“What’s that?”

“I’ll start by sliding my fingers deep inside your pussy, 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 cock out and I’m jerking off while I listen to your voice,” I told her bluntly. “My balls are so fucking 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 nipples. 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 fucked with me on every level.

“Jesus, wish I was better with words,” I muttered. “Honest to fuck, 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 fuck?” 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 cock 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 fucking 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 fucker 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 fuckin’ 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?”

Skid offered a twisted smile.

“He called you first, asshole. You didn’t answer. What were you doin’ that’s more important than takin’ a call from your VP? Seein’ as I found you on the phone with your dick hangin’ out, you might wanna consider what you plan to tell him very carefully.”

Shit. I shut my eyes and shook my head, rubbing my temples.

“Jesus, Skid,” Grass snapped, his voice high-pitched and trembling. “Stop being such a little bitch. What are you, jealous?”

We both looked at him, startled. Grass threw up his hands, clearly frustrated and even twitchier than before. He wasn’t done yet, either.

“What does Burke want from us?” Grass demanded. “I’ll bet it’s the Reapers that took him out. He fucked them over, and now they’re tryin’ to blame us. Use it as an excuse to end the truce.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Skid snarled. “Jesus, Grass. You need to lay off that shit, it’s makin’ you paranoid. Reapers want peace, too. They don’t need an excuse to go to war. They wanna fight, they’ll just start shooting. It’s entirely possible they killed Toke—fucker betrayed his club, no surprise there. But I don’t think they’d come callin’ if that was the case.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot!”

“Shut the fuck up!” I roared. The two men jumped. “Christ, what are we, fucking children? Skid—did Burke have anything he wanted us to do?”

Skid scowled.

“No,” he admitted. “Although he said to watch out. Until we know who killed Toke and why, we need to assume there’s a new player.”

“Cartel?” Clutch asked. “You think they have the contacts this far north to pull off a hit in protective custody?”

We all stilled. Shit. Not a comforting thought.

“Okay, we need to assume there’s someone local we don’t know about, someone with that kind of power,” I said slowly. “Time for more security. Make sure you check in with each other, and we all start carrying. Grass, when you stop seein’ shit that isn’t real, I want you to make sure Clutch has a place in his truck that’s safe from a search, okay? Can’t risk a parole violation. Anyone else need help rigging up something for their bikes?”

“It’s covered,” Skid said, sighing. “Sorry, Hunter. Didn’t mean to be such a dick.”

“Fair enough,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. Christ, what a night.

“I fucking hate Portland,” Grass announced suddenly. “This town is like hell, only cold. It rains all the time, like we’re living underwater, and now we have to worry about the cartel, too? Getting away from them was the only good part about moving north.”