Page 25 of Desert Loyalties

SKYE

Waiting for Drake is torture. It’s not like the movies, that much was made painfully clear. I couldn’t even throw my arms around him, let alone to cheer when he got bail. Watching the love of my life shuffled around in chains made me want to commit murder all over again.

God, it’s only been a month with Drake, and here I am joking about the thing that haunted me for years. That’s why I need him back. He takes the weight of my guilt, and I make him human. We’re perfect. Or at least, perfect adjacent.

Since he’s got GPS monitoring as part of his release, I’m waiting at the house for him to get here. He’s going to be strapped with that ankle monitor, obviously. No clubhouse living for now.

Christina, who I love by the way, she’s sharp as hell and has the glossiest hair like seriously, how?

Anyway, she told us the feds will be looking for any excuse to revoke bail.

No brothers allowed here, no club visits.

She even had us remove the Wi-Fi. But no one said anything about me hosting Ladies’ Light, so I figure Drake won’t be too bored.

Hell, he might become the unexpected babysitter.

Serves him right for being pissed I wanted to wait.

Honestly, I’m kinda glad we did. I want him here for every milestone, every moment of my pregnancy, every inch of his child’s life.

Goddamnit, Ranger posted bail immediately after court. Guess earnings from the strip club aren’t exactly illegal. Whatever keeps Drake free.

A car finally pulls into the driveway. Dark windows hiding what I want to see.

The doors open, and two cops step out from front.

They head straight to the back door, opening it for my old man, Drake.

His hands are cuffed, but thankfully no leg chains this time.

They walk him inside, and I’m close behind.

One of them steps away to check the house, for members of the Horsemen?

Who knows. The other stays with me, explaining what we need to know.

He tells us, “The ankle monitor is GPS-enabled, tracks his movements 24/7. Any attempt to tamper with it or leave the approved zone triggers an alert to our office immediately. He has to check in weekly and comply with all court-ordered restrictions, no contact with known felons, no internet usage, no ignoring us when we check-in, which we will, often.” The deputy’s voice is firm but professional.

“This is not a get out of jail card. If he breaks any of these conditions, the court can revoke his release and bring him back into custody.”

They take their time, making sure everything’s tight and secure, attaching the monitor, going over the rules again, scanning the house for any issues. It feels like hours before they leave.

And then, finally, I’m alone with Drake.

We just stand there, motionless, eyes locked as the car pulls away slowly from the driveway.

He turns to the panel by the door, locking the door and then the gate, making damn sure no one can come in and take him away again.

I watch his arms flex as his chest rises and falls, steady and strong.

It lights a flame inside me I thought would be extinguished forever.

Stepping forward, Drake raises one arm, hesitant, like he’s afraid if he touches me, I’ll vanish.

I close the distance, pressing my face against his open hand. He cups my cheek gently. I close my eyes. For a moment, we breathe each other in.

The trial still looms. He could go to jail.

Maybe even face life in prison. But I hold onto hope.

If it comes to that, if he’s found guilty, I’ll take a page out of that woman’s book, the one who learned to fly a helicopter just to bust her man out of prison.

I’ll take Drake, and we’ll run hard and fast, far away from here. Jail isn’t happening on my watch.

He must see the feral look in my eyes, the claim, the fight because he says, “No one is taking me away.”

Picking me up, he carries me to the master bedroom.

It’s changed since the first time Drake brought me here.

The dark, almost vampire-black sheets have been replaced with something softer, a little brighter.

Not pink or frilly, just more human. The blackout curtains remain, a necessity when you’re trying to sleep through the desert sun.

Without a word, he heads straight to the bathroom, turns on the shower, and pulls me inside.

The water is cold.

Usually, I’m all about hot showers, even in the summer Nevada desert. They’re good for my hair, don’t ask me how. But I don’t mind the cold this time because his body is warm against mine.

He presses me hard against the shower wall. Clothes soaked through, bodies slick and dripping.

“Wait,” I say pushing him out by his chest, “the ankle monitor.”

“The marshal told me it’s water-resistant, I can take a shower but can’t go swimming.

” I’m actually sad about that, I thought with us stuck at the house, we’d swim the day away.

Still Drake pulls back and peels off his clothes carefully.

I do the same, stepping out of my wet clothes without slipping.

Once we’re both naked, bare skin meeting bare skin, the water pours down over us again.

We don’t do anything but wash each other. It feels like he’s scrubbing himself clean, washing off the weight of that place.

Slowly, I reach out, my hands gently grasping his wrists to still his frantic scrubbing before he rubs his skin raw.

I gently wash and kiss and caress every inch, my fingertips tracing every scar, every tattoo, each story etched into his skin like a braille of his past. The warm water sluices over his shoulders, down the valley of his spine, as I explore him with tender curiosity.

I descend to my knees in the pouring water, my hands gliding tenderly over his thighs, my lips pressing soft, silent promises against his flesh. I can feel his heartbeat pulsing through his skin, a steady, insistent rhythm that echoes in my own chest.

I take him into my mouth, the contrast between the cold water and my warm mouth making his head fall back against the tile with a soft thud.

Drake's cock tastes clean, like soap, but not enough to overpower the taste of him, salty and male.

With one hand gripping his thigh, I bob my head a few times, my tongue swirling around his shaft.

Then, grabbing the sensitive skin between his balls, I tug gently, causing him to hiss and take control.

He stays rooted to the spot, back plastered to the wall, and begins to move his hips, fucking my face with the same rhythm he uses when he's inside me. He grips my head, fingers tangling in my wet hair, pulling me down as far as I can go. A low murmur escapes his lips, "I dreamt of this. Didn’t know if I’d ever have it again. "

I take my mouth off him, looking up into his dark eyes as I catch my breath.

My hands replace my mouth, jerking him off with firm, steady strokes.

His body begins to shake, grunts falling from his lips as I increase the pressure, the speed.

He comes in long, hot sprays right on my face.

I look up at him, my face covered in his release.

"How about this? Do I live up to the dream?

" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, right before extending my tongue and slowly licking some of his cum off my lips.

I’m about to screw him senseless.