The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 232

Chapter 118-1

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.

There’s just the two of us, stripped down to the bare, quiet reality of having made it through another night together. At odds, sure, but not for long. Never for long.

Locke doesn’t turn on a lamp. He doesn’t move toward the bed right away. Instead, he backs up against the side of his heavy oak dresser, his wolf eyes never leaving mine as he pulls me into his massive chest.

His large hands rest on my hips, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles through the thin cotton of my

shirt.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates straight through my chest. “Please.”

I lift my chin, looking up into his face. In the shadow, his features are sharp: strong scarred jaw, heavy brow, dark eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that stops the breath in my throat.

“I’m right here,” I say.

“I know,” he says, his thumb moving up to trace the line of my jaw, his calloused skin rough and warm against mine. “Just need to see you. Need to make sure I’m not still standing on that back road, listening to static, worrying about you being afraid.”

The honesty of it cuts right through me. I reach up, taking his wrists in my hands, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his pulse beneath his skin. “You’re home, Locke. It’s over.”

“Not until I have you,” he says softly.

“So take me.”

He reaches down, his thick fingers tangling into the hem of my shirt. He doesn’t yank it up. He moves with a slow, reverent patience, lifting the fabric slowly, letting his knuckles graze the bare skin of my waist, my ribs, and my chest as he pulls the shirt up over my head and sets it carefully aside on top of the dresser.

The cool night air hits my bare skin, making a shiver run down my spine, but before I can contract, Locke’s hands are back – broad, hot, and heavy – cupping my waist, pulling me flush against him.

His eyes drop to my mouth, then track down the column of my throat, over my naked shoulders, taking his time, taking me in as if he’s trying to memorize every line of my body, making sure every inch of me is

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You are so beautiful, Zara,” he rumbles, his voice thick with an emotion that goes far deeper than desire. ‘So fucking beautiful it hurts.”

‘Locke,” I murmur, my fingers tangling in the heavy cotton of his gray hoodie. “Take this off.”

He nods, taking a half-step back. He reaches for the bottom of his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion, tossing it onto the chair beside the dresser.

Beneath it, he’s wearing a fitted black tank top, the dark ink of his tattoos stretching across his broad shoulders, his chest, and down his heavy arms. Scars, iron, and ink, etched into the skin of a man who has fought for every inch of ground he stands on.

reach out, laying both palms flat against his chest. His skin is radiating heat, his muscles hard as iron beneath my hands, his heart hammering in a deep, rhythmic cadence against my palms. I slide my fingers over the dark ink trailing across his collarbone, feeling the slight raise of scarred tissue buried beneath the art.

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