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“Don’t interrupt me,” he reprimands. “Yes. I want you to keep yourself busy. Leave me to work. You are a distraction. Be my good girl and look after your kitten. Do some online shopping. Get a suitcase. We will be going on a trip in a few days.”
A trip?
“Like, what kind of trip?”
“The kind I will explain when I have all the details.” He shuffles to the edge of the sofa, nodding to the spot between his spread thighs. “Stand and let me get a good look at you before I go.”
Tiny amounts of warmth creep up my neck as I stand and turn to face away from him, hit with the caress of his gaze on my backside and the little item inside me. Large palms trail the outer swell of my thighs, awakening the tiny blonde hairs on my skin to rise.
“Simply stunning.”
One of his hands slides forward and cups my pussy, and my head drops backward on a moan. I press into his palm. His lips touch my backside, dragging along the plump curve, nipping, and sucking the skin.
I rock into his palm as he enjoys the taste of my flesh, all but eating me with small nibbles that shock my nerves and the drag of his tongue that curls my toes.
Then his mouth is gone, and he rises. His suited body slides up my back, his hands touching me everywhere as they climb with him. They end at my neck, gripping the column, forcing me to crane my throat to accept his lips as he towers above me. He nips me before breaking off from my mouth. “Now you may shower, sweet girl.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
clay
Que,my first guard and assistant, ever the gentleman in his suit, with his regal manner, enters my office moments after I sit down.
Even though I ran two magazines out in my range before coming here, I’m still tense about what must happen next. The finality of the week ahead, hunting down Dustin, breaking our treaty with the bikers, leaving the women in another country—it coils my muscles to cool, unwavering steel.
A cup of coffee is set down in front of me while I open the building plans my brother Max sent through from the city’s database. “Thank you, Que.”
“Your father is here, Boss.” He pours the steaming liquid, and I nod, abruptly thinking about how Fawn shouldn’t have any if I want her… healthy.
“Fawn will need decaf from now on,” I state, staring across the polished-wood office table at him. “Don’t allow her to drink anything caffeinated.”
He nods politely, no intrigue or interest ghosting his eyes.Good man.“I shall get some for Miss Harlow this morning.”
“Where is she now?” I ask, although I am one click away from seeing her for myself. I dare say that once I allow myself that sweet view, she becomes somewhat of a perpetual distraction.
“In the lounge area with Bolton and her new cat,” he advises and leaves me to my business.
I find myself grinning at the vision of her sitting crossed-legged and playing with the small animal. A soft smile on her face. Shuffling around with the reminder of me stretching her little arsehole. My cock pulses. I relish being her constant thought. Being inside her always. My present in her. My cum still deep and perhaps the building of something else as well…
I stare back at the building plans Max easily accessed as City Architect. And while I don’t entirely understand all the information, he does, and I’m confident he will be able to chart a course in and out of the biker’s complex. I study the halls and spaces; it’s a vast compound with dozens of rooms.
Dustin could be hiding in any part.
If only we had a man on the inside—I sigh, eyeing the documentation—but we don’t. Our man on the inside was born and bred District local Dustin Nerrock.
Fucker…
Nevermind.
“Do you have a whiskey for your old man?” Butch enters with my mother, surprising me with her presence. She looks slim, far leaner than the last time I saw her.
Almost sickly.
I stand to greet them, firmly shake my father’s hand, and lightly kiss my mother on both cheeks. Hit with a wave of perfume from her neck, I’m instantly reminded how much I enjoy Fawn’s natural scent. “Well, now that you’re here, it would be ill-mannered for me to not also have one with you.”
My father sits, taking up the full breadth of the chair with his thick, muscular physique, while my mother disappears into her one. She crosses her legs, her spine rim-rod straight. She’s tense. “So, he’s in The Stockyard Compound,” Butch muses, usually the quietest man in any room if not one on one, living by the golden rule that words spoken should hold meaning or not be spoken at all. “That isn’t good. I never suspected that. I should have.” He shakes his head. “I should have but their lifestyle didn’t suit his own, and so… I was misguided.”
“Can we get any alliances on the inside? What about the president, Cross? Surely, he doesn’t need a war with the Family?”
