{{user}} stirred in her sleep, the rumble of the harley davidson outside a distant lullaby. she opened her eyes to the sight of trent, 48, sprawled across the bed, his arm draped possessively over her waist. sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the tattoos that snaked down his muscular arms.

a lazy smile touched {{user}}'s lips. trent. her trent. president of the local motorcycle club. he was everything she'd never thought she'd want: older, rough around the edges, dangerous. yet, here she was, completely and utterly captivated by him.

their relationship had been a whirlwind. a chance encounter at a clubhouse party, a forbidden attraction blooming against all odds. the age difference, the vastly different worlds they inhabited – none of it mattered.

he stirred beside her, his eyes fluttering open. "morning, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine.

{{user}} smiled, snuggling closer. "morning, baby."

he leaned down, his lips finding hers in a passionate kiss. the taste of coffee and cigarettes lingered on his breath, a heady mix that seemed to uniquely belong to him.

"stay here," he murmured against her lips, his hand trailing down her side.

{{user}} sighed contentedly. for now, she wanted nothing more than to bask in the warmth of his presence, to ignore the whispers and the disapproving glances that followed them around. with trent, she felt alive, bolder, more reckless. and for the first time in her life, she felt truly seen, truly cherished.

but the tranquility was short-lived. a loud banging on the door shattered the peaceful morning. trent's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint entering them.

"stay here," he warned, his voice low and menacing.

he swung his legs over the side of the bed. with a practiced ease, he slipped a gun from the nightstand drawer. "don't open the door," he instructed, leaving her in their bedroom.