Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
“Fuck, I want inside you so bad—want to feel you stretching around my cock,” he breathes against my lips, moving us across the room, his chest heaving. Sitting on the edge of his bed with me straddling his lap, we dual for dominance. I push him backward and begin to climb over him.
“Why does it feel so good?” I murmur more to myself than him. My hips center over the bulge in his pants, and I grind down where I need it, moaning as I twist my hips.
His hands find my tits again, pinching at my nipples. My pussy clenches, desperate to be filled with his thick cock. He grips my hips and spins us so his body is hovering over mine. Roughly, he tugs at my jeans, exposing my lace panties. The blood finds its way back to my brain, reminding me of the tattoo on my inner thigh. My heart drums in my ears. My stomach spirals. I try to grab the material in my hands.
“Shit,” he hisses, and my insides drop. I hold my breath, the air becoming solid in my lungs. “Even your panties are stained in Cutter’s blood. I don’t want to risk getting this inside you.” He shakes his head, crawling off my body. I sigh and shift my jeans up my hips. Closing my eyes, I cover my face. I got carried away. I’m getting too close.
And the worst part: I fucking like how he makes me feel.
I like the people here. I didn’t account for that. Tears burn my eyes. A crack splits right up the center of my body. The high has finally run its course. I’m drained and overwhelmed with a barrage of emotions.
“Are you crying?” Callan’s tone is gentle. His heat covers my body once more as I’m tugged into his chest and strong arms fold around me, offering shelter.
“I’m not crying,” I lie, sniffling.
His phone buzzes, pulling me out of my own misery. “You want to get that?” I wipe my face, trying not to look up at him.
“No. It can wait.” He tightens his hold. And as much as I crave the closeness, I need to recalibrate myself. Pulling away from his arms, I chuckle, a little embarrassed that I’ve fallen apart in front of him.
“I really need to take a shower anyway. Is that okay?”
“Of course.” He jumps up, pulling me to my feet as someone knocks on the door. Pulling the top sheet from his bed, he hands it to me, waiting for me to cover myself before answering.
“Got something,” a man informs Callan. He’s tall and slim, with a crooked nose and scar running through his brow—the guy Callan showed the picture of the ID to when we got back.
His eyes flick to me then back to Callan. “The Winslow kid has an older brother. Armed robbery at local bars is his m.o., but he got picked up for a minor offense a couple days ago. He just got out tonight. No doubt sent his brother to Ray’s in his stead. What do you want us to do?”
Callan shakes his head, his knuckles turning white as he grips the doorframe and the vein in his neck pops out. “Nothing. I’ll deal with him.”
Closing the door, he turns back to me. “I need to go somewhere. Kitty will bring you a change of clothes.” He walks over to another door and opens it. “Shower is in there, then just crash here for a bit, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks,” I murmur, fidgeting with the sheet. He grasps my face and kisses me hard, leaving me dizzy by the time he pulls away.
“Don’t leave.”
“I won’t.”
I turn the shower on and strip off my clothes, my eyes trained on the closed door. There’s no lock. He wouldn’t need one with this being his room. Paranoia runs rampant through my skull. The last thing I can handle is him walking in on me and seeing my tattoo.
Before, I felt powerful and righteous infiltrating their club. Now, I just feel dirty, a snake slithering around undetected. I scoop my clothes into a pile and step into the shower, keeping my back to the door. Warm water cascades over me as it washes away the chaotic night, the water turning pink from all the blood caked on my body.
There’s only one bottle of product in here for both hair and body. Brushing my hair after using it is going to be a nightmare. Pushing my hands through my locks, a lump of something comes away in my fingers. Vomit chases up my throat. It’s a piece of skin. Dropping it to the tiled floor, I kick it into the plughole, a shudder racking my entire frame.
My mind flashes back to Callan shooting the shotgun. His wrath was terrifying tonight. Callan transformed into the reaper to defend us—to punish those who would wrong his club and the people he protects. That’s the type of wrath I wanted from Tyler for Harley.