Heart Ties (Club Ties Book 2) (23 page)

“If your pussy as wet as I think it is?” Drake shoved her against the brick wall, nestling her further into the shadows. As he hooked an arm under her thigh and lifted it to expose her to his questing fingers, her breaths came faster.

As soon as his hand met damp panties, he groaned. The blissed expression he wore when he was deep in her made her feel like a goddess.

His thick digits eased under the cloth, and she cried out. Grinding into his hand, needy and yes, wet. Soaking.

His eyes were almost black in the thin light coming from a street lamp. “That turned you on, didn’t it?”

She squeaked when he flicked a fingertip over her straining nubbin, unable to reply. While in that backroom, she’d felt calm and cool—until the Russian had put his hands on her. Then something had snapped.

Girl had stood up.

And shot the fucking guy’s partner in the knee while Drake pumped a bullet into Vasily’s leg.

Drake stuffed two fingers into her pussy, and she scrambled to open his fly. Pressure built in her body, winding her tighter than ever.

“I need you. Now.”

“Fuck yeah, Princess.” He slid his fingers free and stuck them in his mouth, sucking noisily.

Freeing his cock at last, she waited the ten excruciating seconds for him to slide on a condom and poise at her opening. Lust pounded her, and she went on tiptoe to claim his mouth.

Gaze connecting, he shoved deep. Her body squeezed him tight, not wanting his retreat though her nerves sang as his cock slipped through her walls.

She dug her nails into his cut and flipped her tongue over his. The bite of brick against her spine heightened the experience, and she threw herself into kissing him.

Tongues flipping, teeth nipping. She pushed onto tiptoe, angling herself a little higher to receive his thrust. He shoved her up the wall.

“Hell, I need to be deeper.” He lifted her, cradling her ass as he ground his cock as if he’d never have her again.

She rocked into his movements, guiding him a fraction deeper.

The fraction that sent her off the ledge.

She cried out as hot waves of release struck. Three contractions, four. Up and up she went while Drake kissed her into a boneless puddle. He pulled her closer, muscles stiffening under her fingers.

He shoved hard—and came with a roar. She opened her eyes to watch him. Eyes black, his mouth stretched in ecstasy.

Dropping his forehead to hers, he breathed heavily. The wild whirl of her mind slowed like a carousel ride.

“I won’t let you put yourself in danger like that again. It was too close.” His voice was ragged, sending waves of sensation over her nerve endings.

She pressed a kiss to the corner of his hard lips. “I got what we needed. They’re looking to take over the gambling because it keeps them out of sight.”

“Not enough info to warrant putting you in danger.” His tone was inarguable. He let her slide down the wall, and his softening appendage slipped from her body.

He turned away and righted his clothing. Feeling a little like a scolded child, she pushed her panties back over her pussy and her dress down her hips.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded.

He took her hand and led her down the alley toward his bike. Their section of town was quiet—the traffic had long ago died down. She gripped his fingers and tried to get her emotions under control.

When he’d burst into the backroom, face fierce, her heart had soared. Now he felt light years away, his face a mask, his steps purposeful. Sure, they couldn’t linger in the alley, touching and exchanging soft looks, but she didn’t like feeling cast aside.

He froze, head cocked.

Heart bobbing, she strained to hear what he did.

Footsteps, faint. Growing closer. The hum of a bike engine.

He broke into a jog, pulling her helplessly behind. Her heels clicked, and he threw her a look. As if she could make them stop.

When he reached another alley, he shoved her against the building and plastered his back against her. Part of her begged to ask what he saw, as his big shoulders blocked all view.

The lines of his back were hard steel, and his hand was on his weapon.

“Wh—”

“Shh.” The quick syllable silenced her. She tried to peek around him, but he was having none of that.

Voices echoed between buildings, sounding closer than she liked. If they were in a shootout, she couldn’t even draw the gun holstered to her inner thigh. Drake had her arms pinned between them.

A shiver rippled through her, and he crushed her harder against the wall.

“Got the money?” someone asked.

“Yes. Got the goods?”

Drake’s muscles locked. Did he recognize these people? Delta tried to push onto her tiptoes to see around him, but he wouldn’t let her move a millimeter.

A small rustle of cloth. Something unzipping—a bag? A man’s pants? Delta stared at the back of Drake’s head and wished he’d give some hint as to what he was seeing.

More noises, soft voices she couldn’t make out.

Drake pushed off, rushing forward, arm outstretched and his gun cocked to fire. “Nice to see you,
Prez.
”

Delta scanned the dark alley, making out the lines of the man. Strother. Bile rose in her throat, and she bit her inner lip to clamp off a cry.

Strother stuffed something under his shirt and pulled his weapon in one quick move. The Sons all gave off vibes they thought him a little pathetic, but Delta recognized the danger he posed.

Fumbling under her tight dress she laid fingers on her weapon. Holding it over Drake’s shoulder, she trained it on the Hell’s Sons president.

“Whatcha sellin’, Prez?”

“Get the fuck back to the hole you’ve been hiding in, Drake.”

“Nah, I don’t think I will. Hand it over!”

They were too far from the man. If Drake tried to reach him, Strother would shoot.

Shoot or be shot.

She poised her finger over the trigger, replaying how well their heist had gone back in The Gearhead. Drake shifted his foot, his boot nudging her toe.

Two men. Two weapons.

“Now.”

Delta twitched her arm and fired. The buyer hit the concrete. She never registered Drake’s shot—Strother fell, writhing, holding his ankle.

Drake took off, running straight for the men. “Get the goods,” he said to Delta, and she swiped the bag Strother had passed to the Raider off the ground.

The Hell’s Sons prez selling to the Raiders. She didn’t recognize the face of the man she’d shot, but she knew his patches very well.

Strother threw a punch at Drake, his blood-covered hands glancing off Drake’s arm.

With a grunt, Drake shoved a boot into his gut, pinning him like a bug to a board. Strother’s mouth stretched in silent pain, and she realized Drake had found a spot with the toe of his boot that was killing Strother.

She pressed Drake’s elbow. He’d probably killed countless times, but she wasn’t going to allow it to happen in front of her.

He jerked his foot and kicked Strother in the balls. He curled, gasping. Drake reached under his shirt and got the bag of money.

When he nudged Delta into a run, she didn’t look back.

•●•

Drake dropped a soft kiss to Delta’s temple, right over the star. She shivered, the events of the night finally taking hold.

“Get her a hot shower and something to eat,” he said to one of the old ladies, nudging her forward.

Delta went, moving toward the women who had become her friends in the short time they’d spent with the north charter of the Hell’s Sons. She’d won them all over.

When she paused to glance at Drake, he nodded once, and she was taken away.

“The fuck’s going on, bro?” Waite was on high-alert, bouncing like a terrier ready to take orders.

Drake caught his shoulder and dragged him into church. The room was vacant, and they could talk freely.

He lifted his shirt, revealing a bag with enough cash to keep a family hidden in a foreign country for a number of years. Waite’s eyes widened.

“Got this off my prez.”

“Strother?”

“Yeah.” Drake dumped the bag, and bills floated to the table. “He’s selling the Rx to the Raiders, and they’re turning it. Then he’s making the Sons patrol the streets gunning for the bastards.” As his own words sank in, fury exploded, hot and bright.

He slammed a fist into the table, splitting knuckles. The club officers drifted in, and Drake laid it all out for them. They’d shot four men tonight. His saddlebags were stuffed with what he believed was a lot of counterfeit money. And their fucking prez was selling to their enemy while pretending outrage to the Sons.

The north charter president took his seat at the head of the table, his eyes calm. Then he dropped the bomb.

“The feds are onto you at Tomfoolery, bro. They are planning to intercept a shipment of ‘change’ tomorrow morning. Word just came in. Jamison doesn’t know yet.”

Fucking hell. Adding the feds and an illegal alcohol bust was not Drake’s idea of a happy ending. They’d all go down—every last Hell’s Son.

He scraped a hand through his hair and stared at the wood grain of the table for a long minute. All were silent, waiting.

Raising his head, he pushed a breath through his nose. “I’ve got a plan.”

Waite gave a wild, toothy grin. “I know that look. What are we blowing up, bro?”

•●•

Delta watched Drake’s hurried movements as he rifled through the supplies he’d sent a brother to retrieve. He hadn’t made a trip to the grocery store for these items. Drake laid each item carefully in a row, as if it helped him organize his mind. She studied his masked features.

She was falling for him—
had
fallen. And somehow their insane heists in the last day had sealed a bond between them.

“Drake.”

He looked up, face closed off. “You can’t go on this, Delta.”

The club around them went about their own business, totally ignoring the shit Drake was doing.

“Are you making a…bomb?” Her voice rose on the last word.

His eyes didn’t even flicker. “Yes. We move in the early hours. You’ll stay here and—”

“No.” She shook her head, sending streamers of hair across her breasts. “I’ll go with you. I can handle a weapon, you’ve seen that.”