Page 3 of Single Mom's Bikers

I lift my leg and place it on the bathtub, exposing myself fully. My fingers drift lower, finding the slickness between my thighs. I gasp at how wet I already am, my clit swollen and begging for attention.

I let myself imagine Zane’s strong hands on my skin as I begin to rub my clit, slowly at first, teasing and circling. A soft sound escapes my lips, and my body arches into the touch. The pressure builds as I move faster, the heat pooling low in my belly.

Two fingers dip inside, sliding easily into the wetness. I press deeper, pulling out and pushing back in. The rhythm takes over, my hips moving to meet my hand. My leg shakes, still suspended, but I don’t care.

The sensations are overwhelming, crashing over me in waves. I can’t remember the last time I felt this good. My breath comes in short gasps, and my free hand grips the edge of the shower for balance.

It builds and builds, the tension coiling tight. Suddenly, I stop, pulling my fingers free just as the climax hits. My body shakes violently as I release, a rush of wetness spilling out of me.

I lean back against the wall, trembling as the aftershocks roll through me. The water keeps pounding, washing everything away except the memory of how good it felt.

Zane’s smirk flashes in my mind again, and I know I’ll be thinking about him all day.

By the time I step out of the shower, my body feels looser, but my mind’s clearer. I have two hours to become Evie Ashbourne, a competent single mother applying for a respectable job. The other woman, Elena Delgado, who stole millions from her mafia husband and ran with their daughters, needs to stay buried.

I choose my outfit carefully—creative enough for a tattoo gallery, professional enough for an office manager position. The mirror shows a woman with carefully brown hair, subtle makeup, and just enough curves to be noticeable without drawing attention. Perfect.

My phone buzzes with Rose’s morning check-in text:“All clear. You’ve got this.”

I text back a quick confirmation, then grab my portfolio. Inside are credentials for a life I never lived. But I know every detail by heart—the accounting degree, the office experience, the story about a husband who cleaned out our accounts and ran.

Through my front window, I see Zane still fighting with his mower. Part of me hopes he’ll be at the interview. Another part dreads it. Either way, I’m about to get tangled up with the Cross brothers.

At least this time, it’s my choice.

2

RICK

Runninga legitimate business while being part of a motorcycle club is all about balance. This morning, that balance means wearing my one decent suit while my Harley roars through Wolf Pike’s quiet streets.

The sun’s barely up, but I’ve got contractors waiting at the gallery and an interview that might finally solve our staff turnover problem.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Chase complaining about having to open today. Or Zane with another excuse for being late. Being the oldest of three brothers means always being the responsible one, even at forty-two.

Wolf Pike wakes up around me as I take Main Street’s gentle curve. Old man Wilson is already sweeping his barbershop’s front walk, the same as he has for thirty years. The morning crowd spills onto the sidewalk in front of Sarah’s Diner, the smell of bacon making my stomach growl.

Cross Brothers’ Ink Gallery occupies prime real estate downtown, sandwiched between The Den and Wolf Pack Grill.All three businesses are ours, though most folks in town don’t realize how deep that ownership runs.

The gallery’s our high-end tattoo shop, which draws clients from three states. The other two establishments handle different kinds of business—bar and restaurant.

I park my bike out front, noticing Chase’s motorcycle already in its spot. Maybe my middle brother is finally growing up. The thought dies when I walk in and find him sprawled on the waiting room couch, apparently sleeping off whatever adventures kept him out late.

“Really?” I kick his boot. “We’ve got contractors coming in twenty minutes.”

Chase cracks one eye open. “And they’ll see exactly what they expect from a tattoo shop—the artist recovering from a wild night while his uptight brother handles business.”

He’s not wrong, which just irritates me more. “Where’s Zane?” I left at dawn for my usual circuit around town, missing whatever business Zane’s up to.

“Still fighting with the lawn mower last I saw him. Said something about showing up the new neighbor.” Chase sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You know how he gets with a challenge.”

Great. Just what we need—Zane starting drama with another neighbor. Last time, it was the retired schoolteacher who complained about his bike’s noise. Before that, the college kid who kept parking in our spot.

“The interview’s at nine-thirty,” I remind him, heading for my office. “Try to look professional by then.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Chase’s mock salute follows me down the hall. “Though why we need another office manager is beyond me. The last three couldn’t handle us.”

“Because you and Zane can’t keep your cocks in your pants.” I pause at my office door. “Two months, Chase. The last one lasted two months before you both had her signing that ridiculous consent form of yours.”

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