I nodded. “He’s doing really well. Just started basic and he said it’s not as bad as he thought it would be. He joked that someone in his squad had already gotten nailed with a rucksack check.”
I chuckled. “I’m glad to hear he’s doing well and getting the full treatment. Any trouble with the WSB?”
“Nope. The Dead Presidents keep a pretty close eye on me, though.” Before Landon left, Tap and Morse had installed a security system in my apartment. Now, if anything happened while I was home, all I had to do was hit a button and a bunch of bikers would show up on my doorstep like my own personal Avengers.
“I owe those guys so much.”
“I’m sure they’ll be happy to collect when you come home.” I grinned. “But they only get what’s left of you. After I’m done.”
“Deal.” He grinned back. “How’s Toby? He still doing well with his new family?”
After Larry’s little stunt and Sheila’s numerous failed drug tests, Toby had been placed in permanent foster care. He now had a brother and two sisters, and he was doing incredibly well. I’d even gotten to meet the family and check on him personally, which I’d told Landon I was planning to do in our last phone call.
“Yes. He looks fantastic. He’s so happy.”
“I’m glad to hear it. What about the other kids? How’s Olivia and her little foul mouth doing?”
I laughed. We covered the rest of the children at the school, and then Landon told me about some of the additional medical training he’d been getting. The call was beginning to wind down, so I asked, “When was the last time you spoke to your mom?”
He tweaked his lips, as if thinking. “Is this a trick question?”
Yep. I already knew the answer. “Two weeks ago, Landon. You know she worries about you.”
“You know, this right here is why she wanted us together. She knew you’d bug me and make me feel guilty any time I don’t communicate regularly with her.”
“And I’m not going to disappoint Beth. Call your mom.”
“All right. On one condition.”
I could already tell by his smirk what that condition would be. “What?”
“Flash me the girls.”
Laughing, I shook my head. “You are incorrigible.”
“Why thank you.”
“Not a compliment, soldier.”
“Come on, Merce. I have one month to go, and I need something to think about when I relieve myself later.”
The idea of him jerking himself off to the memory of my boobs did have a strange sort of appeal. Giving in, I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and yanked it up, giving him an eyeful. Landon’s gaze greedily drank in my body until I lowered my shirt back down. “You happy now?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I won’t be happy until I have one of those in my mouth while my cock is buried deep inside you. You’re still on the pill, right?”
I nodded as his words heated me from the inside out.
Soon. I silently promised my body. I’d been jonesing for him, and my fingers were no longer doing the trick.
“Did you get the present I sent you?” Landon asked.
“Yes. And as your note requested, I have waited to open it. Which has been killing me. Can I open it now?” I grabbed the foot and half long non-descript box off my coffee table and shook it, as I had done every day since it arrived.
“Go ahead.”
I ripped open the package and reached inside, removing the contents. Another box. This one was closer to a foot long and four inches wide. I rolled my eyes at Landon and opened it, reaching inside. My hand wrapped around hard plastic, and I pulled it out. The hard plastic was attached to a penis-shaped rubber sex toy. “A vibrator? You got me a vibrator?”
“Sure did. Did some research and read a shit-ton of reviews and that’s the best one on the market. The ears on that piece right there, those are supposed to tickle your clit when the rest of it’s inside you. It has multiple speeds and it pulses and wiggles and does all kinds of shit. It’s guaranteed to get you off.”
I stared at it. Then at Landon. “I have no idea what to say right now. I mean, I’m intrigued, but shouldn’t my body belong solely to you?”
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely. But I don’t want you to suffer for the last month of my deployment. I can get relief easily, and I want you to as well.”
I’d always been curious about vibrators and other sex toys, but I’d never talked myself into actually buying one. What Landon had referred to as the ears on this one intrigued me, as did the metal balls inside the clear rubber material. Would I be able to feel them? “But what if I like it more than I like you?”
He threw back his head, laughing. “Babe, if a toy can replace me, I need to step up my game. You don’t want to use it?”
I eyed the vibrator again. It had been a lonely four months without Landon, and going from sex every day to no sex at all sucked. I could use some release. “Of course I want to use it. I am basically a scientist,” I said.
He laughed again. “I love you so damn much, babe. I gotta go, but you should go try that out so next time we talk you can tell me all about it.”
“Deal.”
He stood, giving me a quick view of the stiffy he was sporting in his pants before adjusting it. “See what you do to me? Every damn time. Love you.”
“I love you, too. And call your mom!”
The call disconnected, and I washed my new toy and took it into the bedroom. Thinking of Landon already had me wet, so I slid it inside me and turned it on.
Ohmigod.
The vibrating, pulsing pleasure pole couldn’t replace Landon, but it could certainly pinch hit for him until he got home. Making a mental note to chastise him for not getting me a vibrator sooner, I turned off my light and got down to business.
One month, and my man would be home.
One month, and we’d start a life together.
I couldn’t wait.
A note from the author
Thank you so much for reading Rescuing Mercy. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey. Please take a moment to write a review. They only require twenty words and help me tremendously. I appreciate your support! KEEP READING for a sneak peek at Link’d Up, Link and Emily’s story.
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Harley Stone is a lover of animals, books, dark chocolate, and red wine. She's always up for a good adventure (real or fictional), and when she's not building imaginary worlds, she's dipping her toes into reality in southwest Washington with her husband and their boys.
Also by Harley Stone
Link’d Up: #1 in the Dead Presidents MC
Wreaking Havoc: #2 in the Dead Presidents MC
Trapping Wasp: #3 in the Dead Presidents MC
Landing Eagle: #4 in the Dead Presidents MC
Dom’s Ascension: Mariani Crime Family Book 1
Making Angel: Mariani Crime Family Book 2
Breaking Bones: Mariani Crime Family Book 3
Dial A for Addison: S.A.F.E. Detective Agency #1
Throw Dylan from the Train: S.A.F.E. Detective Agency #2
Acknowledgments
This book would have never become a reality without the help and support of so many people. Special thanks to my husband, Meltarrus, our boys, and all my friends and family for letting me off the hook when I daydreamed storyline and dialog during our conversations.
Thank you, Susan Stoker, for letting me be a part of your Special Forces world! I’m so grateful for the opportunity!
Thank you, Piper Davenport, my amazingly talented and beautiful bestie, who convinced me to leap outside my comfort zone and write this series. Thanks for always believing in me!
Special thanks to my cover model, Nathan Hainline and the talented Jackson Jackson
, cover designer.
Huge thanks to the incredible Gail Goldie, who once again saw my work first and saved the rest of the world from having to wade through my mistakes. Thank you also to Zak Amodt, Brandy Glaser, and Andrew d’Alessio for their military terminology expertise and edits. Thank you, beta and ARC readers for your edits, support, and love.
And, thank you, reader, for embarking on this journey with me!
Read the first chapter of Link'd Up
(Dead Presidents MC Book 1)
About the book
President Tyler “Link” Lincoln of the Dead Presidents MC, runs a club dedicated to helping military vets readjust to society. When his sergeant at arms is arrested for the attempted murder of a prominent Seattle figure, Link’s search for a lawyer brave enough to fight for justice leads him to an alluring defense attorney with a bleeding heart and a steel backbone.
This isn’t the first time Emily Stafford’s commitment to defending the falsely accused has put her in harm’s way. Smart, cautious, and independent, she knows how to defend herself. At least, she did until she joined forces with one sexy, overbearing, tattooed MC president.
Flames run hot as Link and Emily seek shelter in the club’s converted fire station, working against the clock to uncover the truth and save a somewhat innocent man.
Link
I HAD TO hand it to her, the bitch had balls. Wearing some tight-ass navy blue business blazer that put her perky tits on display, a skirt that made her round ass pop, and high heels that begged to be draped over my shoulders, renowned Seattle criminal defense attorney, Emily Stafford, controlled the courtroom. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a bun, accentuating high cheekbones, big blue eyes, and pouty, kissable lips. The photo from her firm’s website—the one I’d spent the past two nights jacking off to—didn’t do her justice. She wore a golden band on her left ring finger, but she wasn’t married. I’d checked. Most likely she wore it to dissuade creeps like me from stalking her fine ass.
The witness she was currently cross-examining had to be in his mid-thirties with lots of muscle, but no actual strength. Seemed like the kind of pussy who spent half his life in the gym but would piss himself if someone threw so much as an insult his way. He had no clue how to handle the calculated look Emily leveled at him as she asked him to repeat his testimony.
His eyes flickered around the courtroom like he was waiting for someone to step in and rescue him from her. “On January thirteenth, I dropped my wife off at seven-twenty a.m. for her shift. That’s when I saw Mr. James, the defendant, loitering in front of the Quick Mart.”
“Loitering?” Emily asked.
She looked up from the paper in her hands and lowered her glasses to the tip of her nose, like some librarian who’d just caught a loud-mouthed trouble maker tearing shit up in her library. Her no-nonsense demeanor was sexy as fuck, causing my jeans to tighten uncomfortably. I shifted and reminded myself why I was here. The thought of my best friend behind bars had the desired effect, calming my member down immediately.
“That’s a strange word to use. Very legal sounding. What makes you think Mr. James was loitering?”
“He didn’t have a shopping bag, so he wasn’t buying anything. Just standing there, leaned up against the wall with his arms crossed. Looking threatening.”
Her eyebrows rose as she looked over the witness’s physique before glancing at her much smaller, younger, black client. “You felt threatened by Michael James?”
“Well, not me, personally.” The witness leaned forward, hands on his knees. No doubt the dumbass realized the corner she’d backed him into and was trying to figure out how to defend his manhood without sounding like a liar. “But I could see where others would find him threatening.”
Emily nodded, a faint smile ghosting her lips. “You said you dropped your wife off at seven-twenty, but Mrs. Watts’ shift doesn’t begin until eight. Why’d you drop her off so early?”
“I don’t remember. Probably had to be to work early. Maybe a meeting or something.”
“You don’t remember the reason, but you remember the exact time you dropped her off? That seems strange, don’t you think?”
“Not really. I looked at the clock as I dropped her off. I usually do.”
One perfect eyebrow arched, Emily froze so the jury could see her reaction. “You looked at the clock on January thirteenth and made sure it was exactly seven-twenty a.m.? Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
He was lying. The entire courtroom had to know it, and apparently Emily had the documentation to prove it. She presented some signed statements to the judge that showed he’d clocked in late for work that day.
“I probably ran errands after I dropped her off,” he protested. “Sometimes I do that. I stop for coffee or a breakfast sandwich. Those drive-thru lines can take a lot longer than they look.” He smiled at the jury. “I’m sure you all know what I mean.”
Emily broke up his attempt at connection when she approached the bench to provide documents from Mrs. Watts’ boss, claiming that she was also late to work that day.
“Are you positive you dropped your wife off at seven-twenty, Mr. Watts?”
His eyes darted to the defendant before landing on the prosecuting attorney. “I-I-I thought I was, but now I realize I could be mistaken. That was more than a month ago. But I know that one of the mornings I dropped her off early and he… the defendant… was loitering.”
“You’re not sure. Why are you so willing to risk my client’s freedom on something you’re not sure of?”
The prosecuting attorney jumped to his feet. “Objection!”
“Withdrawn. But I will remind the court that this is a criminal trial and since we still live in the USA, the law requires proof beyond reasonable doubt. Regardless of the witness’s disdain for the defendant’s race. Isn’t that right, Mr. Watts?”
“Objection, your honor,” the prosecutor repeated. “Badgering the witness.”
According to rumors, Emily Stafford didn’t just badger witnesses, she fucking ate them for breakfast, which was exactly what I’d come to see for myself. Enjoying the show, I leaned back, kicking my steel-toed boots onto the pew in front of me to get comfortable.
I needed a sit-down with Emily, and had no intention of leaving until I said my piece. I’d tried going through the appropriate channels—namely, calling her office to make an appointment—but the dickwad screening her calls wouldn’t patch me through. Time to go over that little piss ant’s head and straight to the top.
And fuck, I’d love to see Emily on top. Especially wearing those heels. The glasses, too.
Court ended a little past four p.m. Ass asleep from sitting so long, I moseyed out the door, wandered toward the entrance, leaned against the wall, and waited. A steady stream of suits passed by, giving me a wide berth and sideways glances as they went. The crowd died down and there was still no sign of Emily, so I pushed off the wall and headed back the way I’d come.
Turning the corner, I caught sight of her sweet ass stepping into the elevator. I kicked up my heels and hustled down the hall, arriving barely in time to shove my hand between the doors before they closed. They sprang open and I hurried in, coming face-to-face with one sexy attorney.
Wisps of hair had come loose from her bun to frame her beautiful face. Perceptive, bright blue eyes gave me a quick once-over before her hand went into her bag and she took a step back. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable, and I can’t say I blamed her. Wearing jeans and my cut over a short-sleeved T-shirt that revealed my fully tatted-up sleeves, most people would take one look at me and assume my time in the courthouse should be spent under guard and within the confines of handcuffs.
Still, it rankled.
“Is it the tats or the cut?” I asked.
“What?”
She had a nice voice. Not high-pitched and annoying like some of the broads I knew.
“The reason you’re lookin’ at me like I’m about to attack you. Is it the t
ats or the cut that has you trying and convicting me before I even get the chance to open my mouth, counselor? And what are you reaching for? I know you can’t have weapons in the courthouse.”
Straightening, she eased her hand out of her purse and pushed the door close button, sending the elevator to the fifth floor. “Habit.” She patted the outside of her bag, as if confirming that it was lacking anything that could protect her from me. “I don’t know you, we’re alone in an elevator, and I’m cautious. And, might I add, I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
Damn, she was fine. Confident, intelligent, sassy, sexy-as-fuck, if she knew half the things I wanted to do to her, she’d be wishing for whatever self-defense trick she usually carried so she could hit me with it. Maybe a good pepper spraying, or a few volts of electricity would get my libido under control. No matter how fine she was, my purpose for being here was much more important than a roll in the hay. Or a roll in the elevator, as it may be.
“I have a case I hope you’ll be willing to take,” I said.
“Then you should call my office.”
“I’ve tried. Please. Just hear me out.”
She looked me over again, as if forcing herself to give me the benefit of the doubt. Something flickered in her eyes. Interest? Attraction? I couldn’t tell, but I sure as hell wanted to find out.
“Dead Presidents?” she asked, reading the patch on my cut. “Never heard of them. That some sort of gang?”
“No,” I snapped. Then, reminding myself that I needed Emily’s help, I reined in my temper. “Sorry. Gang is an offensive word. We’re a motorcycle club. All ex-military, and we specialize in helping vets get back on their feet after they come home from the service.”
Rescuing Mercy (Special Forces: Operation Alpha): A Dead Presidents MC Spinoff Page 18