Page 48 of The Lies We Tell

He speeds up. Faster and faster.

“You gonna come again?” he asks.

As much as I love this, I know I’m not. “I want to feel you come in me.”

This spurs him on. I imagine what it must look like, his cock sliding out of me. How turned on he feels.

Turning my head, I see his side-profile in the shower door. I see the tensed muscles in his thigh and butt. He’s watching where we’re joined, his mouth open, his brow furrowed.

I feel it the moment he comes. He slams his palms down on my ass, his fingers digging deep into my skin, as his thrusts stay deep. “Briar, fuck. Yeah, milk me.”

And I squeeze around him, smiling as he groans some more.

He cups my chin and pulls me as close to standing as we can get in this position.

“You want me?” he says. “You’ve got me.”

18

SAINT

“It’s a risk, me being here,” I say, as Weicker sits down across from me in one of the New York offices of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Group II is responsible for firearms trafficking and violent crime.

When I was heading to the office, I circled back on myself three times before I was confident I wasn’t being followed. Still had me peering over my shoulder as I pulled into the lot.

Weicker nods. “I understand. But we needed to get together. You haven’t been checking in like you were supposed to.”

I turn the cup in front of me slowly. At the coffee shop, they asked my name for the order. I said Saint without thinking, and they wrote it on the cup. Out of context, in this nondescript government office, the name looks out of place.

Davis walks in a moment later. “Miller,” he says curtly.

They’re both dressed in suits. Weicker removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Davis nudges the gold-rimmed glasses back up his face, rubs a hand across the sweat on his forehead, and pulls out a chair.

I glance down at my dusty boots and my jeans, soft as butter. They suit me better than the jacket and pants I wore when I wasn’t undercover. I’m underdressed compared to the two of them, but I’ve never felt more in my own skin.

I’m missing my cut. The last thing I need is for someone to identify an Iron Outlaw walking into a federal office. I’d be dead in a heartbeat.

Davis clears his throat. It’s noisy. Phlegm. I feel sick at the sound of it. “When we picked you for this op, I said to Weicker we needed an agent with more balls than good sense. In many ways, he did good, but we’re worried you’re losing sight of the objective.”

I’m ready for the first volley and don’t let it rattle me. “You’re going to have to expand on that. What’s making you think I lost sight of the objective?”

Davis’s eyes widen. There was nosiron the end. Noplease. I don’t owe these guys any kind of hierarchical titles. We’re all just men. In the club, respect is earned, not demanded. “Your attitude for a start,” he says.

I rub my hands over my face. “When you asked me to do this two years ago, I worked my ass off to build a believable background. I’ve put myself in harm’s way every day since. Forgive me if the stress of that gets to me when I get called into a well-known federal building while still undercover.”

Davis leans back in his chair. “You know the deal here. It’s not what you personally know. It’s what we can actually prove. If your word were enough, we could have pulled you out of the OMG a year ago.”

I shake my head. I know he couldn’t.

The look on his face confirms it.

And I rankle at the acronym. Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. As the ATF would call them, a highly structured criminal organization.

“Anyway, tell me what’s happening. Let’s start at the top. Uther ‘King’ Hills. How is he settling in as replacement president?” Davis holds up an image of King.

“I know what they all look like,” I say, and he puts it down quickly.

“King was born for the job,” I say. “His father was quick to explode. King has historically been more thoughtful, but his patience is being tested. He’s been the brains behind many of the club’s expansion efforts. Like the strip club, etc.”