Page 65 of Life Or Death

My gaze drifts toward his bed, and for a split second, I let myself imagine him sprawled across it. His massive body naked and tangled beneath the black sheets.

Every shift, it doesn’t matter if I’m cleaning the rooms, doing laundry, or manning the bar, he finds a way to say something that makes my skin prickle and my stomach drop. He’ll lean across the bar, his voice all low and gravelly, and tell me exactly what he wants to do to me. How he wants to taste me. Where he wants to put his hands. What sounds he wants to pull out of me.

The other day he snuck up on me while I was switching the laundry from the washer to the dryer and told me he wanted to lift me onto the washing machine and watch as I fingered myself during the spin cycle.

But he says that shit, then he walks away.

Every single time.

The man should teach a master class in edging.

I go home every night aching, replaying every word he says in my head, touching myself to the memory of his voice while hating myself for it. How does a man go from kissing a woman the way he kissed, to whispering his explicit desires in her ear every chance he gets, only to do nothing about it?

It’s been two weeks since I had his mouth on me, and I’m close to exploding.

I glance at the bed again, then at the open door. Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, I shut the door, but I don’t lock it. If he comes in and finds me, so be it. I’ve been aching for him for weeks now.

I lay down on his bed and instantly relax. The scent of him is everywhere—leather, musk, and something uniquely him that makes my head swim. I close my eyes and picture him in the bed with me, between my legs, his massive body dwarfing mine as he ravishes me. His rough hands exploring every inch of my skin, his mouth hot against my neck.

I slide my hands into my pants and imagine his fingers replacing mine, his deep voice growling filthy things in my ear as he works me over. The fantasy builds quickly, my body responding to the mental image of him above me, inside me.

When I finish, I wipe my hands on his pillow, leaving my scent mingled with his. The act feels possessive, territorial—marking what’s mine even if he doesn’t know it yet.

I grab a towel and start wiping down the already-clean counter because my hands need something to do. The bar is packed, bodies pressed together in every corner of the room, and the air is thick with smoke and cheap perfume courtesy of the infamous saddle bunnies.

Over the last four weeks, I have managed to avoid them somehow, but tonight is Nightmare’s birthday, and apparently, they’re not sitting this one out.

They make quite the appearance too, dressed in crop tops that barely qualify as fabric, leather shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, and stilettos that make my feet ache just looking at them. Those are the classier ones. The others are only wearing thongs. All of them move through the clubhouse as if they own it, hanging on any man with a leather cut that shows them a lick of attention.

“Is this your first time working a clubhouse party?” Della asks me as I place a glass of water in front of her.

“Is it that noticeable?”

She laughs. “Maybe just a little.” She takes a sip of her water, and my gaze cuts across the room to where two of the saddle bunnies dance topless on top of the pool table. I’m not ashamed to admit their bodies are insane. Their tits are incredible. Fake as fuck, but still incredible.

It makes me wonder how the hell Lucifer could ever make the comment he made about mine. Sure, they’re real, but they’re also like two cup sizes smaller.

My eyes swing back to Della. “This doesn’t bother you? All these women parading around naked in front of your husband?”

I’m not trying to sound judgmental. I’m genuinely curious.

She seems to give the question some thought as she twists the ring around her finger. “When I first started seeing Shadow, I probably had a lot of the same thoughts you’re having now, but they’re just bodies, existing, waiting for a handout.” She takes another sip of her water. “I actually feel bad for some of them. Think about how little they must think of themselves to do what they do.”

I let those words sink in, and my mother’s face pops into my head. In a lot of ways, she lived a very similar lifestyle. While she wasn’t passed around to a bunch of bikers, she laid down with a shit ton of men, and she did it for money.

“They’re mostly harmless,” Della continues. “Occasionally you’ll hear about one who goes off the rails and tries to trap one of the guys, but that’s also a sure way for a saddle bunny to be handed her walking papers.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think they’re particularly fond of me working here,” I tell her, nodding toward the redhead who has been glaring at me since she entered the building. “Apparently, that one there doesn’t like having to get her drinks from me.”

Della laughs. “From what I know, the club has never had a full-time bartender here before, and Shadow tells me you’re also doing some light cleaning—that’s usually things they do. They’re probably threatened by you . . .” Her voice trails as the chapel doors swing open and Lucifer and Shadow come into view. As soon as her eyes lock with her husband’s, she slides off the stool. Her gaze comes back to me, and she smiles. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

I nod, and a moment later she’s in Shadow’s arms. They disappear down the hallway, and once they’re out of view, I look back toward the chapel doors. Lucifer no longer stands in the doorway. My eyes scan the room, and I find him pulling up a stool at the end of the bar. His dark eyes are pinned to me, and once he’s seated, he crooks a finger, motioning for me to come to him.

I grab the bottle of bourbon he prefers, pour two fingers into a glass, and carry it down to him. I set it on the bar in front of him, and his eyes track my hand as I pull away.

“Thank you.” His voice is low, barely audible over the music. “What time did you get in?”

“About an hour ago. You were already in the chapel with Shadow.”