Conjugal Visits (Souls Chapel Revenants MC 2)

Something that another team would be taking care of.

Meaning that I would have three days to do nothing but wait.

And hopefully do some catching up with a certain man.

“Keep your head low, darlin’,” Adrian said, knowing where my mind was at. “Don’t ruin your cover before you’ve even had a chance to utilize it.”

Meaning, don’t go fucking Trouper in public.

That, I could do.

I thought, anyway.

The room emptied out after that, leaving Trouper whose hand I was still holding, Easton, and me.

I couldn’t stop myself.

Standing up, I once again threw myself into Trouper’s arms.

The chair he was in rocked back precariously, but Easton must’ve done something so we both didn’t go down in a heap.

Trouper’s arms tightened on me so tightly that I found it slightly hard to breathe.

But I didn’t care.

Not when I was in Trouper’s arms.

“You’re wearing my jacket,” I whispered.

It wasn’t even really cold enough just yet, but he was wearing it anyway.

“I wear it everywhere,” he admitted. “Can’t you tell?”

I could.

The day that he’d graduated and become an official fighter pilot, I’d spent a whack on a bomber jacket for him.

He’d always loved them when we were kids, and I felt it was fitting seeing as he was a full-fledged fuckin’ fighter pilot.

Now that jacket looked well-worn and loved.

“You’re wearing my earrings,” he teased.

“I wear them everywhere. I don’t even take them out to sleep.” I pulled back so I could look into his eyes. “And I still sleep in your t-shirts every single night.”

His grin was wicked.

“Let’s go to the bar in town. I have a couple people I want you to meet,” he whispered. “We’ll grab some food, then you can come home with me.”

“What about me?” Easton asked.

Troup didn’t even look away from my eyes when he said, “You can come to the bar, but you can’t come home with me.”

Easton guffawed in laughter. “I figured that. I’ll take Beckham’s hotel room.”

Trouper licked his lips, and I saw the way the night would play out in his eyes.

CHAPTER 9

I like my men like I like my margaritas. To hit the spot every time.

-Text from Beckham to Trouper

TROUPER

“Come on,” I urged. “I’d like you to meet a couple of friends.”

Beckham didn’t even try to deny me.

One second, she was waving goodbye to Easton, who’d bailed out on not only the bar, but anything after, but did say that he would see us in the morning.

See, I hadn’t seen Easton in just as long as Beckham, but he’d known that I needed to spend some alone time with Beckham. I couldn’t sit there at a bar with her next to me knowing how this night was going to end. It would be torture.

“I already told you I’d go anywhere with you,” she teased.

So, I took her to my favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant.

When we pulled up outside Mami’s, her eyes lit.

“Please, please, please tell me this is authentic Tex-Mex,” she pleaded, her eyes beseeching as she turned to look at me.

I grinned. “The two of them moved from East Texas to here.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve had anything good quality. I mean, everyone says they’re ‘Mexican food’ but they’re just not what I’m looking for, you know?”

I knew exactly what she meant, mostly because I’d been living the same life since I’d moved away.

“I hadn’t realized how much I ate it until I didn’t have it around anymore,” I admitted. “When I introduced my friends to this place, they thought I was joking—that it was better than any place that they’d ever been to around here—but I wasn’t. Now this is the only place that they’ll eat. And they really, really want to come to Texas.”

She giggled.

“I would, too.” She bailed out of the car. “Let’s go!”

I followed her, watching as she practically ran across the parking lot to the front door.

My eyes were all over her.

She was wearing tight blue jeans, the ones that women were starting to favor with the tight legs all the way to the ankle that molded to her calf. Jeggings? I think that was what I’d heard one of my friend’s girlfriends call them.

The jeans had holes in them, all up and down the front of her thighs, and there was even a strategically placed one right above her back pocket that showed off the smallest amount of skin. Which meant that she was wearing a thong—or no underwear at all. But Beckham had never really been a no underwear person.

So my bet was on a thong.

And her ass.

My God.

I hadn’t thought that anything about Beckham could get better, but I’d been wrong.

Seriously, her ass had been great before, but now, with a couple of years on her, she filled out so much more nicely.

Her hips weren’t wide, but they definitely weren’t ‘girl’ hips anymore. They were womanly, sexy, curvy, and I wanted to latch onto them from behind.