Strip You Bare

By: Maisey Yates

About the Book





Meet the Deacons of Bourbon Street, bad boy bikers who are hell on wheels and heaven between the sheets. The final thrilling destination is Strip You Bare by Maisey Yates.

Micah Carpenter was done with the Deacons of Bourbon Street ten years ago. But when tragedy calls, Micah returns to his brotherhood. Joining the hunt for their mentor’s killer, he crosses paths with a Southern belle who exudes class – and sex appeal. Micah knows better than to turn the heat up with an ice queen, but he can’t resist offering her a taste of the wrong side of the tracks.

For Sarah Delacroix, reputation is everything. From an established family rocked by scandal, she longs to restore their good name. Micah is exactly the kind of man she should avoid: his sleek exterior hides the heart of a predator and his body is dripping in tattoos. All too soon he’s getting under her skin – and she’s learning she might have a wild side after all.

For more badass bikers, don’t miss the rest of the Deacons of Bourbon Street series: Make You Burn by Megan Crane, Fire Me Up by Rachael Johns, and Hold Me Down by Jackie Ashenden.





To my fellow biker chicks in crime: Megan Crane, Rachael Johns, and Jackie Ashenden. The only thing better than writing books is writing them with your friends.





Chapter 1


There was a feeling of homecoming that people often waxed lyrical about. It was immortalized in songs, in literature, and in film. Peace, belonging, and all other manner of bullshit.

Micah “Prince” Carpenter didn’t feel any of those things.

No, since his return to New Orleans a few weeks back even walking around felt like he’d taken a bullet to the chest. Lead twisting itself around his heart, interfering with every beat, every breath. Or that could just be the godawful humidity.

But he had a feeling it was to do with the city itself. Like an aging matron trying to coat every imperfection with more and more makeup, the French Quarter clung to its former glory, claiming cracks in the sidewalk and corroded metal on the curling wrought iron balconies as part of its charm.

The Delacroix House, where Micah found himself, was no exception to the air of haughty, tarnished glamour. Even now the old building thought far too highly of itself for a place that had been all but abandoned for more than ten years. Heavy brocade drapes hung in the windows, at the center of the room a settee and two wingback chairs, flanked by solid mahogany tables, still invited guests to come and sit down. To enjoy a little bit of southern hospitality, even if the only residents were ghosts.

There was something oppressive about New Orleans, where even the air was heavy. But Micah was stuck here for the foreseeable future.

Fuck Ajax and his fucking brotherhood. His fucking honor.

And fuck himself for his inability to walk away.

Micah walked deeper into the sitting room, stirring up a cloud of dust with each step. The old house would seem remarkable to some, but nothing about these stately southern homes appealed to him. He preferred things sleek, modern. And in his new life, far away from here, he surrounded himself with those things.

The humidity, the heat, was oppressive, in spite of the time of year. Sometimes he thought this city was sitting right on the mouth of hell. He stripped off his suit jacket, reached up and loosened the knot in his tie, then draped his jacket over the back of one of the chairs. Then he turned and sat, looking around the darkened room. At the golden sconces on the wall, their shine diminished from years of neglect. At the wallpaper, dust clinging to the textured flowers that covered the deep blue surface.

It was opulent, that was for sure. Even the dirt couldn’t hide that.

But whether or not he was impressed by the house was irrelevant. Because this wasn’t about the house. It was about the woman who was still under the impression that she owned it. Or more specifically, it was about her family.

The Deacons’ connection to the Delacroix family apparently ran deeper than simply claiming their infamous prodigal son Leon as a member.

That much had become clear when they were sorting through all of Priest’s holdings after his death. Not only were there the assorted properties on Bourbon Street, but there was this house that had—as far as anyone else knew—belonged exclusively to the Delacroix family since it was first built.

Not anymore. The Deacons had possession of it now.

And given that they were sure Priest had been murdered, any connections that seemed out of the ordinary were worth exploring.

Which was a damn shame because it meant his ass was parked here for the foreseeable future.

The sound of high heels clicking on the marble floor made him turn. Just in time to see a petite dark-haired woman freeze in her tracks.

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