Devil’s Game (Reapers MC #3)(65)
Author: Joanna Wylde

“Only in the nicest possible sense of the word. Can you hear me jacking off? Because I swear, I’m pumping so hard it sounds like a freight train in here.”

Oh shit. That went straight to my center. I stuck another finger in, reaching for my G-spot. As usual, I couldn’t quite get there.

Fortunately, my vibrator was available to compensate.

“I feel tingles and pressure running all down my body,” I said. “I’m not there yet, but I will be there soon. I want your weight on top of me—”

I gasped, because the vibrator found a particularly sensitive spot. I felt my muscles tighten and my hips jerked.

“I’m getting close, Hunter.”

“Liam,” he muttered. “Call me Liam. Fuck, I want to be inside you. Shit. Oh, f**k . . .”

“Liam,” I gasped as my back arched. “Holy shit. I can’t wait to do this in person.”

He groaned in my ear, the sound harsh and tight.

“I’m coming,” he said. “Fuck. Fuck.”

He grunted into the phone. I imagined his hand on his cock, the sight of his come squirting out. I started pumping my fingers in and out harder, pretending they were his. My clit tightened, every muscle clenched, and then my hips lifted off the bed as I exploded.

“Ahhh . . .” I lay still, panting into the phone.

It took a couple minutes to recover.

“You’re pretty good at phone sex,” he said after a while, his voice low and growly.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “I miss you.”

“Miss you, too. I’m sorry, babe, but I’m really f**kin’ tired, and blowing my wad just now didn’t help.”

“Go to sleep. I’ll still be in Portland when you get back. Promise.”

WEDNESDAY MORNING

HUNTER: I feel like shit telling you this, but I’m down in Cali again. Thought I’d make it today but had some business come up

ME: Its okay. I understand ?

That evening I watched nervously as Cookie slammed dishes around the kitchen. I wanted to offer to help, but I was a little scared of her. She’d been muttering about men, control, and how much she needed to get back to work.

I understood her frustration.

So far as I could tell, there was a whole lot of nothing going on. Deke wouldn’t tell us anything, but Kit had been listening at doors back home. According to her, the Reapers were divided over who to blame for the shootings. Quite a few thought it was the cartel down south, but they couldn’t rule out the Jacks, either.

So far they hadn’t found any real evidence to prove who was behind the attacks. Until they could, a lot of questions would remain unanswered, and the Jacks would be suspect. Had Hunter’s club broken the truce? Should we start hitting back?

Nobody knew.

In the meantime, Deke wouldn’t let Cookie go to her shop. He wouldn’t let me go to work, either, which wasn’t such a big deal because I’d just been picking up shifts as needed. But she could tell things were falling apart without her, and Deke didn’t even seem to care.

On the bright side, the guys were back in their clubhouse, which meant the house wasn’t full of bikers anymore. The water damage still needed to be fixed, but apparently it was workable. That was a big relief. Cookie didn’t want her house to be a target, and even Deke had to acknowledge she had a point.

He still left guards with us, though, and he’d spent almost every night at her place. Silvie had moved into Cookie’s room, so at least he had a bed. Of course, that bed was pink and covered with stuffed kittens.

Apparently, Deke was above worrying about such things.

Around six, the front door opened and Deke walked in . . . home from work just like a 1950s sitcom, only with guns and cartels and lives at stake. Cookie came out of the kitchen, a determined look on her face and a plastic bag in her hand.

“Deke, we need to talk,” she said, her tone ominous, thrusting the bag at me. “Em, would you keep an eye on Silvie? I have a Lunchable in here, and some fruit in case she’s hungry. Not sure how long it’ll take.”

I nodded quickly.

“Out here or back in her room?” I asked, wondering what was the safest distance. I had a bad feeling about this . . .

“Room might be best,” Cookie said. Deke glanced over at the prospect he’d left with us that morning, who was watching uncomfortably.

“You can head out,” he said, jerking his chin toward the door. “I’ve got it from here.”

The prospect and I met eyes, and I’m pretty sure we were thinking the same thing. World War III was about to break out in that kitchen. I wished I could leave with him. Instead I grabbed Silvie and took her to my room.

Outside the house, I heard the prospect driving away. Coward.

“I’m hungry,” Silvie declared. “Mom lets me eat the treat first.”

Yeah, right.

“Start with the meat and crackers,” I told her, peeling off the plastic and handing her the food. Then I wondered why I bothered—the chocolate was probably healthier than the waxy, fake cheese in the little carton. I dug a granola bar out of my purse for myself, wishing I’d thought to grab a Diet Coke or something.

During the next hour, I read Silvie four books before starting a movie for her on my laptop. Then I crept out into the living room to scope out the situation.

I heard yelling in the kitchen, and then I heard something hit the wall and shatter.

I crept back into the bedroom.

Around eight Cookie knocked on the door.

“Sorry about that,” she murmured. Her hair was all messed up and her cheeks were flushed.

“Deke still here?” I asked quietly.

She shook her head.

“Nope,” she said. “He called someone else to come over. I think he’s got some stuff to sort out . . .”

“Everything okay?” I asked hesitantly.

She shrugged.

“Not sure,” she admitted. “But he’s gone for the night. I guess we’ll see what happens tomorrow. I’m planning on going to work. If he’s smart, he won’t try to stop me.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

My phone rang at eleven that night.

“Yeah?” I asked, not quite asleep but not entirely awake, either.

“I just got back to town,” Hunter said. “I know it’s last minute, but can I come and pick you up?”

“Of course!” I said, a wave of excitement perking me up. “When?”

“I’m just down the street.”

“Um, I need to grab some stuff,” I said, glancing around frantically. “Give me fifteen minutes? Or at least ten?”