Page 65 of Wild Ride

I don’t, either. Not even fucking slightly. So, I decide that Viking is right. This is something I’m going to use president discretion on because I don’t have time to call in a vote and repeat the situation.

“And the supply and demand issue we currently have?” I ask because at the end of the day, cartel or not, bitch under protection or not, we need our supply, or our buyers are going to look elsewhere, and we won’t be fucking eating.

His lips curve up into a grin. “That is the easy part,” he says.

“Is it?” I ask when he doesn’t continue immediately. Honest to fuck, I’m not so sure it’s the easy part.

He hums before he continues. “Asian cargo ships are unloading in Wilmington, and I think it’s about time we get it straight from the source.”

“Yeah?” I ask. “How the fuck do we do that?”

“You gotta know the right people, and I’ve been working on things since Shade died. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I could tell that Ralph was being sketchy as fuck. It’s been about two weeks of me truly focusing on this shit, but I think I can find his supplier. Everything is in code, but I think I have it figured out.”

“You shittin’ me?” I demand.

That’s when he lets out a laugh, shaking his head a couple of times. “Not in the fucking slightest. Let me get to Ralph, and I’ll shake his ass down, end him, and have the new guy on lockdown before you even get back to the clubhouse.”

“Am I not following you to the clubhouse?” I ask.

He jerks his chin toward the truck. “I figure you’ll have a detour, and I have at least fifteen minutes before I need to find you.”

He is not wrong.

“Text me when you’re all done here. I’ll meet you at the gas station on the outside of town.” I know exactly which one he’stalking about. Jerking my chin as my confirmation of the plan, I walk toward the truck. Instead of climbing into the back seat, where I know Dakota is sitting, I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine, then I back out of the Bloodhounds’ driveway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DAKOTA

I watchas Bishop climbs into the driver’s seat and wordlessly shifts the pickup truck intoReversebefore backing down the driveway. Then he turns his wheel and shifts it intoDrive, and off he goes down the country road, all in silence.

My brain doesn’t register what’s happening. I watch as he drives, his focus on the windshield, and I wonder if I should say something to him.

Does he even know I’m here?

Then, before I can put the words together to ask him what is going on or to let him know that I’m sitting right here in the back seat, the truck veers off the road. It goes down a single dirt lane before veering again, this time into a small thatch of a wooded area.

As he does all of this, he stays silent. Then he shifts. The truck goes intoPark, and he kills the engine. I suck in a breath, holding it as I wait for him to say or do something. Slowly, he turns his head, and his eyes find mine.

And in that exact moment, my breath comes out in a whoosh.

“Baby,” he says. That single word. It’s all I need.

My entire body melts into the seat, or it ignites. I’m not sure. But when my eyes find his, they water instantly. Then, before I can even attempt to blink them back, the tears fall. My vision blurs, and I don’t know how to calm myself down. I’m not even sure I can breathe anymore.

But when strong arms wrap around me, I don’t turn away from them. I turn into them. Feeling his arms apply pressure when he squeezes. Lifting my head, I look up into his eyes, trying to blink away the wetness there so I can see him clearly.

I cup his cheek, his short stubble rough against my palm, and close my eyes in a long blink, imagining that roughness sliding along my inner thighs. I want that, want him.

When I feel his lips touch each of my eyelids, then my nose, then my cheeks before they press against my lips, I let out a heavy sigh, my lips parting instinctually. When his tongue slides inside of me, it swirls around my mouth, tasting me.

Moaning, I slide my other hand around his back, gripping the leather of his vest, feeling the stiff embroidery against my hands. Holding on to him, I pull him closer to me. His tongue delves deeper, and my whole body melds with his.

Bishop nibbles my bottom lip then shifts his hands, gripping my waist before he drags me across the seats to straddle him. I expect him to whip the T-shirt off, but he doesn’t. Instead, one of his hands glides up my thigh, hip, waist, and then his fingers curl around my breast.

My breath hitches the moment his thumb slides across my nipple. My aching center isn’t just aching any longer—it’s throbbing. My entire body thrums. I can hear nothing, see nothing. There is just him.

Just Bishop Drake.

---