Page 337 of Devil’s Disciples

With thin eyes, pursed lips, and not one ounce of hesitation, he reached between my legs. He tugged against the hem of my shorts. His hand slipped beneath my panties. A surge of excitement rushed through me.

I held my breath, and his gaze.

He slid his finger along my wet slit, and then inserted it knuckle-deep.

A breath fluttered past my lips. I narrowed my eyes to mimic his. “Does that feel like I’m scared of you, Mister?”

Standing on the sidewalk, thirty feet from the door of the restaurant, he finger-banged me to the brink of an orgasm.

He paused. “Scared?” His finger tickled my inner regions. “I’m thinking not.”

“Are you scared of me?” I asked.

He cackled a laugh. “Not. One. Bit.”

I gripped his wrist firmly and raised his hand to my face.

His narrow eyes went wide.

I sucked my juices from his finger. “Well,” I said, arching a suggestive eyebrow. “You ought to be.”

122

Goose

Our motorcycle club was originally comprised of five men who became inseparable in elementary school; Baker, the club’s president, Cash, the club’s muscle, Tito, the computer and electronics expert, Ghost, our getaway driver, and me, the weapons expert.

Together, we moved from Great Falls, Montana to San Diego at the age of eighteen. At the club’s inception, and still well within our youth, we added a sixth man, Reno. He was our explosives expert, a special forces veteran, and a hot-headed fool at times.

Nonetheless, I considered him a brother.

Our clubhouse was located in a three-story building that Baker owned. The basement was our garage. The first floor was the clubhouse. The second was Baker’s living quarters. The third, his office.

Although many of the men liked to congregate in Baker’s office, I chose not to. Seeing him sit on the other side of the desk was a reminder that he had obligations that went well beyond our friendship.

Being president of the club was only one of the many hats Baker wore. A self-taught financial wizard, he laundered the club’s illicit income and employed its members at car washes his aunt “owned” through a legitimate LLC.

I preferred to think of him as a brother first and an employer second. Doing so wasn’t easy when I sat in his office.

But, it was the only place I could find him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

He seemed jovial. I wondered if he felt the same sense of vacancy I’d been feeling since Ghost was killed by a drunken driver.

“Got something I want to talk to you about,” I said.

Seated in his antique leather chair, he pushed himself away from the desk and stroked his beard. “About the job in Bakersfield?”

“Nope.”

“Club business?”

“Nope.”

He reached for his phone. “Music on, or off?”

Baker listened to music all day, every day. Although I often found it distracting, whatever he was listening to at that moment was soothing.