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I smiled at him, my heart warmed by the gesture. I scooted back across the bed and reached for his hand, pulling him toward me. He settled on top of me. Easing my legs apart, he effortlessly pushed into me.
He kissed me and it was slow, his hands moving purposefully as they slid down the length of me. I sank back into the pillows and got lost in what he did to me. But then he stopped rocking. Stopped the delicious friction of his stroking to look me in the eye. He pushed his fingers through my hair.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Magic lit up inside of me.
I opened my mouth to tell him that I loved him too, but he pressed a finger to my lips. Torment registered on his face and I watched his throat work as he swallowed thickly.
“You don’t have to say anything.” His eyes searched mine, reaching deep, and I realized now was not the time. I relaxed beneath him, and as I looked up into his handsome face, drew his finger into my mouth.
I felt him flex inside of me, felt the shallow rock of his hips become a deeper grind, heard the pleasure in his moan as he began to make love to me again.
But this time it was different. The L-bomb had exploded and hung in the air around us, fusing emotion to every movement, every moan, and every lip-searing kiss. He entwined his fingers through mine and pinned them to the bed as he moved deeper into me, grinding against my clit until the pressure became too much, and I came hard beneath him.
“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he moaned against my neck. “I want to hear it again.”
He thrust my arms above my head and held them there with one hand while the other kneaded my breast. The touch of his tongue on my nipple sent electricity zipping through me, but then his mouth closed over it and joined in the torment with luxurious agony. All of this while his gloriously hard cock continued to thrust into me.
It was an assault against all my senses. A sweet torture. A mind-blowing ambush that sent raw pleasure streaming through every vein. My second orgasm roared through me with no warning. My back arched and I clawed the bed sheet, crying out into the dim light of his room. Because I was clenching him tightly, Chance groaned against my throat, his breath hot, his skin slick as he came with a violent shudder, his cock pumping his release into me.
With a growl, he collapsed against me, and I basked in the heat and the comforting pressure of his naked body blanketing mine.
I love you.
His whispered declaration of love settled through me, bringing warmth and happiness.
But it was as unexpected as it was wonderful, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was too soon. If it was said in the bliss of sex. Or if it was felt because of the high intensity of the situation.
My fingers slid across the tight skin of his scar and he didn’t flinch. That, in and of itself, spoke volumes.
What we had.
It was real.
CHANCE
The following morning, we were finishing up chapel when Bull received a phone call from one of his informants on the street.
“We’ve got a lead,” he said, shoving his phone into his cut. “Apparently Vander Quinn had a drug problem and talk on the street is she owed her dealer a lot of coin.”
“Who’s her dealer?” Ruger asked.
“Laurent de Havilland.”
“Do we know where Laurent is?” I asked.
“He’s missing.”
“Of course he is,” I replied.
“According to my sources she liked playing around with meth. Namely, sapphire meth.”
“You thinking she got her gear from the Swampers?” Maverick asked.
“The Swampers?” Animal looked confused.
“Lowlife rednecks who cook meth and still think it’s 1959 when it comes to civil rights and women’s liberation.”
Bull was being diplomatic.
The Swampers were racist, chauvinist pigs who knocked up their sisters.
They also cooked swamp-meth. Nasty, vile shit that chewed out your teeth and took your soul. It was also a very recognizable due to its bright blue color. Hence the name sapphire meth.
Fortunately, they kept to themselves. They destroyed their own lives and those of their kind with their swamp crank. It never made it into our town. They had tried peddling it in Destiny once. A while ago now. Back when the president’s rank was new to Bull’s cut and the death of his wife still lingered in his bones as fresh as the day she died.
He had paid the Swampers a visit and showed them what happened when people came into our town and tried peddling teeth-chewing drugs. Blood had thickened the backwaters of the border into Louisiana that afternoon, and no Swamper had been to our town since.
They didn’t like the Kings of Mayhem cut, and Bull intimidated the fuck out of them. So it was no wonder our arrival was met with a convoy of dilapidated pickups and men in trucker caps carrying shotguns.
