They’d insisted that by him committing any of those seven deadly sins, it would spur him to commit even more. Committing one sin would lead to another and another until his soul was condemned to eternal damnation.
Until he was forever lost and could no longer be saved.
For fuck’s sake, he wasn’t committing only one right now, but all of them.
The sin of lust was his burning desire to touch, taste and fuck her. He committed the sin of gluttony because he couldn’t get enough of her. And he was greedy as fuck. He didn’t want to share her. He wanted to keep her for himself and not let anyone else touch her.
After every time they’d had sex at the motel, once they both came, he had committed the sin of sloth by never being in a rush to move. He wanted to stay right where he was forever. Inside her and connected to her.
Wrath… Fuck. Right now, he was really hating Dodge, even though the Fury brother had no clue what was going on.
He was envious of Dodge because she rode on his sled instead of Rev’s. Envy led into his sin of pride. Reilly shouldn’t want to be on anyone’s sled but his. It shouldn’t have been a goddamn question. Her ass should be planted solidly behind him and her arms wrapped around his waist, instead.
According to his parents wisdom, he was facing eternal damnation because of the woman in front of him who tempted him. And because he realized what he felt for her was much more than simple temptation.
Worse, she had blown off his words as if they’d meant nothing. But then, at the time, he hadn’t taken them seriously, either.
When they first were spoken, he thought it was a mistake. A crossing of wires in his overloaded brain. But, yesterday, after going their separate ways, he realized he hadn’t misspoken. The whiskey had forced the truth to the surface.
It all really hit home last night when sleeping alone in his bunkhouse rack had fucking sucked. In the past, he’d always preferred to sleep alone. Before Reilly, the only night he hadn’t was the night he fell asleep in Sarah’s bed.
But last night, being a typical Saturday night, The Barn had been hopping with his brothers partying. Sweet butts and female hang-arounds did their rounds, making it known they were available. With, of course, his brothers taking advantage of that availability like normal, whether out in The Barn where everyone could watch, back in the bunkhouse or even out in the courtyard against a wall or bent over a picnic table under the pavilion.
For the few minutes he’d been sitting at the bar nursing a whiskey, he had to make excuse after excuse of why he couldn’t double-team Angel with Easy or why he didn’t want Brandy to unzip his jeans and drop to her knees right there on the spot.
Or why he wasn’t in the mood for Billie to do what she normally did to his nipples that drove him batshit crazy to the point he’d blow his load almost instantly and he wasn’t even embarrassed about how fast he came. The woman had some damn good skills and was super-efficient.
It got to the point last night where he finally went to his room, locked the door, plugged his earbuds into his listening holes and ignored the rest of the fucking world around him.
As he sprawled across his bed, drowning out everything else by blasting his favorite Spotify playlist, he went over every fucking moment of their trip. From the second he saw Reilly in the shed waiting for him, to the second he drove away from The Grove Inn yesterday afternoon.
While the run was more annoying than relaxing today, he also wasn’t looking forward to this evening back at the farm when he’d have to once again sidestep the sweet butts as much as possible. With the available brothers dwindling in number, the club girls tended to hone in on the few who weren’t claimed. They reminded him of buzzards circling fresh roadkill.
They’d been complaining a lot lately about the available members being slim-pickings. But until the prospects were patched in, the sweet butts couldn’t touch them and, in turn, the recruits couldn’t approach them for any reason other than to simply hang out. If the prospects were doing anything more than that, they would find themselves outside looking in. That was after their prospect cut was stripped from them and their ass was kicked due to breaking the rules.
So, yeah, the sweet butts were limited to the Fury members without an ol’ lady. That meant they were down to only six: Rev, Easy, Dutch, Dodge, Ozzy and Whip.
And right now, Rev wasn’t in the mood to do anything with any of them. Even if he was, he wasn’t sure he’d want to do it in front of Reilly. If she saw him doing a sweet butt, would she get bent and take off to find some random dick out there and revenge-bang him?
Jesus fuck.
He ground a hand back and forth over his mouth, trying to stifle another loud curse.
This fucking run couldn’t be over soon enough. If he wouldn’t be ridden until his ass was chapped, he’d peel off and go get lost somewhere with booze and a bong. Then when he woke up from his damn stupor, it would be time to go to work and everything would be back to the way it was before…
He barked out a painful laugh and Easy frowned at him.
“You okay, brother?” E shouted over the wind and the roar of their exhaust.
No, he wasn’t fucking okay.
Unless something changed, he was starting to wonder if he’d ever be okay again.
Especially since shortly after they got back to the farm and while getting ready to party for the evening, he spotted Trip and Deacon taking Reilly into the barn and up to the executive meeting room upstairs.
Rev’s asshole had never been so tightly puckered in his life than at that sight.
Reilly’s heart thumped so loudly in her ears, she could hardly hear what Trip was saying as he and Deacon escorted her into The Barn and upstairs to where the club officers had their meetings.
She’d only been up there a couple of times. It was rare any women went upstairs and into their “sacred” room that held the heavy scent of testosterone in the air. Unless, of course, they needed to grab something from the storage area that was tucked between the meeting room and the two apartments on the backside of the bunkhouse.
The heavy, rectangular table that sat in the middle of the space had the BFMC logo carved into the top. Whoever had hand carved it had skills. The table was worn and parts of the wood were nicked and stained since the table was as old as the club. And not the current Blood Fury old, but the Originals old since it had belonged to them. She wouldn’t be surprised if the guys had lifted their legs to mark it like the dogs they could be. The chair at the end, where Trip currently sat as president, was the same chair his father Buck, the former president, had used.
Deacon, who Reilly also considered her ol’ man-in-law, yanked out an empty chair along the side and jerked his chin toward it. “Sit down.”
“What’s this about?” Her pulse was now throbbing at her temples so hard, they could probably see it.
Trip, wearing his ever-present black ball cap pulled low, tipped his head toward the chair. “Sit. Got somethin’ important to discuss with you.”
Should she drop to her knees right where she stood and beg for leniency for Rev? Blame everything on herself? Tell them she forced him?
Throw herself at their mercy?
Offer to take his place for the blanket party?
He didn’t deserve whatever they would do to him. It was all her fault. She never should’ve insisted on going along.