by Hart, Lane
“Wait, it was working this morning, right?” I ask Peyton.
“Ah, yeah. From behind in bed and then against the shower wall while you were washing my hair.”
“Right,” I agree, as I remember the sexy details of peeling her panties down to take her as soon as we woke up and being ready to go again before the water turned warm in the shower. Even those incredible memories don’t have any effect on my sleeping cock.
“Don’t worry about it, Dalton. It happens to all men,” Peyton says when she climbs off of me, without getting what she came for, and lies down next to me on the mattress.
“No, it doesn’t happen to me,” I tell her. “Let me, ah, let me take care of you,” I suggest, to take the attention off of my failure to perform and because I want to make Peyton feel good, even if we can’t feel good at the same time.
“You don’t have to—” she starts to say, but I’m already diving between her legs, wedging my shoulders underneath her thighs. “Oh yeah,” Peyton moans after I swipe my tongue over her clit. She spears her fingers through my hair and gives it a tug whenever I stop licking her in the way I know makes her crazy. That’s the only reason I deviate my method, to tease her a little, get her to direct me as if she’s in control.
By the third time her legs shake and clamp down on my ears, my dick is hard as a rock.
Thank fuck.
While Peyton’s body and voice recovers from her most recent orgasm, I get off the bed and go retrieve a condom from my wallet. I tear open the foil with my teeth and sheath the rubber over my cock in record-breaking time.
When I’m back between Peyton’s legs, lining up to take the plunge, she blinks her eyes open to look at me.
“Mmm,” she murmurs and stretches her arms over her head. “You’re so good at going down on me. Either you practiced a lot, or someone must have trained you well.”
Aaand there goes my hard-on with the reminder of the woman who “trained” me.
“I’ll be right back,” I say before I climb off the bed and head for the bathroom, hoping Peyton didn’t notice the condom or my deflating dick.
Chapter Thirteen
Peyton
I’m sitting in the Carteret County sheriff’s office, bright and early Wednesday morning, half an hour early for our meeting. It’s not like I had anything better to do.
Unlike most mornings, Dalton didn’t stick around for a quickie in bed or in the shower. He was dressed and kissing me goodbye from beside the bed before I was able to fully blink my eyes open.
Now I have no clue if he was embarrassed about not being able to perform last night, or if he just didn’t want me. Either way, I can’t stop obsessing about what’s going on with him and why he bailed so early.
Was that Dalton’s way of blowing me off and ending this, whatever this is, between us? While I’m guessing that it’s just sex for him, I’ve already gotten in too deep, thinking about him constantly and wanting to be near him, just to see what crazy comment he’ll make next.
A smile spreads across my face whenever he comes to mind and, like a teenage girl, I can’t stop myself from checking my phone a hundred times a day, even when I’m at work, to see if he’s texted me or called. I check again while I sit in the waiting room but there’s nothing new from him. So, like the obsessed, silly girl that I feel like around him, I scroll through and reread old messages, thinking of all the possible ways to interrupt them.
Shit. Is Dalton pissed because I’m in town having meetings about the Savage Kings?
“Agent Bradley?” the young, auburn-haired sheriff says when she opens her office door and steps out in her brown uniform. I toss my phone into my purse and get to my feet to go over and shake her hand. She offers me a friendly but professional smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, Sheriff Horton,” I reply.
“Come on in,” she says before she leads the way to her office, shutting the door behind me after I’m inside. “Have a seat.” She gestures toward one of the two visitor chairs before lowering herself into the high-back executive chair behind the desk.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” I tell her.
“No problem. Things are always pretty quiet around here, so there’s plenty of time to meet with federal agents. What exactly is it that you wanted to discuss?”
“Oh, well, the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District is investigating the Savage Kings MC, after several firearm and arson-related crimes.”
“Oh,” she mutters, her face falling and friendly demeanor changing quicker than I can snap my fingers.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
“No,” the sheriff answers with a shake of her head. “But I guess I should save you some time. My mother is married to Torin and Chase Fury’s father.”
“Wow,” I say when I’m eventually able to pick up my gaping jaw. “So you’re…”
“Their stepsister, yes,” she answers with a nod. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Can you give me any information about the Hector Cruz murder that resulted in the death of him and three of his men? Or the fire at a rival MC’s bar? How about the shootout at the Savage Asylum and death of your stepbrother’s wife?”
Looking only slightly annoyed at my rapid-fire questions, she begins to answer. “Our office determined that Hector Cruz was killed by his own men during a violent coup. As for the arson, well, you would have to talk to the Wilmington PD about that since it’s out of my district, but I’m pretty sure they ruled the cause of the fire as a gas line exploding a meth lab.” Pausing to take a deep breath, she goes on to say, “And the death of Kennedy Fury and my stepbrother’s unborn son was incredibly tragic. While we were not able to link any suspects to the crime directly, the firearms and gun shells found at the scene of the Cruz shooting matched the one that killed Kennedy, so we have officially closed the case.”
“And you don’t think that the Savage Kings were involved in the murder of Hector Cruz and his men?” I ask, heavy with disbelief.
“There’s no evidence that they were even in the vicinity. In fact, most of them were still in Las Vegas for my stepbrother’s wedding.”
“Isn’t that convenient.”
Eyes narrowing, the sheriff says, “It’s the truth. Nothing convenient about it. There are airline records to back it up, and I’m sure you could obtain the video surveillance of the airports as well.”
“Isn’t it true that most of the members of the Savage Kings have criminal records?” I ask.
“About half, maybe,” she answers with a shrug, like it’s no big deal those same felons have formed a gang.
“Yet they aren’t suspects for any of the violence that’s happened up and down the coast lately?”
“No, they’re not,” Sheriff Horton answers with a stiff smile.
“What about Dalton Brady?” I ask, unable to help myself.
Reeling back in her seat, as if caught off guard by the random question, she says, “What about him?”
“Our intel leads us to believe that he’s an officer in the MC. The treasurer or money launderer, perhaps?”
“I wouldn’t know who is an officer, or what their responsibilities would be,” she replies. “My stepbrothers and I don’t discuss MC business at family dinners.”
“Is there anything more that you do know about Dalton?” I inquire.
Sighing heavily, she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “All I know is that his father was one of the founding members. Why are you asking about him?”
“His father?” I repeat, ignoring her question, and she nods. “Is he still a member?” I ask since Dalton’s never mentioned him, and the CI didn’t have any notes about the senior Brady.
“No. If you can’t ride, you can’t vote,” she answers easily, like it’s a common phrase, making it sound like she knows more about the club’s business than she’s letting on.
“And Dalton’s father can’t ride?”
“Why is that?” I ask.
Sheriff Horton lifts one of her auburn eyebrows before she gets to her feet and says, “Is there anything else I can help you with today? Okay, thanks for stopping by,” without giving me a chance to actually ask anything else.
I’m being dismissed.
Standing up, I tell her, “I appreciate your time.” Even though it was incredibly short.
I barely step out of her office before she’s behind me and shutting the door.
Protective much? Jeez.
My thoughts about the backward ways of this town come to a stop as soon as I walk down the steps of the sheriff’s office and spot a sexy man in dark sunglasses, leaning his back against my SUV. His arms are crossed over his leather cut, along with his ankles. He looks like he’s waiting for a photographer to come along, snap his photo, and slap it on the cover of a trendy magazine.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask curiously, since I didn’t tell him who I was meeting with today or tomorrow.
“Jade called and gave Torin a heads-up yesterday after you set the meeting,” he answers with a grin.
“Jade,” I repeat, using her first name like he did so familiarly. “Well, wasn’t that nice of her,” I mutter sarcastically.
“They’re family. What did you expect?” he asks when I’m standing right in front of him.
“I don’t know. Maybe for her to be an officer of the law despite having family ties to a motorcycle club.”
“Despite what you may think, she doesn’t cut the MC any slack,” Dalton responds.
“Bullshit.”
“Okay, so she doesn’t cut the MC much slack,” he amends with a smirk.
“Whatever you say,” I tell him, even though I’m starting to see why the sheriff would protect the guys in the MC if the rest are half as charming as Dalton. Which makes me ask, “Is the sheriff…close with any other members?”
“Ah, no. She’s married and has a kid,” he answers. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Just wondering if I’ve slept with her?” he asks. “Because the answer is hell no. I like my balls where they are, and Torin would remove them if one of us messed with his stepsister.”
“Is that the only reason?” I question while my fingers fidget with the strap of my purse.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” Dalton says before he grasps my chin between his finger and thumb to lift my face and kiss my lips.
It’s a soft, quick kiss, but the public display of affection makes me feel a little better about where we stand after he bailed on me this morning. And since it’s been bothering me, I decide to come right out and ask him about it. “What was your big rush out the door about this morning?”
Dalton’s hand drops from my face at the question, then his gaze lifts to the spot above my head, like the sheriff’s department is suddenly incredibly interesting.
“I knew you had an early meeting…”
“Not that early,” I interrupt his bogus excuse. I reach up to hold his gorgeous face between my hands and make him look back down at me. “Just tell me the truth.”
It doesn’t make sense that he, the man who lives and breathes sex, would bolt when he could’ve gotten laid this morning. And yet, for some reason, he shows up to see me out of the blue and waits for me to come out of a meeting.
“Fine,” he huffs. “My dick’s broken.”
“What?” I ask in confusion.
“When I didn’t even have morning wood to offer, I left so that I wouldn’t disappoint you again.”
“Disappoint me again?” I repeat. “When did you disappoint me?”
“Last night,” he answers. “I couldn’t…we didn’t…”
“You went above and beyond fulfilling any expectations I had for last night,” I assure him. “I just hate that it was all one-sided. But like I told you then, it’s not a big deal. Besides, sex in the mornings isn’t all people do together.”
“It’s not?” he asks with his brow furrowed seriously, which is just freaking adorable.
“No, it’s not,” I respond. “There’s also cuddling.”
“Yeah?” Dalton asks, as if that’s an entirely new notion to him. “You want to cuddle with me?”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret that women keep from men,” I tell him before I lower my hands from his face to rest them on his shoulders and go up on my toes to whisper in his ear, like I’m imparting some top-secret information. “Sometimes we would rather cuddle than have sex.”
I feel the immediate, rigid tension in his shoulders, as if I just told him the world is about to end.
Dropping back flat on my feet to look at his blank face, I ask, “You’re not a fan of cuddling?”
“I dunno,” he mutters. “Never done it before.”
“Yes, you have!” I assure him with a light, playful slap of my palm to his chest. “Most nights, in fact, when you let me sleep with my head on your chest and your arms around me.”
“That’s cuddling?” he asks.
“Pretty much. Any sort of physical contact that doesn’t occur with the expectation of sexual gratification counts.”
“Oh.”
“So, you’ve probably done a lot of cuddling and never realized it,” I tell him.
“I haven’t, actually,” he replies. “The only time women touch me is when we’re in bed or they’re trying to get me in bed.”
“Maybe you just don’t stick around long enough for the cuddling.”
“Why would I stick around after we both get what we want?” he asks, not sounding the least bit angry but mostly confused.
“Because human contact without any ulterior motives or expectations is…nice,” I explain. I almost ask him why he usually spends the night with me, but I’m afraid his response will be that it’s easier than driving back home so late.
“There are always motives,” Dalton says.
“Are there?” I ask.
“Men only stick around to cuddle because it increases their likelihood of getting laid again.”
“Now that’s just cynical,” I tell him, even though a part of me thinks that’s probably true. My ex-husband only cuddled when he was trying to get inside of me.
“Everything men and women do always goes back to sex,” he says. “We were put here to reproduce. That’s it. And to make sure that happens, the act feels so good that we want to keep doing it as much as possible.”
“What about love?” I ask, even though I’m not entirely sure I still believe in it.
He shakes his head. “Nothing more than a chemical reaction that results in attachment to a certain person, thanks to repeatedly having great sex with them,” he answers, as if he’s an expert in the field.
“That’s all, huh?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“Then I guess you’ve had a lot of women fall in love with you,” I joke, since sex with Dalton is more than great. It’s absolutely amazing.
“Guess so,” he answers with a chuckle before he goes around and opens the driver’s door for me, abruptly ending our previous topic of conversation. “So, now that your meeting is over, are you free the rest of the afternoon?”
“Looks like it.”
“Good,” he says. “I want to take you somewhere.”
“I’m not sure if I should be worried or excited,” I tell him honestly. “Is this a setup for a hit on me?”
“There is a boat involved,” he says with a smile. “But I promise not to throw you overboard with a concrete block attached to your ankles.”
“Wow, thanks,” I scoff. “That makes me feel so much better.”
“So, are you in or not?” he asks.
“In,” I agree with a grin because it means spending more time with him out of bed.
“Awesome. Let’s drop your SUV off at the hotel, and then we can take my bike to the docks.”
“Sounds good,” I agree.
Chapter
Fourteen
Dalton
“Welcome to Shackleford Banks,” I tell Peyton when I jump down from Sax’s boat ramp with the backpack I packed for us over one shoulder. I then turn around to offer her my hand to help her.
“You brought me to a deserted island to kill me?” she asks teasingly when she joins me on the sand. Sax’s head snaps around from the front of the boat in concern.
“She’s joking,” I tell him. “See you in three hours or so?”
“Yeah, man, see you then,” he agrees before he hauls in the ramp and anchor to head back to the docks at Beaufort.
“The water here is beautiful,” Peyton says.
“Yeah, it’s so clear they call it the Crystal Coast,” I explain to her.
After she takes off her shoes, we venture closer to the shore where the clear waves lap gently at the sand.
“Since it’s a barrier island, you rarely ever get the crashing waves or riptide, unless there’s a storm out in the Atlantic.”
“Wow, it’s so…peaceful. Where’s everyone at?” she asks, glancing around the empty stretch of beach.
“It’s the off season, and even during the summer not many people come out here because you need a boat to get back and forth. The ferry comes around every two hours, though, and Sax will be on standby if we need a lift before then. We won’t be stuck here forever,” I assure her.
I take off my shoes and roll up the cuffs of my jeans so we can get our feet wet while we walk. It may be October, but the air is still warm, with temperatures in the mid-eighties, and the water is a little crisp but refreshing.
“Do you come here often?” Peyton asks.
“Not as much lately,” I answer. “My old man and I used to come camping out here for a night or two.”
“Really?” she asks when she stops and turns to face me. “Does your dad live around here too?”
“Yeah,” I answer.
“And you grew up here?”
Peyton suddenly makes me feel like I’m being interrogated. Still, I answer her. “No. I grew up in New York with my mom.”