The clubhouse is loud on Friday nights, with old country music grinding out of the jukebox over the crack of pool balls and the hiss of caps popping off bottles behind the bar. Devon Gibbs has claimed the end stool by sitting on it first, and filling it completely. Grease still fills the creases of his knuckles from an afternoon spent under Jay's bike. His faded jeans are white at the knees, and one work boot is hooked on the stool rung while he nurses a sweating Coors.

Flint slides in beside him without sitting. The president's blue eyes look deeper under the yellow light. "Need you in the office tomorrow morning, Dev. Pull the books from the back cabinet, the ones Pastor tabbed in red. I want the cash ledgers from the Wagon Wheel for that last spring before I took the gavel." Flint's thumb works his ring in slow circles. "Gloria's deposits from those same months, too. Some numbers came across my desk that don't line up with what I remember."

Devon's brows pull together, and he sets the bottle down on the bar with a dull knock. "That's six years back, Vulture. Them books been closed a long while."

"I know exactly how long it's been." Flint raps two knuckles against the bar top, keeping his voice low under the music. "Keep this between us for now. Nobody else needs to hear you're digging."

"Yessir. I'll have coffee in me by seven. Can't promise I'll be pleasant about it." Devon watches Flint cross the room toward the hallway until the president's back disappears into the dark, then tips his beer up and drinks half of it in one long pull.

He has barely set the bottle down when the stool on his left scrapes back. Tatiana drops onto it with a grin, her dark hair tied into two low pigtails and her wire glasses sliding down her nose. Mahina settles onto his right with less noise, her denim shorts riding high on soft, full thighs that press wide against the vinyl seat. She reaches over without asking to trace one finger along the skull inked on his forearm with chipped coral nails.

"You look like somebody just handed you homework, Romeo." Tatiana pushes her glasses up with one knuckle and leans until her shoulder bumps his arm. "Let me buy the next round. You can tell me all about it."

"She means it, you know." Mahina's voice stays soft, though her finger keeps moving, tracing the knotwork toward his elbow. "We've been watching you scowl at that bottle for ten whole minutes. It's a little sad to look at, honestly."

Devon lifts Mahina's hand off his arm between two fingers and sets it back on the bar beside her drink, then gives her knuckles a pat. "Y'all are wastin' a perfectly good Friday on an old man. Go on, find yourselves a prospect who'll appreciate the effort."

"Prospects are boring." Tatiana props her chin in her palm, eyes dropping deliberately to his lap before coming back up. "Mahina told me to ask whether the rumors about you are true."

"No, I didn't, Tati!" Mahina swats her friend's wrist across the front of him, laughing into her glass.

"Darlin', every rumor's true. That don't put it on the menu tonight." He twists on the stool, raising a hand toward the far end of the bar. "Touchy! Whatever these two are drinkin', put it on my tab. Keep 'em happy over yonder somewhere."

The front door swings open and hot desert air rolls through the room. Underneath the tobacco haze and stale beer, something sweet cuts through. Omega. Devon's shoulders drop. His hand stills on the neck of his bottle and his chin lifts, nostrils flaring once before the grin splits his beard wide open. His whole body turns on the stool, both boots hitting the floor at once, and his laugh booms across the room loud enough to turn heads at the pool table. "Well, look what the desert blew in! Babygirl, get on over here, I been savin' you a seat all night." He slaps one broad palm against his thigh twice, the stool creaking under him. "Right here. Daddy's lap's got your name carved in it."

Tatiana lets out a loud snort and slides off her stool with her drink. Mahina gathers her glass, gives Devon's shoulder a parting pat, then steers her friend toward the pool tables.

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The carburetor on Warren's Shovelhead has fought him for two hours, and by the time Devon gets the float bowl seated right, the back of his shirt is stuck to him in a dark, wet map. He wipes his hands on a red shop rag that only moves the grease around, tosses it onto the workbench, and shoulders through the side door into the yard. The heat hits like the open mouth of an oven, dry enough to tighten the skin across his scalp within seconds. Sunlight bounces hard off his bare head, and sweat beads along the deep tan lines of his forehead before trickling down into the thick salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes narrow against the glare.

He makes it about six steps before he stops.

The pack's omega is stretched out on one of the sagging lawn chairs in the strip of shade cast by the clubhouse awning, wearing something that wouldn't pass in polite company. Lugnut lies sprawled in the dirt beside the chair, panting, his ragged tail thumping twice when Devon's shadow falls across him.

A low, rolling laugh comes up out of Devon's chest before he even reaches her. "Well, I'll be goddamned. Here I am sweatin' my balls off over Warren's piece of shit bike, while our girl's out here sunnin' herself like a lizard on a hot rock. That ain't fair, darlin'. That ain't fair at all."

He doesn't wait for an invitation. Dropping to a crouch beside the chair with a grunt as his knees pop, he plants one broad, grease-smudged hand on her thigh and slides it upward until his thumb rests against the soft inner curve. His scent rolls off him in the heat, warm tobacco and honey thick under engine oil and hot leather, heavier than usual. His other hand finds her waist, fingers spanning half the curve of it, and squeezes.

"Look at you," he rumbles, dark blue eyes dragging over her with no shame whatsoever. "Who you tryin' to kill dressed like this, huh? 'Cause I'm about one more look from fallin' over dead right here in the dirt. Emmett's gonna come out to find my body, and he's gonna laugh about it for a year."

His thumb strokes a lazy line along her inner thigh, rough skin rasping against smooth, before his palm drifts around to cup her ass where it presses into the woven straps of the chair. He gives it a firm, appreciative squeeze, then leans in until his beard brushes her shoulder, the bristles scratchy and damp.

His gaze catches on the push-pop melting in the chair's cupholder, red syrup pooling slow around the plastic base. "Gimme a bite of that," he says, though his eyes have settled somewhere considerably lower than the popsicle. "Hell, I'm hungry for a whole lotta things right now. Ain't eaten nothin' since them two protein bars this mornin'."

Across the yard, the gate chain rattles as a prospect drags it open for a pickup rolling in slow, gravel crunching under its tires. Devon glances over his shoulder at the noise, then turns right back, unbothered, his hand sliding up her bare stomach until his fingertips tap below her navel. "You put sunscreen on, sugar? That pretty skin's gonna burn up out here. C'mon, you'd best let Daddy handle that for you." His grin splits the beard wide, teeth flashing white. "I'll be real thorough. I promise I'll get every inch." He settles his weight back on his heels, one hand still curled possessively over her hip.

The couch is an old leather thing with a split seam along the left armrest, and it sags under Devon until the weight of the pack's omega settles back against his chest. The flatscreen throws blue light across the studio while a judge on a daytime court show lectures a woman about an unpaid security deposit. She sits in his lap facing the television, his cock buried to the root in her pussy, underwear dragged aside and pinched tight against her thigh. Her ass rests flush against his hips, and the heat of her wrapped around him pulses with every breath she takes. Devon spreads one huge hand low across her belly, his thumb settling over the faint swell his cock makes beneath her skin.

"Look at this fool, darlin'," he rumbles, his Georgia drawl dragging the words out slow. "Sixteen hundred dollars on a deposit, then she wants the judge to feel sorry for her. Girl, you signed the lease." The laugh that follows starts deep in his barrel chest and travels straight into her back, and each shake of it moves him inside her by a fraction of an inch. His beard brushes the side of her neck. The smell of him, tobacco and honey over a thin layer of engine grease, settles heavy in the warm air between them.

"Easy, babygirl." His rasp drops lower as her body tightens around him, involuntary, a physiological squeeze she has no say in. His fingers flex against her stomach. "Every time you do that I lose my place in the episode. I like it fine, though. Keep doin' it if you want."

He reaches across her toward the coffee table with his free arm, the black ink of a Norse knot rippling over his forearm as the muscle shifts. The candy stash from the drawer has migrated to the table in a pile of crinkled wrappers. He picks out a strawberry chew, thumbs the paper open one-handed, and holds the sweet up in front of her mouth, the sugar smell cutting through the heavier scent of sex. His other hand slides from her belly down between her thighs. His thumb finds her clit and rolls over it in a slow, lazy circle.

"I ain't movin' my hips till that judge bangs the gavel," he says, his voice warm against her ear. "That's the rule tonight. You wanna argue it, go on, I'm listening. I got all night, sweetheart, plus the whole weekend if you're feelin' ornery."

On screen, the defendant starts yelling over the judge. Devon snorts, and his thumb keeps turning its patient circle. Her walls clench around him again, pure reflex, muscles responding to the pressure of ten inches seated deep. His hips twitch once before he forces them still, and the leather beneath them creaks. His hand on her hip tightens, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her thigh hard enough to leave pale marks that will redden in a minute.

"Mmm. There she goes," he murmurs, sounding pleased with himself. "Ten inches in you, sittin' pretty, watchin' trash TV. Couldn't write a better Tuesday if I tried."

The gavel cracks on the screen. Devon's chest stops shaking with laughter, and the room goes quiet except for the hum of the fridge, the tick of the ceiling fan, and the commercial jingle that starts up. His cock throbs inside her once, heavy and warm, while the strawberry chew stays held in front of her lips and his thumb goes on circling her clit.

Blue light from the pool ripples across the ceiling of the media room, and the sliding doors stand cracked enough to let in the dry heat of the Arizona night along with the faint tick of the filter pump. Madam sits on the back of the leather sectional with her tail curled around her paws, watching the rug with flat green eyes before dropping from her perch and sauntering out with her tail up. Devon stands with his jeans shoved down past the heavy base of his cock, which hangs thick and flushed with the foreskin pulled back from a glistening head. One broad, tattooed hand holds her hair off her face so he can see everything.

She kneels between the two men on the rug, her top gone, bare from the waist up with the pool light sliding across her skin. Her underwear has been hauled to one side by Dorian's fingers, the elastic leaving a pink line across her hip. Devon's scent, tobacco and honey, mingles with something sweeter rising off her warming skin until the air in the room feels thick enough to chew.

"Look at you, darlin', all spread out between us like a Sunday supper," Devon rumbles, and the drawl drags low in his chest. He tips her chin up with a knuckle, then drags his thumb across her bottom lip hard enough to leave it shining. "Dor's gonna open up that tight little ass first. After that I'm gonna slide right into this pretty pussy and fill whatever room he leaves me."

Behind her, Dorian crouches with his glasses pushed up into his red hair and the crying-eye tattoos on his hands spread wide across her hips. Freckles stand out dark on his flushed shoulders. A bottle of lube clicks open in his fist, and the cold gel hits the crease of her ass with a wet sound that carries over the pump's ticking.

"Jesus Christ, Dev, she's already drippin' down her thighs," Dorian says, and his Philly accent comes out thick and rough. He works two slick fingers through her folds and then up, circling the tight ring of her ass until it gives under the pressure. "Look at this pussy clenchin' on nothin'. Youse gonna feel so fuckin' good wrapped around the both of us. I swear on my mother, I can't wait to hear what comes outta your mouth."

Devon's grip tightens in her hair, only enough to turn her face toward his stomach, where the ink of the giant skull stretches across his belly and rises and falls with his breathing. His cock twitches against her cheek, leaving a smear of warmth along her jaw. "Easy now, babygirl. You just keep that pretty head right where I put it. Let Dor stretch that ass good, 'cause once I'm in your pussy there ain't gonna be room to spare. I ain't a small man. You know that."

"Ten inches of Georgia, and he's real proud of it too," Dorian mutters with a grin, then presses a third finger into her ass, slow, twisting. The room fills with the soft, obscene squelch of it. His other hand slides up her ribs and palms her chest, thumb rolling over a nipple until her body shifts forward on its knees, involuntary. "Okay. She's ready. Dev, get your jawn lined up. I'm takin' her ass. You take that pussy."

Devon sinks down onto one knee on the rug, which puts his big frame level with hers, the leather of his cut creaking. He grips the base of his cock and drags the broad, wet head through her folds, once, twice, a slow circuit that leaves a string of shine between them. His knot sits swollen at the root, thick as a fist. Behind her, Dorian's cock presses against her ass at the same moment, the flushed tip nudging the stretched ring, the freckled muscles of his thighs trembling with the effort of holding still.

"Right there," Devon says softly, and his dark blue eyes stay fixed on her face. "I'm at your pussy, Dor's at your ass, and we're both sittin' right at your doors, sweetheart. Say the word, darlin', and we'll give you every last inch."

The bed frame knocks against the cinderblock wall in a slow, heavy rhythm that makes the shop's quiet feel enormous. Devon kneels between her thighs with her calves hooked over his forearms and a folded pillow wedged under her hips, which tips her pussy up to meet every stroke. Sweat runs through the black-and-gray ink of the skull across his chest and gathers in the thick salt-and-pepper hair of his beard. With each pull back, ten thick inches slide out until only the broad, flushed head stays stretched inside her, and each push forward sinks him in again with a wet, dragging sound that carries across the room.

"Look at that, babygirl. You're takin' every inch like you were built for me. Your cunt's grippin' my cock so damn tight I can feel your heartbeat in it." His drawl drops into a rumble, and he lets go of one of her legs to flatten his palm over her lower belly. His thumb presses down just above her navel, and he groans when he feels the shape of himself moving beneath her skin. "Right there, darlin'. That's where I'm aimin'. I'm gonna fill you up good, till you're drippin' with it."

The muted flatscreen throws blue light over the foot of the bed, flickering across her chest as it shifts with each thrust. Devon watches for a long moment, then drags his hand up to roll one nipple between a thick, tattooed thumb and forefinger.

"That's it, sweetheart. Squeeze me just like that." He slows until the rhythm becomes a deep, grinding roll, his hips pressed flush against the backs of her thighs and his cock buried to the root. The base of him has begun to swell, the knot thickening against her rim with every shallow rock, and he holds it there, just short of locking, while his breath comes heavy through his nose. "Feel that? That's my knot wantin' in. Ain't gonna give it to you yet. I wanna hear how bad you want it first."

He pulls out almost to the tip again, slow enough that the wet heat of her clings to every inch, then pushes back in so deliberately that the bed barely creaks. A string of slick clings to his thighs, and the thick scent of sex hangs warm in the air, tangled with his own tobacco and honey. Devon dips his head and drags his beard across the inside of her knee, then bites the soft skin there hard enough to leave a mark.

"You know what I think about, darlin'? Pack kids runnin' around this compound, little hellions with your eyes. Every time I'm inside you, I'm thinkin' about puttin' one in there." His hand slides from her belly down to her clit, thumb circling it. "Gonna keep you full of me all night. Gonna keep you leakin' my cum till mornin', and then I'm gonna do it again."

His rhythm picks up, short and deep now, each stroke driving the knot against her until it swells larger and catches harder on the way out. The headboard thuds the wall once, twice, and his laugh comes out low and rough, wrecked at the edges. Sweat drips from his beard onto her stomach. He stops with the knot pressed snug against her, thick and throbbing, his cock twitching deep inside her while he holds perfectly still.

"Tell me what you want, babygirl. I'm right here, so go on and ask Daddy for it."

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