My heart somersaults. Magnum’s pierced dick presses against my entrance. Cool metal surrounded by warm flesh. He slides the head inside me easily, even if it’s still a tight squeeze. I’m too wet for it to really hurt, but I feel the pressure from his invading member. Magnum’s heavy muscular body presses me into the bed and with one swift thrust, I forget that I hate this man with every fiber of my being.
I forget that I promised to keep my distance from him and toneverlet him into my head despite what we did with our bodies. It’s like his dick is so big, he forces the words and emotions out of me.
“I love you too, Magnum.”
I don’t even recognize my voice. I don’t recognize the vulnerable woman allowing another man to get close to her after all the shit she’s been through. My thighs wrap around Magnum and he pins me to the bed with his weight, moving his lips to mine as he pumps into me with a steady stimulating rhythm…
Chapter Nineteen
Amanda
Idon’t see how I can help, but Ethan insists I have the same skills as a hostage negotiator because of my “fancy doctor letters”. I don’t approve of abusing my status to manipulate someone, but I won’t lie… Most of the people involved with this organization need some type of therapy. Wyatt suffers from control issues as the eldest son and remains constantly anxious that he’ll die suddenly because of what happened to his dad. Anna holds him down but buries her problems in her family and is adding to her nursing education. She worries about her husband about as much as I worry about Ethan.
My other brother-in-law, Owen, continues to gamble at the worst times. Vickie supports his much slower path to healing, but she worries about continuing to work in night life as their kids get older. They all crave balance. Family. Connection. But there are still elements of the past that haunt us.
Word finally reached mine and Ethan’s home in Missouri about the fucked up situation at the club’s quarterly meeting. Nobody seems bothered by the criminal aspect of the entire affair, but I’m definitely disturbed by the thought of someone drugging two members of a dangerous outlaw biker gang to set up a pregnancy pact.
Ethan remains unbothered. I told him to leave my office with five minutes to spare before the appointment, but he lingers around dusting various surfaces and making an excuse to stay close to me – and exert whatever control he can over the situation ever since he’s been another sixteen weeks clean gambling. (He slipped up betting on Final Gambit at the Kentucky Derby and lost $1,000.)
“Oske knows something,” Ethan says. “Pry it out of her with all the force you therapists use.”
“You know that’s not how it works,” I answer from my chair, flipping the page and reviewing my notes fromThe Let Them Theoryby Mel Robbins. The messages in that book align with what I learned in school and might relate to Oske’s situation.
“Don’t let her manipulate you.”
“Oske isn’t a criminal mastermind, Ethan. She’s a regular woman with a troubled past. It’s that simple.”
“She called me a baboon.”
“For no reason?”
Ethan turns to me, his fist clenching unconsciously around the duster. It wasn’t for no reason. Ethan had gotten into Oske’s stash of tequila from her trip to Mexico and shared half the bottle with Zebulon Blackwood and Reed Hollingsworth. He claims it was an honest mistake, but Oske has every right to be upset too.
“I apologized and reimbursed her.”
“She’s not a bad person,” I remind Ethan. “Not liking bikers doesn’t make someone a bad person.”
Ethan scoffs. “For a woman who hates bikers, she finds a way to spend every waking moment of her life around us.”
“It’s not up to you to judge.”
“Okay, baby,” Ethan mutters, wandering over to me and kissing me on the forehead. “I’ll get out of your space.”
“Get yourself one of those matcha lattes you like so much.”
“Donottell anyone I drink those,” Ethan says seriously. This is the third time he’s threatened me subtly over exposing him and it’s starting to get ridiculous.
“I get it. Classified information.”
“Classified.”
He kisses me again and warmth spreads through me. Every time he leaves, I wish he didn’t have to go. Thank goodness he has an ass like Saquon Barkley’s, so watching him leave isn’t all bad. I bite my lip as I glance over at my husband’s sexy butt before he shuts my office door. Let’s just hope his man musk dissipates from the room before Oske gets here. I don’t want to accidentally trigger her fear response…
I throw on a couple essential oils from my homegirl’s pyramid scheme – long story – into my diffuser and examine my notes again. The bikers want me to find out if Oske drugged Magnum or Damara, but I have to admit that I’m just plain curious about Oske and she has her own reasons for meeting up with me.
I need help, honestly. Maybe therapy would be good for me.
I have to say, admitting that puts her miles ahead of most people involved in the biker club. I’ve heard Gideon say some insane things about therapy for a man who basically has PTSD. But it’s none of my business, really. I know I have nosy tendencies – it’s a part of what drew me to my profession originally. However, I have to state plainly, everyone involved knows that I’m acting far outside of professional bounds. This is a personal favor – like showing a plantar wart to your friend who works as a pediatrician – not an official diagnostic setting.
