Page 49 of Kneeling to Candy

“We should shower. If we’re not sore, we can try something a little less strenuous in bed. Okay?” she suggests sweetly, but with a firm tone, leaving no room for negotiation. “I think you could benefit from some after-care. A little back rub to release your tight muscles. How does that sound?”

After-care is nice, but all my dick registers is my woman offering sex in bed. “Sounds amazing.”

Ignoring the protest in my muscles, I pull my wet dick free from within her tight heat and place her back on her feet. We dress quickly, fumbling back into our clothes, and take a quick scan of the room. The closet is perfumed from the scent of our sex—not able to do anything about that. The mess we made on the floor, I wipe clean with a bandana from my back pocket. All our clothes are getting thrown in the hamper anyway. A soiled bandana in my pocket is only temporary.

We switch off the light and exit into the hall, only to come to a screeching halt.

At the end of the hallway near the great room, a crowd has gathered. Several of my brothers stand in shock, looking at us like we’re some weird science experiment.

Had my brain been functioning instead of my dick, I would’ve recalled the storage closet wasn’t soundproof, like the rest of the rooms in headquarters. Why would it be? It’s a closet. Jo probably never envisioned the need to soundproof a four-by-six space used for housing cleaning supplies.

Everyone on the main level surely heard us going to town. I don’t give a fuck-all what anyone thinks of me. But Candy has worked on changing her image within the club, and I don’t want her feeling bad about what we did because of some nosey nellies.

Although my beautiful woman is accustomed to being gawked at, I’m not, nor do I appreciate the attention on Candy. I don’t like the way the others are eyeing her with my come still running down her leg. I don’t like it one bit. She’s not theirs to enjoy anymore.

Guess I’m as big of a territorial caveman as the other claimed bikers in the club.

To censor the crowd’s view, I shield her body with mine, turning her away from the mob of bikers. No more will anyone see what’s mine.

My heart thumps proudly in my chest at the thought. She’s mine.

With my hand on the small of her back, I guide her toward the back stairwell. Before we reach the steps, the catcalls begin.

I roll my eyes. Love my family, but they can be major dickheads.

“About fucking time,” Ziggy shouts from the back of the group. “I was afraid you’d never grow the balls to follow through.”

I’m about to tell him to suck a clit—I can’t exactly tell him to suck a dick when I know he enjoys it too much. But Candy beats me to it.

“Oh, he has them alright. And his are the biggest pair I’ve seen. Y’all must be jealouuus.”

All my brothers gasp. It’s rare when someone cuts them down to size—figuratively. Leave it to Candy to find their universal weakness and exploit it publicly.

Muffling my laugh into her mussed pink hair, I whisper near her ear, “You’re wicked.”

Her lips curl into a devilish grin. “I said nothing that wasn’t true.”

Fuck my unconditioned heartstrings. This woman knows how to inflate my ego. I’d take her against the stair treads if we didn’t have an audience at our backs.

Candy and I quickly escape up the back staircase to our room, chuckling to ourselves as the guys defend the size of their junk to each other.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BUTCH

As much as I was looking forward to round two last night with Candy, it wasn’t in the cards. After a hot shower with my goddess, followed by the best back rub I’ve received in my life, I passed out on the bed with my favorite pink-haired woman falling asleep pressed tight against my back. Between the lack of sleep the night before, traveling all day, and the stress of uncertainty of our relationship, we needed some solid rest.

My morning wood was shit out of luck—again—when Atlas called a sunrise meeting. It was the only time Piero Bianchi would meet on short notice. It seems a mobster’s life doesn’t offer much flexibility in schedule.

Unfortunately for me, my full attention is necessary for this meeting, and I regret not grabbing coffee from the kitchen before joining the gathering.

The tension in the main conference room at headquarters is a full-blown ten, probably because Piero sits across from Atlas with a glare that could stop an elderly person’s heart on the spot.

The young mafia don is nearly a carbon copy of his deceased cousin, only younger—black slicked back hair, dark, soulless eyes, a long, lean frame accentuating his southern Italian ethnicity. Most women would swoon over his notably good looks. All I see is a menace in a ridiculously expensive designer suit.

Piero steeples his fingers in front of him, eyeing Prez like he wants to pummel him. “Excuse me for asking for clarification. There’s no way I heard you correctly. It sounded like you were accusing me of abducting young women and selling them into sexual slavery.”

Atlas stares unflinchingly back at the mobster, his face unreadable. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. Only asking if you were trafficking women.”

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