Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (7 page)

Her realization shattered from distraction as the hiss of a zipper caught her ears. Within seconds, something thick and fleshy and hot pressed against her lower lips. Stella swallowed a delighted sigh as Bishop positioned his cock at her entrance.

The man marveled at how wet the woman already was, but he wasted no time on teasing. They were in her office, in the middle of the police department. This would have to be quick and, as much as they could manage, silent.

His cock plunged into her wet, hot core. Stella quivered, back arching and moan muffed against her palm. The man's thickness and heat teased at pleasure-swollen nerves and sent enjoyable, biting heat through her blood. Bishop swallowed his own moans as every one of Stella's movements intensified his own pleasure. The thought of sneakily fucking the woman, underneath the noses of her co-workers, brought a lick of added pleasure to his throat.

Bishop pumped in and out, fast and hard. Stella moved against his rhythm, driving him deeper into her. She whimpered and moaned under her palm, her free hand digging into her desk. At the back of her mind, the threat of being found out fueled the sharpness of her pleasure. Her toes curled in her heels, her muscles tensed, her intimate parts throbbed around the erection. Bishop's hands held her hips, pulling Stella back firmly against him. He swallowed his own moans, her core rippled tightly around his member.

The woman's movements became more desperate, her muted gasps more breathless, as heat crested inside her. Every muscle inside her tightened, her release fast approaching. The thought of Bishop coming, his liquid heat grazing her inner nerves, made her body clench even tighter.

A rhythmic knock on the door punctured the moment.

Shock rattled through Stella, her eyes flying open. Adrenaline slammed through her as she pushed herself into a standing position. Bishop didn't need instruction. He immediately slid out and stepped away, adjusting himself and zipping up his pants. As soon as he moved away, Stella smoothed her skirt down and turned to face the door. Bishop plopped down into one of the visitor's chairs, laying his ankle over top his knee.

Just before their visitor entered, the woman's gaze darted toward Bishop. He glanced up at her, eyebrow cocked and smug smirk on his lips. Heat tickled at Stella's core as she tore her gaze away just as Stan entered.

Immediately, her partner's eyes flicked from the lounging biker to Stella. His eyebrows ticked upward suspiciously. Stella willed the flush in her cheeks to drain.

“What's he doing here?” Stan's lips screwed into a scowl as he closed the door behind himself. In his hand, he held sheaves of paper. Delilah was nowhere to be seen.

Before Stella could answer, Bishop butted in, “I wanted to make sure Ms. Sampson would be safe.”

“Safer than with you, I bet,” muttered Stan under his breath. Louder, he stated, “What's it matter to you, Bishop?”

“Agent Jackson,” Stella warned. She motioned to the seated biker with a graceful wave of her arm. “Mr. Bishop brought Ms. Sampson in.”

Stan's stiff shoulders fell, his lips pressing into a thin line. The knowledge he couldn't win in this situation settled atop him. He exuded the air of a petulant boy as he turned his gaze to Bishop. Stan struggled to retain his professional air. “Ms. Sampson will be fine. If her statement pans out, we can put her in witness protection until the investigation, arrests, and trial conclude.”

“What if whoever is charged isn't found guilty?” Bishop leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at Stan. A smug satisfaction filled the biker as he noticed the man's dark bruise. No amount of egotistical delight could calm his worry that Delilah would find herself dead in a ditch or forced into being a drug mule. The thought sent a sick itch crawling over his skin.

“We'll keep her anonymous,” Stan replied, bitterness evident in his voice. Done with the conversation, the agent crossed the room and handed the papers to Stella. When the woman accepted the sheaf, Stan caught her by her wrist before pulling away. He leaned close, making Stella's stomach clench with concern. In hushed tones, he whispered, “I hope you know what you're doing, agent.”

Stan stood back and stared down at Stella. The woman's eyebrows furrowed, curiosity whipping through her head. She didn't have a chance to ask for clarity. The man turned on his heel and walked briskly from her office.

Stella stared after her partner, curiosity bubbling in her brain, as the door closed behind him. The creak of Bishop's chair drew Stella's gaze from the open entryway. The biker hauled himself out of the chair, an easy smile on his lips. The woman's heart fluttered under the warm expression in his eyes. “I should get going, too. Let you get some work done, Miss Holmes.”

“What happened to
Agent
Holmes?” Stella's lips pursed unhappily as she hid her disappointment behind annoyance. Of course, the biker couldn't stay. She was hours away from her shift's end, and it would be highly suspicious if Bishop was locked in her office with her all day. Those not-entirely-false rumors would fly, and that's something she didn't want.

Bishop closed the distance between them with one step. His large hands curled around her elbows as he leaned over her. His lips brushed against her ear, coaxing Stella's heart to jump to her throat. As the woman tried to reign in her swooning hormones, the man murmured into her ear, “What happened to your panties, Stella?”

He hiked up her skirt with one hand, his other trailing gently over her lower lips. Stella gasped, leaning back against her desk as her body quivered in anticipation. His finger cleaved through the hole in her stockings, his warm digit caressing her swollen lips. Stella hugged onto the papers Stan handed to her as if they were her only anchor to reality. Hormones flitted through her thoughts, heat rising in her veins. Her every reaction goaded the biker on, tempting him to quickly finger her.

Suddenly, Bishop pulled away, fingers and all. He let out a breathy chuckle and shook his head. Stella swallowed down a groan of disappointment and watched him hungrily. His grey eyes flickered to her face, a rueful grin on his lips. “I should go. We both have investigations to get back to.”

The woman numbly nodded, silently watching the man retreat out of her office. His fast footsteps and sudden excuse to leave struck Stella as odd. It was as if he didn't trust himself around her. Or, perhaps, he didn't trust her. The thought soured in her stomach.

When her door shut behind Bishop, Stella managed to make her way to her office chair. Sinking down low, the woman brought the papers to her face, shielding her blush-tinted cheeks from the world.

How could Arthur Bishop hold so much sway over her body? How could he light her nerves afire with a simple grin? The obvious answer roiled in her stomach, unhappy and daunting. Stella took a deep breath and slapped the papers to her desk. Firm resolution built up in her thoughts. Whatever chemistry simmered between herself and the Seven Tribesmen president would have to stop. That was final.

With detachment firmly in mind, Stella hunched over the papers. She began to read Delilah Sampson's account when her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket. Without tearing her gaze from the typeset, Stella fished her cellphone out of her pocket. When she glanced at the phone, it blinked with an unread text message from a number she didn't recognize.

Confusion dotted her brow as she opened the message. Stella's eyes widened after a breath, her eyes flickering over the screen once again.

Come to the Rusty Bear tonite @ 10 Agent Holmes. - Art

It was easy to discern how he had gotten her number. It was on her business card.

Hormonal flames grazed over her nerves as a pleasurable heat jolted down her spine. She placed her cellphone to the side. She wouldn't go. She couldn't. The agent shook her head and forced her eyes back to the witness account. Every so often, however, Stella couldn't stop her gaze from flicking to her cellphone with that message still displayed on its screen.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Arthur Bishop felt exceedingly ridiculous at a quarter past ten. He lounged against the wall near the Seven Tribesmen's preferred billiards table. His eyes constantly trekked to the door every time it opened. The woman hadn't texted him back. It was possible Stella wouldn't show up. Why would she? They were on opposite sides of the law, and she was sure his club had something to do with the crack market in the area. Conflict of interest would be putting their situation lightly.

He wasn't even sure why he invited Stella to the bar. He muttered a few excuses to his men about “keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.” Coyote had nearly howled with laughter after Bishop said that. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Bishop heaved a sigh. This was ridiculous. His palms itched with excitement, his lungs felt like they were going to explode, and his nerves felt utterly shot.

The smoky, noisy atmosphere of the Rusty Bear didn't help much. For the umpteenth time that night, Bishop's eyes trailed over the bar. With wood the color of ash, a thick cloud of nicotine smoke, and yokels of all shapes and sizes, the bar was like any other small town bar. All the patrons knew one another, and the staff knew all the patrons. It was cozy, warm, and raucously perverse.

A few feet away, the rest of the Seven Tribesmen were playing a three player game of pool. Bishop had opted out after his seventh missed shot in a row. Every so often, Qwerty or the newb would glance toward him with thinly veiled worry. Their distraction was Ruse's advantage.

“You look like a girl stood up at prom, boss,” green-eyed Coyote sidled up to him, a cockeyed grin on his lips. He handed Bishop a cold bottled beer, which the man accepted. After a swig of his own bottle, Coyote pressed the issue, “What's up?”

“Just frustrated 'bout what happened with Howler and Crow.” Bishop lied, wanting to delay the confession. Irritably, Bishop took a swig of his beer, hoping his right-hand man would drop the conversation.

“She got under yer skin, dinnit she?” Coyote slurred, his grin twitching a bit at the corners of his lips. At least the man had the decency to be discreet about his curiosity.

Bishop sighed, heavily, “Yes, she did.”

Coyote threw him a sidelong look. His grin dimmed a little, and Bishop could see his VP consider what implication this development could have on the club. “What'cha gonna do about it?”

“What's there to do?” snorted Bishop, rolling his eyes. The door opened again, his eyes involuntarily flicking to the entrance. Two elderly men shuffled in, trucker hats cocked at odd angles on their head. The Seven Tribesmen president shrugged his shoulders, covering up his already dashed hope with a false sense of bravado, “She had a tight little ass, thought she'd like another ride.”

Coyote snorted derisively, but didn't say anything. Bishop cocked an eyebrow at his vice president, but the green-eyed man refused to add further comment.

The two of them fell into silence while chatter bubbled around them, punctuated by the clack of the billiard balls. At the far side of the bar, some of the local boys huddled around the only television. Every so often, groans or whoops would shoot up from the TV viewers. Competing for airspace, the ancient jukebox belted out classic rock. It was a comforting cacophony, despite the agitation in Bishop's mind.

“Hear anything from the lawyer?”

“Says possession laws are an utter bitch to deal with,” Coyote muttered, his nose wrinkling. A glint of rage sharpened his gaze, “It'll cost us, but he'll get them off. Especially if the actual runners are found.”

Bishop fell silent, a curious thought licking at his mind. He shifted his footing, his voice dropping another octave, “You think firecrotch could be involved?”

“Maybe,” Coyote growled, drowning his anger with another gulp of his beer. That was a definite yes. Bishop's stomach churned at the thought of Delilah now under police protection. If she was to blame for Howler and Crow being behind bars, if she planted the cocaine in their bedrolls, their enemy was a lot closer than Bishop realized.

The boom of a gunshot echoed outside, followed by four more ricochets. Everyone in the bar came to a standstill. Only the television and the jukebox continued to burble on. In the silence, even the lights buzzed loudly overhead. A few of the patrons glanced at the Seven Tribesmen, either placating or worriedly checking to see their reactions.

Qwerty and Ruse already began putting their pool cues to the side, while Newb clutched his tightly. Coyote and Bishop exchanged glances before pushing off the wall. They quietly made their way to the exit, silence following them in their wake. The kutte weighed heavily on Bishop as all eyes turned to him. He could almost suffocate under the responsibility as he stepped over the threshold.