Page 58 of Bram

He nodded.

“I’m not your fucking prize.”

“I know that, Julie.”

“You can’t fix me.”

He stared at me, eyes steady. “I wouldn’t even try.”

The air in the room changed. My heart thudded against my ribs, but it wasn’t fear or shame or anger. It was just alive.

Honestly, I wanted him to rebuke everything I’d just said.

I reached for my pen and clicked it, then set it down again, flat on the desk. I pressed my palms to the blotter so hard the file folders shifted. The case file for the Scorpions was on top, the tab labeled in my own handwriting. I let my hands rest on either side of it, then looked up.

“Yes,” I said.

He didn’t move.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it.”

He nodded, the way a man takes an order in battle and knows there’s nothing left to say.

He started to turn, but I said, “Bram.”

He stopped.

“I do want to try. With you. But you have to let me come to you sometimes. You have to let me do it my way.”

He smiled, this time all the way. “I can do that.”

I moved around the desk and leaned ass first against the front edge, my skirt rising several inches above my knee. Bram noticed.

“You knew I’d be down here,” he said, and I nodded. He took a step forward.

“You knew this would be hard for me to do, to say those things,” he said, and I nodded. He took two more steps.

“You knew I would placate you with standard answers to your demands,” he said, and I nodded. He leaned forward and pulled my skirt to my waist, seeing I’d come to work with no panties on. He sat me on the desk and spread my legs with his.

“You knew there was no fucking way I’d leave your office without fucking you on your own desk,” he said, and I nodded. He slid the middle two fingers between my legs, and spread my cunt, painful at first, but pleasing once I caught my breath.

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, and I nodded, his fingers fucking me raw.

Orgasms aren’t always created with the greatest of touches. Sometimes it’s the setting, the atmosphere, the naughtiness of the moment. Here we were, the DA on her desk, legs spread, finger-fucked by an outlaw biker like there would be no tomorrow. He went faster, rougher, and I grabbed his shoulders as I came, biting into his leather kutte, killing the sounds of my moan so prying ears couldn’t hear.

Bram stepped back, removed his hand from my cunt, and kissed me, mouths open and hungry. When he pulled away, he slipped his creamy fingers into my mouth.

“Next time, I’m eating that pussy.”

All I could manage to do was nod, hoping there would always be a next time.

twenty-three

Bram

Three months out from the Scorpions massacre, and I was at the head of the big oak table in the Barstow compound’s so-called “executive office,” or church, which was a windowless back room the size of a double garage, if you counted all the storage crammed against the far wall. The table had been with the club since I created the founding chapter in Barstow. There was a scorch line down the near edge from a bottle rocket that went off at a Christmas party, and the surface was ruined with cigarette burns, gouges, and enough coffee rings to chart the history of every meeting the Jackson Brothers ever had.