waist, pulling her upright and back against his chest.
He holds her there. Just holds her.
His face buried in her hair. His breathing still uneven.
She can feel his heartbeat against her back.
Fast and hard.
"You okay?" she asks quietly.
He doesn't answer right away.
Then he quietly admitted to her, "I didn't think you'd stay."
The admission is so quiet she almost misses it.
She turns in his arms, looking up at him.
His expression is unguarded now. The dangerous edge gone. Replaced by something softer. Something that looks almost like fear.
"Where else would I go?" she asks.
He searches her face like he's trying to find the lie.
But there isn't one.
She's here. She chose to be here.
And she's not going anywhere.
His hand comes up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip.
"You don't know what you're getting into," he says.
"Maybe not."
"This life…it's not easy."
"I know."
"People get hurt."
"I know that too."
He stares at her for a long moment.
Then he kisses her.
It's different from before.
Slower.
Gentler.
Like he's memorizing the shape of her mouth. The taste of her.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against hers.
"I don't deserve you," he murmurs.
She almost laughs. "You don't get to decide that."
"No?"
"No."
His lips twitch.
Almost a smile.
Then he pulls her toward the couch, sitting down and pulling her into his lap.
She curls against him, her head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around her like he's afraid she'll disappear if he lets go.
They sit like that for a long time.
No words.
Just the sound of their breathing and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
Eventually, his hand starts moving. Slow, absent strokes up and down her back.
"What happened today?" she asks quietly.
He's silent for a moment.
Then he started talking in that steady, certain tone she was used to, "Club business. Nothing you need to worry about."
"Beck—"
"I mean it." His voice is firm but not unkind. "Some things… you don't need to carry."
She wants to argue
.
Wants to tell him she can handle it.
But she also understands what he's really saying: I don't want this world to touch you.
So she doesn't push.
Just stays curled against him, letting him hold her.
After a while, he speaks again.
"When I walked in and saw you sitting there…" He trails off.
"What?"
"I thought you'd leave. Thought you'd realize what kind of man I am and decide it wasn't worth it."
She lifts her head to look at him.
"What kind of man are you?"
His jaw tightens. "The kind who does things that keep him up at night."
"And you think that scares me?"
"It should."
She reaches up, cupping his face in her hands.
"I'm not scared of your darkness, Beck. I'm drawn to it."
Something shifts in his expression.
"Why?"
"Because I have my own."
The truth hangs between them.
He stares at her for a long moment. Then his hand slides into her hair, pulling her mouth to his.
The kiss is deep.
Consuming.
When they finally break apart, they're both breathing hard again.
"Stay," he says.
It's not a command.
It's a plea.
"I'm not going anywhere," she promises.
And she means it.
Whatever this thing is between them. Dangerous, reckless, inevitable she knows she's all in.
He pulls her closer, and she lets herself sink into him.
Into the warmth of his body. The steady rhythm of his breathing.
Into the feeling of being exactly where she's supposed to be.
Even if it's the most dangerous place she could possibly be.
- Writer
