Page 29 of Single Mom's Bikers

“What?”

Chase’s lips curve, but he doesn’t look up from his work. “From my room. It was Zane’s first time. We felt a little bad we hadn’t let him in on the secret yet.”

Heat floods my face as he tells me about how he introduced his brothers to my nightly shows, first Rick and then Zane.

When Rick kissed me in his office the second time, he already knew what I looked like naked. Had watched me put on my show.

“You just knew they’d want to watch?”

“Honey—” His laugh rumbles through me. “I know my brothers. I knew they’d want to watch.”

My core clenches at the thought of all three of them. Watching me.

“Almost done.” Chase wipes away excess ink. “You’re taking this better than most.”

“The pain?”

“The idea of three men watching you—wanting to fuck you—pardon my French.”

His hand slides lower. When I arch into his touch, he groans.

“Chase—”

“Still need to bandage it.” But his voice has gone gravelly. “Unless you want me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare.”

The machine clicks off. He sets it aside, and suddenly, there’s nothing between us but latex gloves and intention.

“Last chance,” he warns, peeling the gloves off. “Once I touch you?—”

I grab his shirt, pulling him down. “Touch me.”

His hands start at my ribs, just below my bra, mapping my skin like he’s memorizing every inch. When his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts, I arch into his touch.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, taking his time. His fingers trace patterns across my stomach, making my muscles jump.

His hands seem to be everywhere—tangling in my hair, cupping my breasts, sliding between my thighs. And his mouth follows where his hands have been, leaving heat in his wake. He takes his time—tasting, learning, finding spots that make me gasp. When he reaches the waistband of my pants, I’m already trembling.

He kneels, making a show of removing my shoes, sliding denim down my legs inch by torturous inch. His eyes darken at the sight of my black lace panties, already soaked through.

“Planned this, didn’t you?” He nips at my neck. “Wore pretty things, knowing they’d end up torn.”

“Maybe.”

“Gorgeous.” His hands run up my calves and massage my thighs. Everywhere except where I need him most. “Look at you, spread out on my table like my own personal canvas.”

His thumbs trace the edges of my panties, teasing. When I try to move, to get more friction, he holds my hips still with those strong hands.

“Chase.” His name comes out like a plea. “Please.”

“Look at me.” One hand slides higher, thumb finally finding my clit through wet lace. The eye contact as he touches me makes everything more intense, more intimate. “Want to see your face when you fall apart for me.”

His other hand keeps my hips still as he works me through the fabric, building pressure slowly. Every circle of his thumb winds me tighter.

When he finally pushes the lace aside, sliding two fingers into slick heat while maintaining that steady pressure on my clit, I nearly come undone. His fingers are better than I imagined.

I’m close already, embarrassingly so. And every stroke of his fingers gets me closer.

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