Shit. I hated saying what I was thinking without even knowing it.
“I wouldn’t do well at a murder trial, then,” I muttered.
“No, so leave the murdering to me.” He winked and left.
I was left with his words. And a glass of wine. Because, obviously I had wine. I had two kids and a husband who was president of a motorcycle club at war with one of the most powerful and dangerous criminals in the world.
Wine was what got me through.
No, tequila was what got me through, but I couldn’t exactly slam shots in front of my children.
I sipped my wine and considered his words.
The men took care of the murdering. Or so they liked to think. Many of the women in the club had done their fair share. To protect themselves, obviously. Because as much as these men would protect us with their lives, we still had to protect ourselves too.
But who was going to protect them?
Amy
“You’re not allowed to die,” I hissed, my hand tight around his throat, riding his cock hard and fast.
My thighs burned with the force at which I was moving, but I considered sex my only form of workout, so it was fine. Plus, the fact I’d already had one orgasm from Brock’s mouth on my pussy and was working my way up to a second one was a good way to distract from the pain.
Just not all of it.
Brock’s body moved, flipping me onto my back, yanking my hand from around his neck and fastening it on mine instead.
My core clenched.
I was totally into a little bit of erotic asphyxiation.
Brock knew this.
Obviously.
Since he’d known everything about my body since the first time he’d fucked me and he’d done it thousands of times since then.
His eyes glowed with hunger, with intensity that hadn’t dimmed with years of marriage, a kid, with the extra couple of pounds I was carrying thanks to that kid. He was seriously lucky he was cute.
“You’re telling me not to die while you’re tryin’ to choke me, Sparky,” he rasped, plunging into me hard and slow.
My body shuddered as it built up for another orgasm. His muscles were taut, carved from marble, ink almost jumping from his skin, showing me he was close too. And showing me he liked a bit of erotic asphyxiation too.
Though I knew this.
My throat burned as he squeezed for the perfect amount of pleasure and pain.
“You’re not gonna die during sex,” I croaked, my voice harsh and breathy. “The orgasm is just too good.”
He thrust again. I let out a moan. His lips claimed mine. “No, Sparky, the place I end up leavin’ this world on my way to hell is inside heaven.”
He thrust again.
I was teetering on the edge of a cliff. My body wired, nerve endings beautifully raw.
“I’m too far gone to talk about how disturbing it would be if you died inside me,” I breathed.
He grinned, somehow in-between the tight, pre-orgasm face I liked so much. “Maybe I need to keep you here more often,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck as he stopped moving. “Keep you more agreeable.”
I squirmed underneath him, needing friction. He weighed me down.
“I’m not agreeable if you withhold an orgasm from me,” I hissed.
His hands went to my wrists, forcing them above my head as if he sensed I was about to try and fight my way back on top.
Maybe Gwen was right.
Maybe these men had powers.
Kind of weird to think of my best friend while I was in bed with my husband, seconds away from an orgasm—if he fucking moved—but that was us.
I was about to curse at Brock, as I was prone to doing, command him to fuck me, also prone to doing, until something moved in his face. He showed something that was mirrored in my soul and my bones.
“I’m not gonna die, Sparky,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said, sounding more sure than I wanted to be. Needed to be. “I can’t do this without you,” I admitted.
He looked between us with a grin.
I rolled my eyes. “I can do this without you, though battery operated devices pale in comparison.”
His hand squeezed my wrist. “Everything pales in comparison to the way I fuck my Old Lady,” he growled.
My stomach flipped, despite the arrogance.
There was a time when him calling me that caused a fight that almost broke us up. When I refused to be a title, a piece of property.
But now I wore that title better than I wore Chanel Haute Couture.
“I can’t do this, life,” I continued. “I can’t be a mom who doesn’t drink with breakfast and think about dropping her kid at the nearest fire station if you’re not there doing all the shitty parent stuff I don’t want to do. I exist in this sickly all American small town without you to make it beautifully bitter.” I paused, trying to grab onto the feeling of my husband inside me, on top of me. “I can’t breathe without you,” I admitted, feeling sick at showing my vulnerability. No matter the fact that Brock had spent years showing me I was safe with him, that I could be honest about my feelings, my weaknesses, it still burned.