Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
His hand moved up my thigh, slipping between to work my clit.
“Take me with you,” he demanded. “Squeeze my come out of me,” he added just as the pulsations started, deep, like they were at the base of my spine and spreading outward. “Fuck, yeah, baby, just like that,” he hissed as they intensified, making me cry out as he kept thrusting up into me, finding his own orgasm on the tail-end of mine.
“Oh, my God,” I sighed afterward, my thighs aching, my body feeling both exhausted and exhilarated, as I looked down at him, a small smile playing with my lips.
“Yeah, that about covers it,” Crow agreed, returning my smile as his fingers danced up and down my thighs. “And I might be rethinking what I said about you living in the middle of nowhere. Because watching you ride me out in the front yard without having to worry about being seen is pretty fucking epic.”
We couldn’t have known in that moment, of course, that we had been seen.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Crow
“Yo, are you listening to me?” Slash asked, making me realize that, no, I wasn’t.
All I could seem to think of lately, in fact, was the look of Morgaine as she rode me.
It had been almost a week since then, and I still found myself completely consumed by it. I spent the rest of my time trying to think of an excuse to go back over there.
Maybe I didn’t need one.
And each passing day that I didn’t go, she was getting all up in her head about it again.
I kept comforting myself that I was going to be over there the next day to take her back to Marnie’s studio to pick up all her pottery. I figured that I could find some time to talk to her then. About what was going on with us. And what I wanted to go on between us. Then I could see where her head was at about it.
“No,” I admitted, shaking my head at myself.
“Didn’t think so,” Slash said, shaking his head. “I was telling you that Judge and Dell got caught in traffic,” he explained. “Which means he can’t go to the prison.”
Right.
The prison.
Because Slash had settled on the files of the guys I’d gone through. And one of them we were just barely going to catch on his way out of the damn place.
“Alright,” I said, nodding. “I can go scoop him up and bring him back,” I said, finding myself glad for something to do to distract myself. Because everything in me just wanted to drive over to Morgaine’s place and fuck her for a solid twelve hours, take a nap, and start it all over again.
I hopped up, grabbing the keys, and heading toward the door.
“Hey, Crow,” Slash called, making me turn back.
“Yeah?”
“You gonna at least tell me her name?” he asked, reminding me again that while Slash usually kept his thoughts and observations to himself, he was always paying attention.
“Morgaine,” I told him because, well, that was just how shit in the club worked.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he told me, shaking his head.
“For getting involved with a woman?” I asked, surprised. He hadn’t had anything to say about Judge and Dell once they got serious about each other.
“For going a fucking week without seeing her,” he said. “Fucking idiot,” he reiterated, then made his way out of the room.
He wasn’t wrong.
That was exactly what I was.
And now, instead of going and acting on that, I was climbing in the SUV and making my way out of Shady Valley—past the motel where that shithead I still needed to kill lived—and up to the prison.
I didn’t plan to go inside. I never did.
I just parked outside and waited, since we had no idea when the guy was actually going to be released.
Which meant I got another hour and a half of nothing but my own swirling thoughts to keep me company before I finally heard the familiar clink of the gates, promoting me to climb out of the SUV and make my way toward the sidewalk as the man I was there for made his way down the path.
Saúl Garza.
But he went by the nickname “Coach,” for reasons that hadn’t been in the file we had compiled.
Coach was a good six-three with short black hair, nearly black eyes, some scruff, a shitton of tattoos—including a little flighted bird right next to his eye—, and the kind of body that said prison gave him a lot of time to workout.
His general look, mixed with the way he carried himself, had a menacing vibe that probably kept him pretty safe while on the inside, even though we hadn’t found any gang affiliations for him in his file.
“You’re Coach?” I called, making him incline his chin at me.
“Depends who’s asking,” he said, gaze moving over me. “Cut says you’re a biker. But where the fuck’s the bike?”