Page 9 of The Grief We Hold

“Of a fashion. Took back some of our product, some cash, and a handful of weapons they had lying around. They’ll need to be sold on. Can’t keep them, given we don’t know what the fuck they used them for. They didn’t strike me as killers, but we’re only one bullet match from finding out they are.”

“Everything else good?” Butcher asks. He knows better than to speak Hallie’s and Lottie’s names.

“As it can be. One more down. I need a beer.”

“Be my pleasure to get you one of those.” Will, one of our prospects, stands behind the bar. The guy is country through and through. When he’s not wearing a helmet, he’s wearing a Stetson.

We’re close to patching the guy in. There was a skirmish with a local group fancying themselves as badasses when they tried to break into our growing facility. Will was instrumental in giving them a lesson in fucking around and finding out.

I’m certain the brother thinks his road name is gonna be Cowboy, but in Church, we already agreed that a man with the last name Bell can only be called one thing:

Taco.

Will grabs my usual before popping the top of the bottle. “Good ride?” he asks.

I nod and take the beer from him. Not everyone needs to know my fucking business. “Cheers.”

He grabs his half-drunk beer and taps the top of my bottle with it, and we drink as if Smoke, our road captain, and Dice, a guy who works in our garage, aren’t spit roasting Nola, one of the club girls, over the arm of the sofa.

I turn my back to the bar and lean against it, watching the show. There are many things I love about being a biker, but thefreedom to create your own life and rules is hands down the biggest.

Which works for my voyeurism. I watch the way Nola’s tits swing as Dice rails into her. I love watching people fuck. Not sure there’s anything hotter than seeing the moment a person loses their edge. When you can see the strain of how badly they want to come. When they get lost in the feeling and sensation of a sexual act.

Giving or receiving.

Smoke throws his head back as he thrusts into Nola’s mouth. His knuckles are white where he grips her blunt pigtails. I can’t hear her choking over the loud rock music, but I imagine it.

I take in the way her eyes water, the way saliva drips in a long thread from her lips.

My dick stirs, and I glance around the room. Karlie and Isla are both here tonight. When Isla looks up, I wink at her, and it’s all the hint she needs to hurry over to me.

She’s wearing a low-cut black T-shirt and denim shorts that curve up the cheeks of her ass.

“You’re back,” she says, stepping between my feet.

“Miss me?” I ask.

“Always. Did you miss me?”

I didn’t think of her at all, so I don’t say anything.

Isla smiles, though it doesn’t hit her eyes. I notice, but it doesn’t bother me a bit. She knows exactly what the score is every time she sets foot in the clubhouse. “I’m going to pretend you answered yes to that.”

“You tell yourself whatever you want, if it helps you take my cock.”

She glances down at the bulge in my denim, then teasingly runs a long leopard-print nail over it. “Here?”

I’m many things when it comes to sex. But an exhibitionist is not one, for all I like watching others…

I spin her in my arms and watch my brothers with Nola. Isla grinds her ass against my dick. I spread my legs so she can get a little closer.

Cupping her, I place my fingers firmly over her clit but do nothing except apply pressure. There’s no stroking or circling or attempts to get into her shorts. It’s enough to tease, but not enough to give her an orgasm.

I’m greedy enough that I want it to stay between us. Don’t want any of my brothers knowing how I touch a woman or what I look like when I get off.

“Fuck,” Smoke grunts as his thrusts lose rhythm. “Yeah, suck it, Nola.”

Mascara runs in tracks down Nola’s face as cum spills over the edges of her lips.

---