BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(27)

I couldn’t help but wonder why Cash stopped fucking her if her pussy even came close to resembling Andy’s. “Why’d you quit fucking her?”

“Didn’t want to. She found out I was fucking that stripper, and she clocked me in the head with a skillet while I was sleeping.” He chuckled as he touched a z-shaped scar on the side of his forehead. “Then, the crazy motherfucker pulled out a knife and tried to cut me. Left my best pair of jeans and my favorite boots on the floor at the foot of her bed. Ended up leaving in my wife beater and boxers. Rode the ‘Glide home half naked. Brazilian bitches are good pussy, but they’re crazy.”

“I thought you got that scar in a fight?”

“I did,” he said. “A fight with Natalia about that stripper.”

I laughed. “Getting the truth out of you is damned near impossible.”

“You want the truth? All you gotta do is ask.”

Having a woman in my life would put the club at risk. It was my duty to protect the men, not put them in harm’s way. Therefore, I didn’t do relationships. I never had, and I never would. Not having Andy’s pussy to fuck wasn’t something I wanted to think about, though. Nevertheless, ridding myself of her was a requirement, not a recommendation.

“Ever miss fucking her?” I asked. “Now that she’s gone?”

“All the time. Fucking her was like riding one of those Panigales.” He sat down on his motorcycle and gazed blankly at the sea of motorcycles parked beside us. “If I took yours and sold it, do you think you’d ever find another bike that’d perform like it?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. There was nothing on earth that could perform like the Panigale. “Nope.”

“Panigale pussy. That’s what you ought to call it.” He gestured toward the six Italian race bikes. “Nothing compares.”

If he was right, and I feared he was, severing my ties with Andy was something I needed to do immediately.

I hoped hitting me in the head with a skillet wasn’t her reaction.





FIFTEEN - Andy





In celebration of my impending move, Holly and I sat at the kitchen table sharing our second bottle of wine while the twins slept. I’d slipped into a pair of my favorite sweats and a loose-fitting tee shirt for the event, and she wore pink plaid pajamas, which wasn’t surprising.

It seemed she always wore plaid. In my opinion, it was at least part of the reason why Hank left her. Plaid looked good on no one, regardless of how big their boobs were.

“How big was Hank’s Hankster?” I asked.

She choked on her wine. After wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she gave me a puzzled look. “What?”

“His schlong. His dick. Cock. Meat stick. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” I sipped my wine. “How big was it.”

“Normal sized, I guess.”

I scrunched my nose. “What’s normal sized?”

She took a drink of wine and then looked in the glass. “I don’t know. Like the size of a hot dog.”

“A hot dog?” I laughed out loud. “Like a normal hot dog? A Ball Park, or whatever?”

“Yeah,” she said. “A hot dog. Why?”

I held my laugh and gave her a serious look. “I don’t know how much experience you’ve got, but a hot dog dick isn’t normal.”

“It’s not?”

I cleared my throat. “Normal means standard or ordinary. Hot dog dicks are supposed to be between the legs of twelve-year-old boys, not men.”

“What’s normal, then?”

“How many guys have you had sex with?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor.

I rapped my knuckles against the top of the table. “Roughly. I don’t need an exact number.”

She continued to stare at the floor. After an awkward moment of waiting, I leaned onto the edge of the table. “Don’t tell me Hank’s it.”

She looked up. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? As in, yeah, Hank’s it?”

“Uh huh.”

“Holy crap,” I gasped.

“What?”

“You two started boning in high school.” I looked at her with eyes of disbelief. “He was your first, wasn’t he?”

She wiped what may have been a tear. “First and last.”

“Dear God, girl. You need to get some dick. Not a wiener, either.”

“I do. It’s not that easy, though.” She stared blankly at the rim of her glass for a moment and then looked up. “That guy that comes to your work. With the tattoos. His is bigger than a hot dog?”

I lifted my arm and looked at my wrist. After twisting it back and forth a few times, I slapped my forearm against the table. It hit the wooden surface with a thud! “It’s about the size of my wrist.”

She looked at my arm and then at me. Her eyes opened wide. “How does that work?”

I grinned. “Very well, actually.”

She tilted her head toward my arm. “It’s seriously that big?”

“Uh huh.”

Slowly, her eyes widened. “He really fits something that big in you?”