Chapter 27 East #2
Her body responds instantly, arching against me, a soft gasp escaping her lips as pleasure surges through her.
I can feel her tighten around me as I continue to move.
I watch her face, captivated by the way her expression shifts from surprise to bliss, her eyes fluttering shut as waves of sensation crash over her.
“East,” she breathes, her voice a desperate plea.
I increase the pressure on her clit, my thumb rolling faster, my hips slamming into her, feeling the slickness of her arousal against my fingers.
She cries out, her back arching, and her orgasm washes over her like a tidal wave.
Her pussy pulses and milks my cock as violent, beautiful tremors wrack her body.
The sight of her unraveling beneath me, her inner walls clenching and gripping my cock, shatters my control.
As her moans fill the air, I lose myself in the moment, my thrusts becoming deeper, harder, more desperate.
The overwhelming heat builds within me, coiling like a spring, tighter and tighter until it has to snap.
I still feel her pulsing around me as I drive in one final, deep thrust. “Darla!” I roar, my release tearing from my throat, a primal growl as I come, emptying myself into her.
My body pulses with the intensity of our shared climax.
In that moment, we are one—lost in a whirlwind of sensation, our breaths mingling, hearts racing, each pulse echoing the promise of what we’ve just shared.
I collapse onto her, my weight a heavy, sated thing, my face buried in the crook of her neck.
She smells like sex, citrus, and home. Her arms are weak, but they come up to hold me, her fingers tracing the damp skin of my back.
The connection between us solidifies, binding us in a way that transcends mere physicality, leaving us both gasping for air, yet craving more.
The real world intrudes as my phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sound is a harsh, unwelcome violation. I grab it. A text from Malachi.
War room. 30 minutes.
The peace shatters. I look down at Darla, who is already looking up at me, her expression shifting from soft and sated to sharp and resolute. The war is waiting.
The ride to the clubhouse is different. We meet up with Nash and Rider a few blocks from my house, falling into a formation of black and chrome that feels like a promise of violence.
When we arrive, the parking lot is already full. The entire club is here. Knox and Sloane pull in right behind us. The women—Candace, Ruby, Frankie, Maggie—are already gathered by the door, a silent council of support. This isn’t a party. It’s an assembly.
I press a hand to Darla’s shoulder as we walk toward the war room. She doesn’t follow me with her eyes, but I feel her gaze on my back.
The war room door shuts behind us, and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees. I take my usual chair as the brothers settle in. Malachi sits at the head of the table, his face carved from stone. He drops a stack of files; the sound is a gunshot in the quiet room.
“We need to talk about Donovan,” he begins, and my focus sharpens. He lays it all out—the trail he found in Cornelius’ old storage unit. The whispers about Alice Brighton. The confrontation with James.
Then he taps the final sheet. “But this one? This is local.”
Knox frowns. “Graves?”
“Graves.” Malachi spits the name like poison. “Winston Graves was leveraged. He helped bury Cornelius’ investigation into my siblings’ disappearance.”
The name hits me like a physical blow. A key. It’s the lynchpin connecting the club’s oldest wound to the man who tried to sell Darla.
“The shipyard,” I murmur in a rough voice. Every eye in the room snaps to me. “It all makes sense now.”
Malachi’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“Donovan,” I say, the name tasting like ash. “His being there. On the gangplank. I made the call to hold fire because he was insulated, using the girls as bait. I thought he was just there to oversee the shipment.”
Knox nods, then speaks in a gravelly voice. “It was the right tactical call. We couldn’t risk the crossfire.”
“But that’s not what it was,” I continue, leaning forward, my gaze locking on Malachi. “He wasn’t just there for the transport. He was here in town to deal with Graves. This leverage you found... it proves it. It’s all connected. Your past, and our present.”
“So he’s here,” Nash says, his voice flat. “Active. And he’s working with Graves.”
Malachi nods, his expression grim. “This isn’t about retaliation anymore. This is about justice. About roots.”
“Then we cut them out,” Knox says, his voice ice.
“How?” Kyle asks. “Graves is the mayor. He’s untouchable.”
“Not to me,” I say, leaning forward. “We don’t go after him with guns. That’s his game. We go after him with this.” I tap the financial documents. “We bleed him dry. Find every dirty dollar, every shell corp, every backroom deal. The Vassallo Foundation was just the start. I’ll find them.”
Knox nods, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. “Financial warfare. I can help. Dig into his digital footprint, find offshore accounts, encrypted files.”
“And when you’ve got him cornered,” Nash adds, his voice a low promise, “I’ll be there to finish it.”
Malachi looks at me, a silent question in his eyes. “I want Graves.” My voice is calm, but lethal. “Don’t care how it happens. Don’t care if it’s clean.”
He holds my gaze, then gives a single, sharp nod. “You’ll have him.”
A cold, brutal sense of satisfaction cuts through me. Winston Graves is a dead man walking. He just doesn’t know it yet.