Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Voss, well, he would always be a Henchmen. But it had been over a decade. So many new faces were at the club now. Younger guys. More gung-ho ones. It meant that he could step away, take some months to be with his family, and wouldn’t be painfully missed by the club.
“You know,” Voss said, dragging my attention over to him. “We should really do another… inspection of the RV,” he suggested.
“An inspection,” I said, nodding, knowing that gleam in his eye. “Yes, that is probably smart,” I agreed, following him as he made his way out the front door and into the driveway.
What can we say?
Having three kids meant you had to get inventive with adult playtime.
The RV had those little privacy covers for the windows. And solid locks on the doors.
Privacy.
Which was pure bliss with young ones always around, snooping, listening.
I was barely inside the door before Voss was slamming me back against it. His lips crashed to mine as his hand engaged the lock.
My own hands were greedy, yanking at clothes, trying to remove every barrier between us.
How long had it been?
Before the kids all came down with the flu, sapping every bit of energy we had by the end of the day.
Two weeks?
Was it more?
God, it might have been more.
No wonder the need felt like gasoline burning through my veins.
And his rough hands as they yanked off my shirt and my shorts were the match that lit the flame that burned through every inch of me.
His lips were on my neck, my breasts, between my legs, in what felt like a blink.
His tongue teased and his fingers thrust.
But he wouldn’t let me come.
“Not yet,” he grumbled as he got back to his feet, yanking up my legs, and pinning me to the wall once again as he surged inside me.
We were savage then.
Nails, teeth, growls, curses.
“Fuck, come for me,” he growled as my whimpers became loud moans, as my walls tightened hard around his cock. “Squeeze my cock,” he hissed just as the orgasm slammed through my body, making me cry out as the waves crashed through me over and over again.
He fucked me through it, dragged it out, then came hard too, cursing out my name against my neck.
I can’t say how long we stayed there after, lost in the moment, lost in each other, holding on tight as our breathing slowly went back to normal.
“Missed that,” Voss said as he slowly let me back down onto my own feet.
“Me too,” I agreed as we both found our clothes and slipped them back on.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, making me freeze from trying to free my hair from my shirt.
“No. I don’t hear anything,” I said, brows pinched.
“Exactly,” Voss said, rushing past me, already dressed, and making his way out of the RV.
Voss, I had learned many, many times over, was a fucking amazing father.
No, he wasn’t always eloquent. But he always passed on his wisdom.
He taught them about right and wrong, about standing up for what you believe in, standing up to bullies, helping someone when you saw they were in need, about never, ever just turning a blind eye.
And he might have been a hard man, but he had a softness to him too.
It was there when I walked in on him with one of the boys sitting on the bathroom counter, a nasty cut bleeding down his leg, his eyes watering, his lips quivering, but trying to hold it together.
“You can cry,” Voss told him as he rummaged for some bandages and triple antibiotic. “Nothing wrong with that,” he assured him, making my heart melt. “Your mom cries a lot,” he went on, making my eyes go small. “She cries big too. Lots of tears and snot,” he added, making our son giggle.
When Voss’s head lifted to the mirror, he was smirking because he knew I was there.
The asshole.
But, hey, any man who told a boy it was okay to cry was a damn good dad in my book. Even if he had to throw me under the bus to do it.
I slipped my feet back into my flip-flops and rushed out after Voss because, well, he was right. Quiet kids, in our house, were either knocked out kids or kids about to get themselves into some serious trouble.
When we both ran into the house, though, we found all three of them sitting at the kitchen table, making themselves sandwiches.
I mean, there was mustard and mayo everywhere and I was pretty sure the oldest had half a pound of meat and cheese on his one sandwich alone.
But, hey, we needed to use up that lunch meat before we left anyway.
“Hey, look at that,” Voss said, and I didn’t trust his wicked little smirk. “They already cook more than their mama,” he teased, getting a whack across the chest from me before pulling me close and pressing a kiss to my temple.