To make things worse, I sort of liked her as a person, too.
Hoover made a sudden choking noise, and I realized I’d trapped her head, cutting off her air. I let her go and she jerked back, looking up at me in confusion as she panted, mouth red and wet. I patted her head, reassuring her.
Like a dog. Christ.
What the hell was Bolt thinking, sending London here? I sucked in a deep breath, because the woman—who was staring at me across my office as if I was an ax murderer—looked like she was about to turn and run for the hills.
I wanted to chase her when she did it … run her down, rip off her jeans, and shove deep inside while she screamed at me. Yeah, nothin’ wrong with that scenario.
Six months I’d jerked off picturing her boobs, but I’d done the right thing and left her alone. Not my fault she walked into my damned office and not my responsibility to save her now that she’d come here. Clarity washed through me again and I decided there was only one way to end this.
I offered her a predatory smile and raised a hand, waving her toward the couch.
Happy birthday to me.
I’d never considered myself a prude.
I was wrong. I was definitely a prude, because I had nowhere in my head to put what I saw when I walked through that door. I don’t know why it was so shocking. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen people going at it publicly in the other room, and of course a private office like this would be perfect for a quick blow job … But when Reese Hayes yelled that he was busy, I’d expected him to be busy with some sort of nefarious, biker gang–related activity.
You know, laundering money or something.
Then he smiled at me, the kind of smile a shark gives a castaway right before it rips her leg off. He raised his hand, beckoning me toward the couch.
I stared at him (oh my God he’s got a woman’s head in his lap!) feeling something like panic, and opened my mouth to say I could come back later. Then it hit me—no, I couldn’t come back later. I needed to find Jess and I needed to find her right now before she started wreaking havoc. And as much as I wanted to judge the club members for leading her astray, I knew darned well she could find trouble all on her own. If anything, taking her out of here would be an act of mercy.
They had no idea what kind of destruction she was capable of.
You can do this.
“Hello, Mr. Hayes,” I said briskly, deciding a businesslike tone was the best way to set myself apart from his other … friend. Nope. I was a woman with a purpose and I didn’t have time for fooling around.
Still, it took everything I had not to look at his lap, see if I could catch a glimpse of his endowments. This would be so much easier if I hadn’t spent at least two or three sessions with my vibrator picturing a scenario just like this one, but with me playing the staring role. Pull it together, Armstrong.
“I’m London Armstrong and I run the cleaning service that works for your club.”
I stepped into the office but didn’t go so far as to walk over and offer my hand for him to shake.
There’s only so much a woman can handle at once.
Hayes gave me the same look he always gave me. Calculating. Hungry with just a hint of speculation as his eyes swept down my body. He lingered a bit on my breasts, but didn’t make a show of it. Nope. He was all business, except for the uncomfortable fact that a woman was actively giving him a blow job. I swallowed, feeling my cheeks flush.
His eyes flickered back up to mine.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. Sexy. I shivered, because I could think of all kinds of things I’d like him to do for me. Maybe even to me, although I hated to admit it. It’d been a long six years, and I hadn’t slept with Nate yet … We’d been dating for nearly two months, but between our schedules we didn’t get to see each other all that often. Hell of a dry spell.
I forced myself to consider Hayes’s question seriously, despite the squelching, squishy noises coming from his lap. How did that woman keep sucking on him like that, oblivious to what was going on? It was very distracting.
“You needed something, sweetheart?” Hayes asked again, taking a swig of his beer. “If you’re here to join in, fine, but otherwise come sit down and tell me what you want.”
My cheeks radiated heat and I knew I was lost. I’d done so well staying matter-of-fact up to this point, but there are limits. Just get it over with! Then you can go home and have a very large glass of wine.
I’d need a bucket to hold all the wine I’d be drinking tonight, I decided.
“I’m looking for my cousin’s daughter. She lives with me.”
“Have a seat,” he told me again. Gage gave a laughing snort behind me, shutting the door on us. I glanced down at the couch, an old plaid monstrosity that had to be twenty years old. With my luck, I’d catch a disease from it.
“I can stand.”
His voice snapped, and I felt myself tremble. Reese Hayes was a scary man. He’d been playing nice so far, but I was all too aware of the rumors surrounding him. Nate was a sheriff’s deputy, and he was full of stories about the Reapers, particularly their president. I’d blown him off, because the MC were good clients and I figured he was just prejudiced against them. No criminal gang could just exist in the middle of the community so openly, could it? Looking at Hayes now, I realized those stories might have been true after all.
His eyes were like cold chips of blue ice, and the hint of gray at his temples and in the scruff covering his chin gave him an air of authority that I wanted to obey almost instinctively. His arms were thick, banded with heavy muscles, and his thighs … I glanced away quickly, because those thick thighs of his framed the half-naked woman sucking his penis perfectly. Like I’d walked into a particularly high-definition porn shoot.
I wanted to die.
Under the best of circumstances this man made me uncomfortable, and I’d done my best to avoid him. So far I’d done a pretty good job, too—wasn’t like he hung around Pawns in the evenings when my crew came in. Well, sometimes he did, but he stayed back in the office.
Maybe that was where he did his money laundering?
Feeling just a smidge hysterical, I wondered exactly how one would go about washing money. I flashed briefly on a vision of Hayes working an old-fashioned, crank-handled washing machine while a group of aproned bikers carefully hung hundred-dollar bills on clotheslines in a sunny meadow.