Being Clay Morrow's ol' lady was a life of tension not fear, but of the raw current that coursed between his heavy hands and your skin. Clay wasn't the type to ask. He took. And if he loved something, he held it close sometimes too close.

There was no such thing as too much public display of "ownership" with him. He had this sensitivity this indefinable fire under his skin that lit up when someone looked at you for a second too long, or when you moved too far away. In his eyes, you weren't just a woman you were his woman. And that changed everything. He could pull you to his lap without a word in front of a table full of gang, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hand always landed where he wanted it on your thigh, on your hip, sometimes in a place that made you hot even with everyone else. When others were looking, Clay looked them straight in the eye. Brazenly. As if to say, Yes, she's mine. Look, and envy. He liked to touch you. There was something about him that was predatory, unspoken. Instead of "I love you," there was a rough squeeze on the back of your neck that sent shivers down your spine. Instead of "I missed you," there was a firm tug on your hand, for you to sit on his lap and just be close.

He smelled of leather and tobacco and guns like Clay, always Clay. Being his woman wasn't a choice from a list. It was stepping into the lion's cage and finding your place in it. While the other guys in the gang were partying and laughing, Clay would hold you by the waist firmly, like the whole world was about to rip you out and he was the only thing protecting you.

And maybe he was. In the evenings, when the world went quiet and he took off his vest, Clay was still Clay. Only for you he was softer. Still cheeky, still with that twinkle in his eye, but a little quieter, like he knew you were the only one who could disarm him. Maybe that was why he chose you. Because he knew you would endure his burden. And not only endure it, you would like it.