Page 7 of Dark Seduction

V

Hadyou asked before yesterday if I’d had considered sharing a woman with my prospect, I would have said you were fucking insane. This morning, I would result in a different answer entirely.

Our night with the raven haired beauty was the stuff you only hear of in magazines like Hustler. Or from TK before he meant Cora and went on the straight and narrow. That motherfucker would have walked out of the Vanilla Villa with his cock still swinging and singing Broadway style for the entire world to know. He wouldn’t be awkwardly sitting in our morning Church meeting, avoiding eye contact with my damn prospect.

My thoughts drift to the woman we’d shared last night. Fuck. I’ve always been in charge in the fucking department with my past partners. Leading is second nature to me, just like fixing cars. Yet, for her, I had surrendered my control.

My cock throbs uncomfortably in my jeans the longer I think about the way her body writhed as she rode me. The way her eyes, despite being hidden by that mask, bore down deep inside of me with each shift of her hips.

She had held all the cards last night.

There had been something primal in letting her lead and fighting my own instincts to take charge. I like control, but giving it up… I’ve never done that before. In an odd way, it was soothing.

Soothing, and awkward knowing that moment was shared with the guy I am supposed to be mentoring for the club.Some mentor I am.

“You hear me, V?” Judge asks, snapping my attention away from replay in my head. “The fuck you do last night that has you drifting off into space?”

Burnt’s gaze snaps to mine before dropping back to his clasped hands on the top of the table. GP, who sits next to me, doesn’t miss it. He side eyes me with a grin on his face.

Way to keep it subtle, asshole.

“Sorry, Judge. Had a long night,” I admit. “Can you repeat what you said?”

“I shouldn’t have to,” he grumbles, his large frame leaning forward in his chair. He’s not wrong. I’m a patch, and the last thing I should be doing in a club meeting is daydreaming about last night. No matter how fucking much I’d like to see her again.

“Apologies,” I surmise. “Won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” he mutters, clearly annoyed. Judge isn’t the kind of guy that you’d want to piss off on a good day. Disrespecting him in his own club meeting may be worse. “What I was saying was that I put a couple of feelers out about the new painter for the garage. Luck seems to be in our favor, because one of the best in business just happens to be in town. He’s going to swing by in the morning. I expect you to be there.”

“Yeah, no problem. Who’d you get? Truthfully, as long as he could keep paint on a vehicle, he’d be miles ahead of Ronnie.” Just thinking about Ronnie’s arrogance makes me want to throw a wrench at the fucker’s head. Good fucking riddance he’s not our problem anymore.

“Mack Taylor.”

The name pings familiarity in my mind, but I can’t place where I’d heard it before. Not that I am expert when it comes to paint jobs. Give me a wrench, and a blow torch, and I’ll build you whatever you want. A paint gun? You’d be better off giving it to a Kindergartener. I know jack shit about that.

“Comes highly recommended. He did that custom Harley the Chamber of Commerce is auctioning off this weekend. That’s why he’s in town. City invited him to the auction. We got lucky.”

“Did you see that bike?” Hashtag says with a whistle. He taps on the iPad in front of him until an image pops up on the screen. He flips it around to show us all. “I have had wet dreams about this bike.”

“Dude, don’t say that too loud. Your computers might get jealous and fry your ass,” Karma chimes in, a wide grin on his face. “Not to mention Shelby.”

“They both know where they stand,” he fires back, extending his middle finger. “It’s not every day a 1936 Harley Davidson El Knucklehead shows up on the market. The last one that came to auction sold for almost two hundred thousand.” He rubs his hands together like a cartoon billionaire. “I’ve considered selling off some of my collectibles to bid on it.”

“Oh no, not your toys,” StoneFace laughs. One of those creepy laughs that serial killers make. Dude barely talks, but when he does, it’s either weird as fuck like his slow speed police chase or terrifying. There’s zero middle ground with him. He keeps us on our toes. That’s for sure.

“Well, that was terrifying,” Hash says, his brows raised high. “But yes, I’m considering selling my action figures. They’re not toys, asshole.”

“Might want to put one of those on your to-buy list too, because Shelby’s going to rip you a new one if you even try to bid on it.”

“I can handle Shelby.”

Laughter fills the room, because we all know there’s no handling Shelby. Shelby handles Hash.

“She wants to build her new shop here in Austin. Can’t do that if you’re spending all the capital,” Mom reminds him. Leave it to Mom to be the voice of reason. Probably how he got his nickname. Even after his wife Marie passed away, he still mother hens us. Hash flips them both off before crossing his arms in a huff.

“Aw, come on, Hash. Lighten up. You can get big boy toys one day,” Karma teases, grinding against the irritation that normally is dished out from Hash, but rarely against him.

“Leave him alone,” Mom chuckles before turning back to Judge. “You think this guy is going to work out for us?”

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