Her Secret Pleasure (Death Lords MC 2)

“Just felt like kissing you is all,” he replies and pulls up a chair next to me. Turning to Abel, he says, “You head to the granary.

Schmidt’s not coming back. He’s delivered his message, got an earful from me, and is likely going home to regroup.”

“Are you inviting yourself to stay the night?” I ask mildly. “Because the sofa is uncomfortable.” We all look at my dumpy sofa that’s barely long enough for me.

Judge merely grins. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Give me a call if you want me back here,” Abel replies. “’Night, Ms. Lang.”

Judge’s grin falls away as soon as the door shuts behind Abel. “You know about this residency requirement?”

“I knew it was in the contract, but when I was hired by the mayor, he said I shouldn’t worry about it. I’m guessing I should start worrying?”

He sighs. “Maybe so. The mayor won’t stand up to Schmidt. We think that Schmidt’s got something on the mayor so if Schmidt brings up the residency requirement, the mayor will try to enforce it. Is that going to be a problem?”

My heart’s in my throat so I can’t do much more than nod. I paid six months’ rent for this trailer and the surrounding land. I can’t afford to move and neither do I want to. Living in a small town there’s always someone who watches who comes to your house and how long they stay. They time when your television goes on and when it goes off. They count how many packages you get delivered and some of the brave ones peek inside the mailbox. Out here in the country there isn’t much but the crickets and Morgen. And, I suppose, the creepy police chief.

Judge rubs his chin and eyes me thoughtfully. “Can’t do anything about it tonight, baby girl. Why don’t you eat up. After dinner, I’ll give you a nice rubdown.”

None of his words were suggestions or questions, only statements. Stop worrying. Eat. Sex will follow. It’s all so easy for him on the other side of the table. He’s not trying to make a new life for himself; he doesn’t have to worry about where the next meal is coming from. Anger at Schmidt, at my inability to say no to the man across from me, at my frustrating monetary situation spews out.

“It must be real tough to be the president of an outlaw gang who answers to no one. Why, I can’t imagine the trials you must have gone through. Just don’t worry my pretty little head? Just lie down and spread my legs? Getting stuffed with your cock is the answer to all my problems? Boy, please. Your cock can’t even solve one problem, let alone all of them,” I spit out bitterly.

His only response is to raise an eyebrow. “I think my cock solved at least one problem.”

“Sex doesn’t solve anything!” I yell as his nonchalant attitude throws more fuel onto my fire. Hot tears are prickling at the back of my eyes and the last thing I want to do is break down in front of this man whose careful eyes assess everyone’s weaknesses.

Stomping down the hall, I wrench open a closet door and angrily pull out the extra sheets and blankets. He’s sleeping on that sofa tonight and I don’t care how many discs in his back are displaced. Turning around I run into a wall of muscle.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, all traces of humor gone. “I was trying to lighten the mood and take away your worry but instead I made you angry, and for that I’m sorry. I’m not sorry that I’m trying to help you. If it makes you feel better, that’s how I’m built. It’s what makes me a good president of my outlaw gang. I run it so that my boys have better lives than they would without it. It’s got not one thing to do with your gender, your pretty hair or your hot body and everything to do with how I’m wired.”

Chest still heaving with the remnants of my anger, I study him. His face is unlined except for the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and three faint lines on his broad forehead. The bridge of his nose is crooked—no doubt the result of a fight. On the side near his left ear, there’s a deep scar. He has a healthy summer tan, but not too dark as if he sometimes finds the time to slather on sunscreen. His wheat-colored hair is closely cropped, almost military in its short length. Around his lips and chin he sports a trimmed goatee. Some guys grow facial hair to disguise a weak chin, but there’s nothing a bit weak about Judge.

“You’re still sleeping on the couch,” I say, and shove the blankets at him. “Come, Morgen.”

Inside my bedroom, I ready for bed, pulling on an old sleep shirt with Tweety Bird and a pair of granny panties. They are the ugliest clothes in my closet and I’m hoping that they’ll keep me from creeping out in the middle of the night and attacking him.

Because of the paper-thin walls of my trailer, I hear him moving about. The water runs and the door opens and closes. I try to remember the last time I lived with a man. My dad never quite left Mom and me but he wasn’t around a lot. My memories of him are fractured. There is no single continuous loop of events that involve him; instead there are fragments—pieces from a broken mirror.

Confused and tired, I call my mother.

“It’s late, dear,” she says in reproof. She loves me, but she’s my mother. Every opportunity for correction is not allowed to pass by without comment.

“I can’t sleep,” I admit. “I had a visit from Chief Schmidt tonight. He told me that there was a residency requirement in my contract. As the Fortune librarian, I’m supposed to live in Fortune.”

The waves of disappointment travel down the telephone line in clear HD quality. “Did you read your contract before you rented that trailer?”

“Yes, but the mayor said it was fine.”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I can float you some rent, but not six months’ worth. Maybe you should consider moving back home. They haven’t filled your old position.”

“I’m trying to start fresh.”

“Running away never solves anything. Call Margaret Berrywood to see if you can get your job back.”

I ask even though I don’t want to and even though I suspect I know the answer. “Will you loan me the money for rent if I need to move into town?”

“Call Margaret. We’ll talk after that.”

So, no. “Okay, Mom. Love you.”

“Try to get some sleep. It’ll all be better tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I stare at my phone but it doesn’t provide any more answers after we hang up. Returning home can’t be my only option. A tap of my financial app on my phone reveals a sadly low balance after having sunk most of my savings into this property. A knock on my door startles me.

“You okay in there, baby?” Judge says.

“Yeah, going to bed.”

“Can I come in for a minute?”

I look down at my sleep shirt and figure that it’s about the least sexy thing he’s ever seen on a woman’s body and my granny panties are too embarrassing to show anyone. Hopefully they’ll work like a modern day chastity belt.

Unlatching the door, I open it slightly standing with my hand curled around the frame. His wide frame nearly fills the entire hallway. He looks too big for the trailer and probably too big for my life.

“Your walls are thin so I couldn’t help hearing your conversation about your residency problems. I’ve got some solutions for you.”

“You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” I wonder how many troubles he has shouldered in his lifetime. Maybe he is wired that way, but it can still be a burden. His arms are crossed and he looks as strong as a tree and every part of me wants to lean into him.

Somehow he senses this because he’s inside, kicking the door shut with his foot before I can take my next breath. He lifts me flush against him and turns so that I’m sandwiched between the particleboard door and his hard chest.

“We’re doing too much talking and thinking and not enough doing,” he growls into my hair. With his thick erection pressed against my ever-dampening panties and his mouth covering mine, it’s hard to think at all, let alone too much.

He rubs against me in a slow roll of his hips and his mouth takes a leisurely exploration of my jawline up to my temple and then back to claim my lips. His tongue is everywhere, caressing the roof of my mouth, the sides of my cheeks and rubbing along the top and underside of my own t

ongue. There isn’t a space inside that he’s not touching at least once and then his caresses turn to heated stabs. My legs hook around his hips and I clutch at his bare shoulders, both riding him and hanging on for dear life. Knowing what’s behind his jeans makes this over-the-clothes humping some kind of delicious torture.

He breaks the connection and I exult in hearing his ragged breath next to my ear. He swings me around and places me on my small bed and steps back. In two quick jerks, he’s nude before me—like a master artist’s sketch come to life in perfect proportion of muscle, sinew and tendon. His cock is large, hard and wet at the tip. I lick my lips anticipating the feel of it inside me, stretching me until I’m full up with Judge Harrison.

His fist closes around it and the bulbous head seems to fatten and widen. “A man is most vulnerable when he’s in a woman’s mouth. She could bite off his dick or crush his balls. And the moment when the orgasm pushes from the base of the spine and outward, she could ask for anything and he’d give it to her. Money, life, death, anything. It’s the moment of Samson on everlasting repeat.”

“Are you trying to talk me into giving you a blow job as a way for you to apologize to me?” I ask incredulously.

“Put your mouth around me and see if I’m not telling you the truth. There’s no point during sex where a woman owns a man more than when her mouth is around his dick.”

Judge places his hands behind his neck as if he is preparing to be arrested. “I won’t lay a finger on you until you ask me to.”

My mouth waters at the thought of that big cock in my mouth. I reach for his waist and at my first touch, the muscles of his hard stomach contract. While I can tell from his erection that he’s into it, the sight of his body reacting to the simple contact of my fingers on his torso pulls a corresponding tightening between my legs.