Page 67 of Life Or Death

Homeboy laughs. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

I’m about to respond when movement near the end of the bar catches my eye. The redhead who has been glaring at me since she arrived slips up behind Lucifer. My stomach drops as she winds her arms around his neck from behind, pressing her bare tits against his back. She says something into his ear, and he glances over his shoulder at her.

Lucifer glances over his shoulder at her, and something in his expression tells me they know each other intimately. Perhaps it’s the way she touches him so confidently that makes my stomach twist. It’s almost as if she’s telling the whole world, she’s fucked him—she’s fucked my husband, and she knows just what he likes.

The thought makes something ugly coil in my chest.

I watch as Lucifer says something to her, his voice too low for me to catch, and then—slowly, deliberately—he reaches up and peels her hands off his shoulders. She pouts, but before she can protest, Dread leans in and says something that makes her smile. She slips away from Lucifer and moves onto Dread’s lap, running her fingers through his dark hair.

My eyes drift back to Lucifer, and I find him already watching me. His gaze is unreadable, and it pins me in place for a beat too long. I finally turn back to the bar and start wiping down the counter again, but I can feel Lucifer’s stare burning into the side of my face. I refuse to look at him. If he wants to sit there and watch me while some redhead with fake tits drapes herself all over him, he can stew in whatever guilt or amusement he’s feeling. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of catching my eye again.

Instead, I let my gaze wander across the clubhouse, scanning the bodies packed into every corner until I land on Nightmare and go completely still.

He’s got a blonde saddle bunny bent over the arm of one of the leather couches near the far wall, her stilettos barely touching the floor, her thong shoved to the side. His hand is fisted in her hair, and his hips are moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her mouth is open, her eyes half-closed, and she’s making noises that somehow cut through the music even from across the room.

I freeze, the rag still pressed against the counter.

The room is loud enough that most people aren’t paying attention, but I am. I’m paying attention to every detail—the way her skin flushes pink, the way her thighs tremble, the way Nightmare’s shoulders flex as he works her closer to whatever edge he’s pushing her toward.

Suddenly, warmth presses against my back. Hard, solid, and unmistakable.

I snap out of the trance, my breath stuttering as Lucifer braces his arms on either side of me, caging me between the bar and the wall of his chest. His front pressing flush against my back, and I can feel the heat radiating off him.

I turn my head, and my eyes find Nightmare again—still on the couch, still between her legs, still making her moan like the world is ending.

“You like watching them.”

His voice is right next to my ear, low and rough, and it’s not a question. He moves one hand from the bar and smooths his palm over my hip, bunching the fabric of my skirt in his fist. His fingers press into the curve of my waist, and I feel every point of contact like a brand.

“Lucifer—”

“You’re turned on.” His hand slides lower, his knuckles brushing the top of my ass, and I suck in a sharp breath. Again, it’s not a question, yet I still feel compelled to respond.

“Yes.”

“Come with me.”

His voice leaves no room for argument. His hand finds mine, fingers threading through my own, and he pulls me away from the bar. My feet move before my brain catches up. Everyone is too lost in their own debauchery to pay attention to the bartender being led across the floor by the club president.

We reach the chapel doors. Lucifer pushes one open, guides me through, and the heavy wood swings shut behind us. I blink, adjusting to the dimmer light, and my gaze sweeps around the room, landing on the massive oak table at the center, surrounded by a ring of leather chairs.

I turn back to Lucifer. “What are we doing in here?”

He crosses the room to the far wall, where a large panel of glass stretches along the entire width. He raps his knuckles against it twice, the sound echoing in the quiet space.

“One-way glass,” he says, turning back to me. “They can’t see us. But we can see everything happening out there.”

I glance through the window, taking in all the moving bodies.

“Get on top of the table.”

My heart slams against my ribs. “What?”

“You heard me.” There’s a rawness to his voice. “On the table, Jess. Now.”

I don’t know why I obey. Maybe it’s the shot I took with Homeboy, or maybe it’s the weeks of being teased and edged and left wanting until I’m half out of my mind. Either way, I grip the edge of the oak and hoist myself up.

“Push your skirt up.”