Devil’s Game (Reapers MC #3)(52)
Author: Joanna Wylde

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

“I just slid my hand down into my boxers,” she whispered, and I swear a pint of blood left my brain. “I’m remembering what it felt like when you sucked my ni**les. I want to lick your stomach.”

My entire body clenched. My fingers slid up my straining c**k to find the beads of precome. I palmed my cockhead, then started jacking myself slow and hard.

Yeah, this was what I needed.

“Find your clit,” I told her, my voice going low. “Are you wet yet?”

“Yes,” she said. “I feel really weird doing this . . . Like I’m a whore or something, because the club—”

“You’re not a whore. And don’t think about the club. I don’t want you thinking about anyone else at all when you’re touching yourself, got me? Think about me and what I’m going to do to you the first chance I get.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll start by sliding my fingers deep inside your pu**y, get them nice and wet. Then I might play with your clit.”

I heard her breath catch.

“I’m doing that right now,” she said. “What about you?”

“I’ve got my c**k out and I’m jerking off while I listen to your voice,” I told her bluntly. “My balls are so f**king tight they feel like they’re in a vise, and I keep imagining how hot and slick you’d be around me right now.”

“Oh,” she whispered. Her breath caught again. “You’re better than my vibrator, you know that?”

The image of her using that vibrator filled my brain and I lost the power to speak. I felt my balls drawing up, my hand gripping my dick so hard it almost hurt.

Almost.

“How are you doing?” I asked, trying to slow myself down.

“Good,” she whispered.

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m rubbing my clit, one finger on each side,” she told me. “First up and down, and then I sort of wiggle them against each other. I’m using my other hand to play with my ni**les. Your turn.”

I gave myself another hard tug, hips lifting. Hell, I was getting damned close. Usually I could last for hours, but something about Em f**ked with me on every level.

“Jesus, wish I was better with words,” I muttered. “Honest to f**k, Em. I’m pretty close to blowing my load. Picturing you getting yourself off makes me feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

“You want me to stop?” she asked, her voice almost playful. My dick spasmed and my balls drew up tight. Shit shit shit.

“If you stop—” I started to say, and then the door to my room burst open.

“The f**k?” I yelled, sitting up and dropping the phone with a crash.

“Get your ass out here,” Skid said, his voice grim.

I decided to shoot him.

I let my c**k go and reached for the gun sitting on the bedside table, but he held up a hand.

“You gonna get off the phone?” he asked, giving me a pointed look. I couldn’t think—all the blood in my body was currently concentrated in my dick. My balls seized up and I realized I was in for some serious pain.

“Liam, are you okay?” I heard Em’s voice, high-pitched and tinny. I reached down and grabbed the phone, pulling myself together.

“It’s fine, babe,” I said, glaring at Skid. He shook his head and made a slashing motion across his throat. “I have to go, though. Skid needs help with something. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait—” she started to say, but I hung up.

“This had better be really, really f**king important,” I told my club brother. “You got shit timing.”

“It is,” he said. “Put away your joystick and get your ass downstairs. We got serious trouble.”

• • •

I walked painfully down the narrow stairwell to the living room. Damn house was a hundred years old and it showed. Zipping up my jeans hurt like a bitch and I decided the next time I needed information from someone, I’d torture the f**ker by making him talk to Em, then turn off the call and force him to put on my pants.

Like most Friday nights, we’d had company. It hadn’t been a formal party, but Skid and the other guys had invited a group of slutty girls over. Not quite a real clubhouse, but better than nothing. Now two of those girls were naked and making out on the couch. Another had passed out cold on the floor and I heard more laughing in the kitchen.

Typical night for us.

It wasn’t normal for the girls to be playing alone, though. They were putting on a hell of a show, and it went against everything my club brothers believed in to miss live girl-on-girl action.

“Down here,” Skid yelled. I followed his voice to the basement stairs. It was a dankish pit kind of a place, but it had its uses. Smoking out, storing product, laundry, and even one memorable night when this hippie chick did some kind of weird talking-to-spirits thing . . .

It was also where we had church. Not that we were a real chapter or anything, but we essentially functioned as one, complete with formal meetings and the occasional vote.

“This better be f**kin’ good,” I muttered as I climbed down. Clutch lay back on the ratty couch next to the semifunctional washer and dryer, his bum leg propped up on the armrest. Grass paced back and forth, muttering, while Skid leaned against the washer, fingers tapping a rhythm restlessly against the ancient metal.

“Got news,” Grass said, eye twitching. Fuck, was he tweaking? I’d told him no more, but it’d been a rough couple of weeks. He stopped pacing and rubbed his chin mindlessly, the motion spasmodic.

Yup, he was. Great, because we needed one more thing to worry about.

“Toke is dead,” Skid said. I glanced at him sharply.

“How?”

“They found him this morning,” he replied. “Still in protective custody, but his throat was slit. No explanation. Word just filtered down—I guess Picnic called Burke.”

I raised my brows.

“No shit?”

“Gets weirder,” he continued. “Reapers want to know how we pulled it off. Burke bullshitted them, bought us some time to investigate. He wants to know if you arranged something. You been playin’ games without tellin’ the rest of us?”

I cocked my head, feeling something dark building inside me.

“Don’t care for your tone, brother,” I said slowly and carefully. “One, I didn’t do shit—but if I had, that’d be between me and Burke. Two, why is Burke talkin’ to you and not me?”