Page 33 of Rough Return

She paused. “Jeans and a tank top.”

“Are you in your office?” Not that it mattered. But he wanted to be able to imagine her.

“Yeah.”

“Is the door shut?”

He heard her heels clicking on the floor. “It is now.”

“Good.” Even as drunk as he’d ever been in his life, this woman had the power to make his cock hard from fifty miles away. “Touch yourself for me.”

Oh, God. He wished he had one of those phones with video chat capabilities. He closed his eyes. Why hadn’t he’d gotten a hotel where he could rub one off while she filled his ears with her sultry voice describing things he had vivid mental imagery now to go with? Better yet, he wished he was in her office with her, bending her over the desk, sliding into her from behind.

“I’m at work, Grier.”

“You’re the one who shut the door, Fi. You want this. You know you do.” He didn’t know more for certain than it was what he wanted. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes.” His heart lurched at her whisper and his cock threatened to explode.

“Is your pussy wet?” He imagined it, slick and glistening, and licked his lips.

“Yes.”

“What do you want, Fiona?” She didn’t answer with more than a moan. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to come home and fuck me.” Each word, punctuated by a pant, threatened any control not already voided by the whiskey.

“Mm.” He closed his eyes. This place was too public to touch himself, but his hand curled into a fistful of sand. His brain, what wasn’t mush from the alcohol, produced a picture of Tyler Sedotal, face bruised and bloody, holding Fiona’s hips as he pounded into her from behind. That bastard. “Call out his name, Fiona.”

“What?” She was still panting, her breaths a pulsating breeze in his ear.

“Call out his name.” His blood ran cold. His dick went soft. And he sat up.

“What?”

“Oh, Tyler. Or do you call him Ty when he’s inside you?” Rage bubbled under his skin. Jack Daniels’ courage had never served him very well. Today wasn’t different.

“Fuck you, Grier.” She hung up the phone.

Grier stood, launched his phone into the ocean and fell on his face in the sand. It was a fine place to sleep until morning.

If Fiona kept a diary of her days, wrote down the events and happenings in her life, the last couple of weeks would all have a single word as their entry—shit. They’d lost a total of six shipments and were no closer to finding out who’d taken them. Grier had gone AWOL, just as she’d known he would. Not AWOL from the club, just from her since she’d hung up on him after he interrupted what could have been an earth-rocking orgasm with his ridiculous accusations. He’d been taking runs and spent whatever free-time he managed putting his bike back together. But when it came time to knock-off for the day, instead of coming home to his wife, he’d gone back to staying in one of the rooms at the clubhouse.

And it made her pathetic. She’d spent one night with him. A glorious night, but a single night. It didn’t make sense to miss him so much. So much that keeping her mind focused on work while he spent time in the shop—so close and still so far—where she could watch him, remember, fantasize… made her job impossible. No wonder they’d kept losing shipments.

Sedotal, on the other hand, had gone AWOL. She hadn’t seen him since Grier busted up his face. Of course, she’d seen the video from the cameras in the garage. And the one that new kid thought to record on his phone—in color. She’d never seen Grier so angry. Not even when she was younger and a rival club had tried to take out Max.

She walked to the window in her office—the one that looked out into the shop—and stared at Grier’s back. She knew every tattoo and scar from collar to waistband because she’d spent a lot of time at this window watching her shirtless husband hunched with a wrench or screwdriver in his hands as he worked to undo what Tyler had done.

Oh, enough already. She flung the office door open and stepped onto the slick concrete in the first work bay. “Grier, we need to talk.”

He didn’t turn to her. “About what?”

About our marriage. “Shipments.” Coward.

He turned a ratchet, and the clicks of the metal as he tightened a bolt soothed her. She’d spent about a thousand hours out here when she was a kid. The sights and smells and sounds were the security blanket of her childhood.

“Don’t worry about it. I have it taken care of.” He tossed the ratchet and stood to wipe the oil from his hands on a blue terry towel he’d had draped across the seat of his bike.