Page 39 of Property of Shotgun

I stumble backwards, my cock still pulsing in my hand as I take in the show. Then, when she’s done, she stands and winds her arms around my neck, pulling my mouth down to hers.

My free hand winds around her back, and I grab her ass, drawing her even closer, as my tongue invades her mouth. We kiss and we kiss until I finally let go of my dick, and bring both my hands to her face. I pull away slowly, touching my forehead to hers.

“You good?”

“Yeah, Shotgun, I’m good.”

I nod. “Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

I drop my hands from her cheeks, and pull up my pants, tucking my spent cock into them. Jade grabs her pajamas from the ground but makes no move to put them back on as she struts toward the sliders.

Her head held high.

Shoulders straight.

Radiating confidence.

Seeing her like that makes breaking code worth it.

So fucking worth it.

TWELVE

JADE

My decision tomove on with my life didn’t come to me over the bottle of wine I shared with Bella. It wasn’t some grand epiphany I had while she shared her dating stories with me. It’s been weighing on me for a while, but tonight when she asked me if I could ever see myself dating again, I let myself think deeply about what that might entail. And all the concerns I voiced to Shotgun tonight, did cross my mind but not in the way I expressed them.

I didn’t want to throw myself into the dating pool. Not because the idea of stepping into a bar or creating an online dating profile scared the shit out of me. I didn’t want to ride on the back of just anyone’s bike, and I didn’t want to take my clothes off or give my body to just anyone. My body was different. The parts that were once firm and tight, were now soft and there were scars from growing and delivering my babies. Men didn’t appreciate imperfections they didn’t create.

It was true when I said, starting over was terrifying, but the only man I could ever see myself taking that step with was the one already living in my house, helping me raise my children for over a year. Treating them and loving them like they were his. Supporting us in ways no other man would.

However, me moving on with another King, especially the man whom Irish truly considered a brother before he ever took any oath, would never be accepted by the club. I put Shotgun in a terrible situation, and the sad thing is, I don’t feel bad about it.

I just don’t know where we go from here.

Stepping out of the shower, I reach for my robe, but I don’t rush to put it on. Instead, I wipe the steam from the mirror, and stare at my body. I lost myself after Irish died and Killian was born. That first year, I didn’t care about what I looked like. You hear about women ‘losing their pink’—well, that’s just a hip way of saying, she’s let herself go. She’s given up on her femineity. It happens, but she gets its back.

It can start with a trip to the salon, where you get the works—mani, pedi, a blowout, and a Brazilian. Then the next day, before you put the same ratty sweats on, you grab an old pair of jeans instead. Soon you’re throwing out the dry shampoo and shaving your legs every day. You hide the stretch marks, and you buy a push up bra to help the girls.

I had started to do all those things, and admittedly they were working, but it wasn’t until I took my clothes off and bared my body to Shotgun that I truly felt my femineity return. The way he looked at me, the noises he made when he kissed me, and the way his cock hardened when he touched me—I never felt sexier aside from the time I caught him watching me fuck Irish.

Now, as I stare at myself, my eyes don’t immediately dart to the flaws, they move to his marks. The bites he left on my thighs and the rash his beard left on my tits. And the only word that comes to mind isbeautiful.

I slide my arms through the sleeves of the robe before loosely tying a knot around my waist, then I walk into my bedroom, and stare at my bed. The sheets have been washed a million times, and there are no traces of Irish, but it still feels wrong to slip into the bed I shared with him after being intimate with Shotgun.

I don’t owe Irish anything. I gave him my heart, and we produced three beautiful children together. There’s a part of me that will always love him.

But that’s where it ends now.

Walking to the nightstand, I disconnect my phone from the charger and quietly creep out of my bedroom. In the morning, I will call the Salvation Army and donate the bed. Later, I’ll go through Irish’s things. There are some belongings of his I’m sure the boys will want some day, but his greatest possessions—his bike and his kutte—the club is safe keeping.

I make my way down the stairs and sprawl out on the couch. Instead of closing my eyes, though, I text Shotgun.

Me: Are you awake?

He replies instantly.

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