“Please, please, please,” Bernie moans, her back arching as my fingers slide in and out in that same, slow, perfect pace. She gets fucked enough. Girl needs to just relax into this. I ignore her cries for faster, harder, more, and take my time, loving the fine beads of sweat that cling to her white skin. It’s a cool February evening, but if the sex is good, you always sweat, even just a little.

The couple in the Ford are really going at it now, their voices raised in pleasure, mixing with the crooning nostalgia of the fifties radio station that Connie started for us. When I feel my own climax sneaking up on me, I adjust my hand, removing one of my fingers from Bernie’s pussy and slipping it into her ass.

With a shudder and a soft cry, her inner muscles wrap my fingers, pulsing and throbbing as she comes, spilling more of that sweet juice over my hand as I lick and suck at her clit. My hips pump faster against the seat until I’m coming apart with a desperate, searing relief, like that first hit off a joint, or that first sip of coffee in the morning. My orgasm is like … falling into bed after a long trip or cracking your knuckles or snorting a line of the purest coke. It’s almost as good as falling in love. But not quite.

We stay where we are for a moment, panting and shivering as the cool air brushes across our sweat-soaked skin.

“Jesus, Hael,” Bernie murmurs and I chuckle, sitting up and grabbing my discarded shirt again to clean my hand off. I’ve thoroughly fucked my boxers and honestly, I’m real glad I went with leather for the seats. Have you ever tried to get cum off a fabric seat? Fucking sucks.

I sit up and drag my jeans on with shaking hands, slumping back into the seat as Bernie yanks on her panties and forgoes her pink pants entirely. She curls up against my side as another Connie Francis song starts up.

“This … was not what I expected from you,” she whispers, tucked close to me. I glance back just in time to see a familiar maroon Subaru driving away. Huh. Hadn’t even noticed the VGTF assholes joining us on the Butte. Hope they enjoyed the show.

“In a good way?” I ask, feeling my stomach knot as I wait for her answer.

“In the best way,” Bernie agrees, and I sigh, my head falling back so I can look up and see the stars. “The absolute fucking best.”

And with that, I’m damn near certain that I could die happy.

Bernadette Blackbird

Convincing your five possessive alpha-dick lovers to let you dress up like a whore and raid a gang-owned strip club is one of the hardest things a girl can go through. Frankly, I’m starting to run out of patience here.

“Listen to me,” I start as Aaron leans back in his chair at the admittedly cute vintage table in the kitchen. Fifties era, linoleum top, aluminum legs and banding around the edges. Bound to be a classic someday. I might steal it when we leave. Not sure where I’d put it, but I like it. The look Aaron gives me is one-part irritation and two-parts terror. He knows that once I’ve latched onto something, I’m like a bulldog with a bone. He already knows he’s going to lose.

Vic, on the other hand, could use a memo.

“Listen to you talk about an idea that isn’t happening?” Victor quips, spraying testosterone in the air like a dragon breathing fire. My mouth tightens, and I feel myself getting all southside pissed off at him. “You’re not going into that club. Bernie, did you hear what Callum said? He couldn’t beat Mason Miller. No offense, but if Cal can’t do it then you can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

“Not in a one-on-one fight,” I argue, standing up from my chair so quickly that it falls over, scratching the already ruined wood floors. This place is a dump, even by Prescott standards. But it’s also buried so deeply in our territory that if the GMP were to attack, our people would appear at their own windows, holding sawed-off shotguns and ready to fight. “But I have a plan. I’ve been talking to Vera, gathering information.”

I grab Oscar’s iPad, our fingers brushing as I go to take it from him. Our eyes meet and a bolt of ice slashes through my chest, cooling some of my ire but encouraging a whole different sort of fire between my thighs, one that blazes so hot that a bead of sweat trails down between my breasts.

Flipping the cover open, I pull up the map I drew with his stylus this morning, over coffee and doughnuts with Vera. She’s actually kind of … cool? Like, I can see how she became Stacey’s BFF. She fucks and discards naughty Prescott boys the way Hael used to plow his way through girls. Her mouth is filthy, but she’s sharp as a fucking tack. Loyal, too. Even with Stacey dead and buried, she won’t allow anything to taint her friend’s memory.

“This is a map of Kay’s,” I say, noting that Vera scrawled KKKay’s in the corner. Fuck, I hate white supremacists. Nazis and racists and homophobes and sexists and fascists. Gross. But anything to inspire hate and division, am I right? “And this is Mason’s personal room. According to Vera—and a few of Stacey’s other girls—he uses this room every time he goes to the club. Every. Fucking. Time.”

“And your point is?” Victor asks, his massive body leaned up against the countertop, rippling with ink and bullshit and smelling like amber and musk. Even as I hate him, I crave him. Even as I desire to gouge his face with my on-pointe nails, I want to fuck him. He makes me feel in ways I haven’t since my father died. “Mason will pick a girl and take her to that room, and if he isn’t stopped, he’ll fuck and torture her. He might even kill her. You’re not taking that risk, Bernie. You might be queen, but I’m still king, and I say no.”

“Do you have a plan?” Callum croaks out, rubbing at his throat. The scab on the front is fading away, but he’s still got stitches—proper ones—in his shoulder and arm. It could’ve been a lot worse for him. If he wasn’t smart enough to know when enough is enough, he wouldn’t be here to crouch on top of the table like a spider monkey, hood pushed back, blond hair bright. “Something other than the obvious one of parading you in front of Mason under the guise of a call girl.”

“I do,” I say carefully, looking over at Hael. He nods and holds out a hand, his other arm crossed over his chest.

“I’m willing to at least listen?” he proposes, shrugging his massive shoulders. Swear to fuck, when I think about him with other women, I get stabby. But damn it if I don’t appreciate his skills. He fucks like somebody who earned a Hot Piece of Ass degree from an ivy league university. This guy knows what he’s doing, he’s got the talent and equipment, and he makes his experience work for him.

I shift where I am, feeling my thighs get slick with need. That’s kind of how it is around here, a flurry of sex and violence. It’s just what we do, okay? No need to judge. I know how fucked-up we all are.

“I’ll listen, but I’m not agreeing to anything that puts you in a precarious position,” Aaron adds as I sit down on his lap and he lets out a grunt, palming my hip and letting his fingers get just a tad too close to the fly of my jeans.

“If you’d all shut the fuck up, put your balls back in your boxers for a minute, and let me talk, you’d understand where I’m coming from.” I point at the map again. “It’s a near guarantee that Mason will choose a girl and retire to this room—alone. Stacey’s girls say he doesn’t like to be watched. Mostly, it’s because he’s into some really sick shit that he doesn’t even want his comrades in arms to know about. Everybody in the GMP is afraid of him, apparently. Killing this guy puts us so much closer to dismantling their organization. His fellow gangbangers hate him. He passes judgement too quick and plays judge, jury, and executioner on a regular basis.”