Reaper's Stand (Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 4)(8)

Birthday present.

Forty-three f*cking years old.

Her fingers dropped low, running under my balls with a light touch as her tongue swirled around my dickhead. I reached over and grabbed my beer, taking a long, slow pull. The cold liquid slid down my throat and I decided I didn’t give a f*ck if she finished or not.

I want you happy, baby, but you can do better . . . Heather seemed to whisper in my ear.

I’d been hearing her voice since the day she died. Christ, I missed that woman, and I wished to hell those little whispers were more than my own sick subconscious. But I knew they weren’t, because if Heather’s spirit was really beside me offering advice, I wouldn’t have f*cked up so bad with my daughters.

I glanced across the room to the black metal filing cabinet. A picture sat on top of it, in a tarnished silver frame. My old lady. The shot was from one of the last family parties we’d had—right after she recovered from the mastectomy, but before that final round of chemo. Her arms wrapped tight around our two beautiful girls, all three of them laughing at something just out of the frame.

Hoover chose that moment to suck me in deep down into her throat and I closed my eyes. Damn, Bolt had told me she sucked cock like a pro, but he hadn’t given her full credit. The woman had a gift. Every inch squeezed tight and I wasn’t small. I groaned, letting my head fall back.

Why did it still feel like I was cheating on Heather?

Hoover popped back up, giggling at me annoyingly. I opened my mouth to tell her to shut up, but she sucked me back in before I had the chance. Shit, that was good. My boredom disappeared, leaving the clarity I only got during sex or a good fight. My body felt incredible, but my mind floated, blessedly detached. No guilt over Heather, no worry about the club, not even thoughts of my girls could touch me here.

I was like a machine, powerful and free.

My phone buzzed next to me on the couch and I glanced down to see a text.


BOLT: Enjoying your party? I sent you another present. Try not to break it.

I glanced down at the brown-haired head bobbing in my lap and decided that my life might not be perfect, but damned if my friends didn’t take care of me. If there was a God in heaven, I was about to meet this bitch’s twin sister.

A loud knock came from the door.

“Pic? You busy?” Gage called. “You got company. Bolt sent her.”

Reaching down, I caught the stripper’s hair and gripped it, slowing her down.

“Send her in.”

The door opened and a short, curvy blonde dressed in a dirty T-shirt and ragged jeans stumbled into the room, her eyes going wide as she took in the scene. Generous tits filled out the design on the front of her shirt, which read “London’s Cleaning Service.”

Fuck. FUCK.

That cocksucking bastard. Bolt was gonna pay for this, because London Armstrong was the last woman who should be in this building. This bitch and her gorgeous rack had been making my life a living hell for the past six months, because she was the last thing I needed in my life and I’d never wanted to f*ck anyone more.

Not even Heather.

And that was a problem.

It didn’t matter how nice London’s tits would look squeezing my dick until I came all over that pretty face of hers. She was too nice, too clean, and way the f*ck too grown up. Ms. Armstrong was a regular citizen walking the straight and narrow, and she had no place in my world. She’d run off screaming in the darkness if I cut loose with her . . .

To make things worse, I sort of liked her as a person, too.

Hoover made a sudden choking noise, and I realized I’d trapped her head, cutting off her air. I let her go and she jerked back, looking up at me in confusion as she panted, mouth red and wet. I patted her head, reassuring her.

Like a dog. Christ.

What the hell was Bolt thinking, sending London here? I sucked in a deep breath, because the woman—who was staring at me across my office as if I was an ax murderer—looked like she was about to turn and run for the hills.

I wanted to chase her when she did it . . . run her down, rip off her jeans, and shove deep inside while she screamed at me. Yeah, nothin’ wrong with that scenario.

Fuck it.

Six months I’d jerked off picturing her boobs, but I’d done the right thing and left her alone. Not my fault she walked into my damned office and not my responsibility to save her now that she’d come here. Clarity washed through me again and I decided there was only one way to end this.

I offered her a predatory smile and raised a hand, waving her toward the couch.