Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (5 page)

For the second time, the heat inside of her crested. Her body tensed, a cry leaving her lips between her ragged breaths. Stella's fingers dug into the back of Bishop's head, pressing him further into her sex. He groaned against her thighs with every pulse that shook her body. After the tremors dissipated, the woman breathed deeply, her muscles like liquid heat. Closing her eyes and relaxing her fingers, Stella laid there, basking in the afterglow.

She didn't get to bask long. The shifting of fabric, the falling of clothes, and the squeak of the bed as Bishop climbed over her hooked her senses. Her eyes fluttered open when his body heat resonated against her skin. His musk wrapped around her tinged with sex and leather.

The biker hovered over the agent, his firm body sweetly reminding her how soft she was compared to him. His hands trailed up and down her sides, his gaze searing hot with passion and erotic need as he caught her gaze. Between her thighs, his erection throbbed hot and solid. An anticipatory thrill slid over her burnt out nerves.

Bishop swooped down, catching her lips in a deep, fervent kiss. He tasted like her, and that made her tummy clench with heat. Stella's eyes fluttered shut again, moaning as their tongues danced.

His hands trailed to her breasts, squeezing and kneading them with rough palms. At the same time, he slammed into her soaking wet pussy. Stella gasped and jerked at the sudden entry, but soon melted back into moans. Her sounds were caught against his mouth.

In the flurry of reignited heat, her body switched to autopilot. Stella's hands found his back, the muscles along his shoulders shifting with every thrust into her as her nails raked over him. A please, guttural growl issued from his lips. Her thighs squeezed against his sides and, breaking the kiss, Bishop shifted her knees over his shoulders.

Stella's arms fell to the bed, fingers digging into the comforter. His cock drove harder, further, faster into her. Her sex throbbed from the heat of friction, her slick inner flesh swollen with erotic delight. The bed squeaked, and the headboard clattered against the wall. Pleasure ringed through her head full of hormones and need. Deep groans resonated through the man's chest and sweat slicked his forehead and down his arms.

Suddenly bereft of his mouth, Stella's moans freely escaped her lips. She didn't notice her own noise. The only thing her mind seemed concerned about was the hot cock inside her, the balls bouncing against her ass, and the man's release. Her pussy clenched and throbbed around his sex, mimicking the concern of her thoughts. She wanted his hot liquid kissing the inside of her; she wanted to feel the most untouched crevices being caressed.

There was no time, though. Biting heat seared inside of her, the pressure mounting. Gasps and screams tore from her mouth, and her fingers dug savagely into the bed beneath her. Desperate for Bishop's release, Stella's brain desperately scrabbled, “Oh, please, come! Please, Art!”

“Fuck,” groaned Bishop, slamming deep into her. His cock twitched, and heat filled Stella. She whimpered and gasped. Her lower stomach clenched hard, knives of pleasure piercing every inch of her body. Painful and pleased, her nerves exploded for the third time that night. Her body rollicked against Bishop's, every slight friction sending wave after wave of molten satisfaction over her nerves. Unable to think and unable to take a deep breath, she felt delightfully broken. Her muscles went slack, her abdomen ached, and her sex throbbed pleasantly around his still-hard member. She felt hot, spent, and very moist.

Bishop grunted, adjusted her legs, and collapsed atop Stella. The woman's hands found his hair, threading her fingers through his dark, sweaty locks. He moaned, tilting his head against her fingers. Soon, the biker's back rose and fell in rhythm to sleep. Soon, Stella's own hand fell slack, her breathing mimicking Bishop's.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, the flush of the toilet roused Stella from her slumber. She jerked up in bed, eyes wide. Someone was in her bathroom. Her gaze flickered over the motel room and pain skittered up her lower stomach. All at once, memories collided into her mind.

A jumble of kissing, groans, a squeaky bed, and heat fluttered through her brain. A blush raced across Stella's face as the bathroom door opened. Wide-eyed, her gaze snapped to a buck-naked Bishop. The man leaned in the door frame of the bathroom, half a grin cocked on his lips. Stella's gaze flicked over his body from the light red scratches on his shoulders then south to his morning wood. Her face burned hotter as residual memories and sensations bled into her body.

“Ready for another round, sweetheart?”

His voice broke the hormonal frenzy stirring in Stella's mind. Her gaze shot to his face, a flush of anger prickling into her blush. His gaze headed south, to her exposed breasts. Stella snatched at her comforter, covering herself from his leering gaze. “Last night never happened.”

“I got scratches to prove otherwise,” chuckled Bishop as he swaggered closer to the bed. He tapped at his temple, his grin growing, “And your screams ringing in my head.”

“Shut up, Bishop,” snapped Stella, gaze averted.

“Aw, no more Art?” He leaned onto the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. The man tilted his head, trying to catch Stella's gaze. “Or is that just bedroom talk?”

“There is no bedroom t
a‒
” A chiming interrupted Stella's snarl. It took her mind a few seconds before she realized what it was: her cellphone. She scrambled off of the bed, the blanket clutched to her chest. The woman snatched her pants off the floor, pulling her cellphone from a pocket. Before flipping the phone open, she shot Bishop a glare and motioned for him to stay quiet. The man simply grinned as he lounged back on the bed with his head propped up on his hands.

Shamefully, Stella found the sight of him draped over her bed with his smug grin enticing. She shook away the leftover hormones and snapped the phone open, “Agent Holmes, here.”

Bishop watched the woman in her enticing blanket wrap pace the floor, grunting short replies to whoever was on the phone. As she strode, he caught glimpses of her luscious body beneath her modest covering. His cock twitched, remembering her damp, hot recesses. Bishop licked his lips, mind meandering over hopeful fantasies. He wanted to feel her cling tightly to him, in every way imaginable.

“Yeah, I'll be there soon.” With that, she snapped her phone shut. Stella pointedly ignored the man on the bed as she gathered a fresh outfit for the day. With every step, her body throbbed, a constant reminder of the activities from last night. When she made her way to the bathroom, she paused in the doorway. She glanced over her shoulder toward the bed, and she found Bishop watching her with intense interest. Stella swallowed, her body reacting to his gaze, “I got to get ready for work.”

His eyes lit up, eyebrow cocked as he asked, “Want me to join you?”

Stella's body screamed “yes.” Her core warmed and tingled at the very thought, and her thighs trembled with eagerness. Despite the momentary hiatus, her propriety and common sense returned with fiery vengeance. Her firm resolve slapped her sore hormones down. “No. Be gone by the time I'm out of the shower.”

Before he could reply or she could rescind her demand, Stella swept into the bathroom.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dull pain throbbed through Stella as she marched into the Grand River police department. Even her morning coffee – picked up at the First Time Diner – couldn't assuage the exhaustion in her limbs. On top of that, a slight taste of disappointment lingered in her mouth. Bishop had listened to her and left while she was in the shower.

He wasn't as anti-authoritarian as she thought. Stella savagely shook the pondering away. No, he listened to her. That was a good thing. If that was true, however, why did an angry pinch snag in her stomach?

Her frustration with herself was short-lived as Stan rounded the front desk. “Where have you
been
?”

“My alarm clock didn't go off,” grumbled Stella, eyes averted from the man. In the back of her mind, she realized the man looked a sight better in his uniform than in casual wear. Again, she shook the unwelcome thought away, irritated at his performance last night.

“Yeah?” Stan eyed her, his tone skeptical and unsure.

“Yes, Stan.” Stella rolled her eyes. She continued her trek into the PD toward her temporary office. Someone had called a tip in, and she was needed to review it as soon as possible. The sooner, the better, considering her company.

The man scuffed along beside her. “I, uh, I heard Bishop took you home.”

Stella stopped in the middle of the corridor. Her fingers clenched tightly at the flimsy cup in her hand as she turned. Pinning the man under a livid glare, she incredulously whispered, “You were
spying
on me?”

“After I stormed off, I realized you'd need a ride home.” The man staggered backward a step, hands raised. The woman's lips pursed, eyebrows lowering in irritation. Despite her lack of reception, Stan continued, “I went back to apologize. You were gone. I asked around.”

Eyes narrowed, Stella surveyed the man for a scant second. He shifted under her gaze, like a submissive wolf being eyed by the alpha. “Well, I'm all right.”

With the discussion brought to an end, Stella continued toward her office. Bruises and tired muscles ached with every step, guiltily reminding her of what had happened with Bishop. She didn't get three steps before Stan spoke up again, “You know getting involved with the president of the Seven Tribesmen is a bad career move, right?”

“I'm not involved with anyone. He took me home; he left. That's it.” As the man padded along behind her, Stella bit back the urge to kick him square in the groin. Instead, she continued to trudge forward, not even deigning the man a glance.

A part of her relented. He was worried, and while that was sweet, it was completely unneeded. Of course, Stan was completely right. If anyone found out she had knocked boots with the head of the Seven Tribesmen, she'd be pulled off the case due to conflict of interest. Not that Stella was interested in Bishop at all. As far as she was concerned, last night was a fling. They were two adults who sated their sexual appetites. There was nothing wrong with that.

“Really?” Stan's voice radiated both hope and skepticism. It made the woman's skin crawl. His concern should have warmed her with a sense of fondness, but Stella's pride retaliated. She paused for the second time in the corridor and eyed her companion with a critical gaze. Around them, the office continued about its business, bubbling with chatter and the scent of coffee.

Before Stella could say a word, a local officer scurried up to her. She reached out a manila folder to the federal agent, “Agent Holmes, the Fairview PD just sent over some photos of 7T members. We also got a bite on the tip line. A recording is in your office.”

“Thank you, officer.” The brunette turned abruptly to the officer, relinquishing the folder from her fingers. The other woman gave a curt nod, before disappearing down the hall. Stella stepped into her office, slamming the door shut as Stan moved to cross the threshold.

CHAPTER NINE

The motorcycle roared through the streets of Grand River. A scowl firmly affixed to Bishop's lips as he squinted against the bright sun. Even with his sunglasses, the light glared into his tired eyes. It wasn't the bright light that agitated the biker, though. His thoughts continuously rounded on Stella Holmes. The way she leered at him, the way she made everything a hassle, and how she refused to listen about the Seven Tribesmen. Bishop's fingers adjusted their grip on the handlebars as he swallowed a growl.

Never before had a woman irritated him so thoroughly while retaining his sexual interest.

He'd have time to worry about that later, though. His hog glided into the parking lot of his repair garage. Already, three of their appointments were parked in queue, and the buzz of power tools screamed out from the garage. He tried to erase all thoughts of Stella from his mind as he parked his chopper.

As he swaggered to the garage office, however, one of his brothers leaned in the doorway, a smirk on his lips. Bishop bit back a groan as he crossed the distance to Coyote.

He stalked passed the green-eyed vice-president, not deigning the man with a glance. As Bishop strode into the office, Coyote languidly followed him. The president attempted to brush aside his irritation. Coyote would be able to taste it in the air around him. He focused on the buzz of the lights, the chink of metal, the scent of oil. Anything, but the smirking bastard who couldn't wait to poke at newest Bishop's sexual experience. It wouldn't do well to let Coyote see him so bothered.

Bishop advanced to the desk, snatching up some grease-stained papers. Trying to maintain nonchalant, Bishop eyeballed the orders for the day. He mentally double checked the projections for all repairs as he gleaned over the papers. All the names were familiar and nothing out of question had rolled into Bishop's Auto.

Outside the office, metal clanked and hydraulics screamed. His VP eyed him with intense interest. Bishop couldn't blame him. His reactions were as foreign to him as they were to Coyote. The biker president had no clue what had gotten under his skin.

Bishop couldn't put off interaction all day. He didn't even glance at Coyote as he asked with a forced conversational tone, “Did Howler and Crow come back from Fairview, yet?”

“Yeah, they're snoozing in the spare room since you were balls' deep in some fed's muff,” Coyote chuckled as he nodded toward the ceiling. Somewhere on the second floor, the two men slumbered. “Didn't know when you'd come up for air.”

Bishop shot Coyote a heated glare. He didn't need constant reminders of his night with Stella. Especially after the cold reception and boot he'd been given that morning.

“Hey, don't look at me like that,” the man laughed. He approached the desk, leaning heavily against the flat surface, “You stink of pussy, boss.”

Bishop eyed his vice president with a deepening frown. He didn't know where the guarded feelings were coming from. Perhaps it had to do with Stella's own reputation both in career and personal matters that egged his concern. She was a big girl, though. After all, she had agreed quite willingly to last night’s activities. “What makes you think it was Holmes?”

“Her shapely ass was in your bitch seat last night.” The man grinned, unperturbed. He was one of the few people undisturbed by Bishop's mean face. Coyote's resolve was equal parts a relief and a menace to the president.

“Doesn't mean shit,” grunted Bishop. His bitterness flickered, reliving how the woman had all but kicked him out of her room. The bittersweet feeling was fairly uncharacteristic given he banged a fed last night. His hopes of a morning ride were still sourly burning. Judging by the leer on Coyote's face, it would be extremely difficult to convince anyone of a lie. Bishop threw down the orders for the day back on the desk. “So, what have we learned?”

“Howler and Crow made it to Tank's strip joint. Tank's gals do some stripping, some escorting, and some hooking.” Coyote's grin melted, sudden seriousness seeping into his expression. He leaned back against the blinds which covered windows that peered out into the garage. He opened some flimsy slats and peered out of them, “'Parently, the Sugar Skulls got a taste for white meat, because this curvy firecrotch is their VP's fave.”

“Yeah?” Bishop seated himself at the desk, running a hand through his hair. Multiple gangs, drug cartel, international drug smuggling. This was getting big. The man was beginning to wonder if he could keep Grand River out of the clusterfuck of lawlessness. Masking his mounting worries, Bishop asked, “What'd she say?”

“Says the Shugs get their crack from a drug cartel in some South American shithole.” Taking Bishop's lead, Coyote moved away from the blinds and sat down in one of the spare chairs. He fiddled with a pen as he continued to relay the fresh intel, “Then it gets transported up north via literal sugar deliveries.”

“
Literal
sugar deliveries?”

“Yeah, like, you better make sure your mama's borrowed cup of sugar from the neighbor ain't actually crack.”

“Huh,” Bishop settled back in his chair, eyebrows furrowing. A particularly loud shriek from a power tool caught his attention for a split second. As it died away, he turned back to Coyote. “How'd the Skulls get into this?”

“They're all Mexicans. My guess is networking.” The green-eyed man shrugged noncommittally. It didn't matter how they got into it. The fact was that the Sugar Skulls were fringing on Seven Tribesmen territory. If they didn't do anything, their turf would be threatened. “The Shugs have a gunrunning business, so the hot theory is they pay for the snort with A.K.s or some shit.”

“Makes sense.” Bishop inclined his head, the sounds of the garage were beginning to rise in decibel. “We got proof?”

“Other than Miss Firecrotch, no.”

Bishop leaned back, his thoughts lolling. As soon as this information was made public, the lady would have a target on her back. Especially if the Sugar Skull's vice-president has some ties or claimed alcohol as his vice. Then again, he'd probably get gutted for putting his MC in danger. Light drinkers and loose lips never mixed well with outlaw gangs. Even without evidence, the fact she was willing to talk could be problematic. “Think she'll be safe in Fairview?”

“Why do you think Howler and Crow are still snoozing?” Coyote's grin took on a lurid light. Bishop chuckled and shook his head. Howler and Crow were far from possessive, but the woman had to be quite a sight for the two to share with each other. At least his men had the foresight to bring her back with them. Bishop's amusement was short lived as Coyote added, “You weren't the only one hitting it last night, boss.”

His irritation flared back to life suddenly and painfully. It sunk into every synapse of his brain, making every thought poisoned with annoyance. Bishop stood and leaned over the desk. His hand shot out, nerves hot with anger, and grabbed his vice president by the collar of his shirt. Coyote's eyes bugged, and he jerked backward, but his strength was nothing compared to Bishop’s. Half hauling the lanky man over the desk, Bishop narrowed his eyes and lowered his head. Locking his grey gaze with Coyote's bewildered eyes, the president snarled, “Coyote, drop it or I'll skin you.”

Shrieking sirens punctured the heavy tension in the room. Bishop instantly dropped his vice president and rushed to the exit. Just as he flung the door open, two cop cars skidded into the garage's parking lot. Red and blue lights flashed over the garage, the sirens keening through the air.

Officers scrambled out of the cars, hands on their holsters. Another car rolled up behind them. Bishop knew who it would be before the woman climbed out. Over the megaphone, Agent Stella Holmes announced, with crisp professionalism, “Richard Holloway and Nathaniel Williams, come out with your hands up!”

Instant tension weighed on the garage as dark annoyance skittered through all the employees. Not everyone wore a kutte, but everyone employed by the garage was a friend of the Seven Tribesmen. Grand River was wrought with families who needed a little monetary help from the 7T or individuals who needed to feel safe in a world of bullies. The Seven Tribesmen were there for them, and, likewise, most of the citizens had the club's back.

Overhead, two pairs of feet tromped about the room, and two voices snarled curse words under their breath. Bishop immediately stormed out of the office, brows lowered and fists clenched. He set his shoulders as he advanced on Agent Holmes, ignoring the cocking of guns as he approached her.

“What's this about, Miss Holmes?” Then Bishop's eyes caught sight of the officers poking around the choppers. Instant rage flared through his thoughts, his muscles flexing as he barely sucked down the urge to charge at them. Turning to Agent Holmes, he jabbed a finger toward the snooping officers and snarled venomously, “And what the
hell
are they doing?”

“Mr. Bishop, we have reason to believe two of your associates are involved in bringing illegal substances across state lines.” The woman didn't flinch under his obscenities or intense glare. Though, internally, her mind teased memories from last night to the forefront of her thoughts. Her very skin crawled with excitement to see him again. Stella squashed those feelings down as she whipped out a piece of paper from her clipboard. “We have been given a warrant to search the premises, including your motorcycles.”

Bishop snatched the paper from her hands, glaring at the official letter head and professional wording. His thoughts scrambled to make sense of the situation. Howler and Crow were being fingered for transporting snort. The cops got a search warrant to nose about the premises. Bishop knew his business housed nothing illegal, but the officers needed a damn good reason to poke around Howler and Crow. Bishop had the utmost confidence that his men wouldn't introduce drugs into their community, though.

Stella watched as his eyes skimmed over the paper. A cold guilt pinched at her insides. This was the break she wanted, the lead that could break the case wide open. However, the woman was beginning to think the Seven Tribesmen were innocent. There had been nothing until the tip line call to tie the Seven Tribesmen to the cocaine ring.

Maybe she
was
compromised. Maybe she was shoving justice aside for the sake of a rather enjoyable lay. The agent shook the thought from her head.

The man lowered the paper, a thin smile stretched over his lips. “Well, if you want to waste time and energ
y‒
”

“Agent Holmes, ma'am, we got something!”

Stella strode over to the men while Bishop turned slowly to the hogs. Two of the officers held tightly to drug-sniffing hounds who seemed to be going crazy over two bikes. More specifically, they were going crazy over Howler's hog and Crow's chopper. A lump coalesced in Bishop's throat, and a sickness clenched in his stomach. Officers started to snatch bags off the cycles, going through every pocket and overturning the contents onto the ground. His blood ran cold when he saw vials filled with white powder clatter from two bedrolls.

“Let go of me!” Howler's enraged snarl echoed through the air, drowning out the excited yips of the canine unit. Bishop spun around, catching sight of his two men being escorted by the elbows by four officers. The coppers wasted no time when it came to invading the second floor of the garage's office. Howler struggled against the vice-like grips, spitting and howling, “I didn't do anything!”

Crow, far less excitable than his companion, turned dark brown eyes to Bishop. Across the distance, the man furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “Boss, what's going on?”

Bishop's mouth ran dry. He didn't have an answer for his brother bikers. It didn't matter. Seconds later, the men were shoved into the back of a cruiser. Bishop's fingers clenched and unclenched. The edges of his sight tinged red as rage and anger flurried beneath his thoughts.

“Fucking Stella didn't end in your favor, Bishop,” a vaguely familiar voice growled from behind Bishop.

The biker turned around, rage splitting through his thoughts. Anger at what happened to his men, rage at the planted crack, frustration over Stella, and agitation that she had shared their nighttime details with her partner. It was a volatile cocktail and this man – the man Stella had gone on her lackluster date with – had lit Bishop's thoughts on fire. The biker's fist came flying across Stan's jaw, knuckles connecting with a loud crack. With a grunt of pain, the man crumpled to the concrete, groaning and holding his jaw.