Page 113 of Single Mom's Bikers

I set the machine down, needing to touch her. To remind myself she’s here, she’s safe, she’s ours. My hands find her shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into tension.

“Tell me what you want instead.”

She leans into my touch. “Something wild. Free. Not just covering his mark but transforming it.”

Like she transformed herself. Like she transformed us.

“I’ve been sketching ideas.” I reach for my book, letting her see the designs that have consumed me since that first day. “Wings, maybe. Or vines breaking chains.”

“Show me.”

I lose myself explaining concepts, watching her eyes light up at certain details. This is what I love—creating art that tells stories. That heals.

“This one.” She touches a design where feathers merge with broken chains. “It feels right.”

“Yeah?” I study how it would flow with her natural lines. “You could add color too. It would make it really come alive.”

“Like you did with his name.” Her fingers find the phoenix on her collarbone—my work covering Luca’s claim. “You didn’t just hide it. You made it mean something new.”

“That’s what ink should do.” I start prepping her arm. “Tell your story, not someone else’s.”

She settles into my chair like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged here with us.

“When this heals…” I begin outlining, watching her reaction to the needle. “Rick, Zane, and I want to do something special.”

“Oh?” Her breath catches slightly as I work.

“A piece from all of us. Something that shows who you are now. Who we are together.”

“All three of you inking me?” Heat enters her voice. “That could be interesting.”

I grin, knowing exactly what she’s imagining. “Very interesting. Each brother adding their own style, their own mark.”

“Their own claim?”

“Maybe.” I let my free hand stroke her thigh. “But claims freely given this time. Chosen.”

She shivers under my touch. “Where would you put it?”

“Somewhere private.” The machine’s buzz fills the space between us. “Low on your hip, curving around to your back. Where only we see it, when you’re naked for us.”

Her breath catches. “What would you do? Each of you?”

I set the machine down, letting my fingers trace where the design would flow. “Rick would start with the foundation—strong, bold lines like his love. He’d mark you here first”—I drag my fingertip along her hip bone—“creating the base that holds everything together. Take his time with each stroke, making sure it’s perfect. Just like he does when he’s inside you.”

She shivers under my touch.

“Then Zane,” I continue, letting my hand drift lower, “he’d add these wild elements—flowing lines that capture how free you make us feel. Maybe waves or wind, something untamed. Right here.” I trace patterns on her inner thigh. “He’d work fast but precise, passionate, like when he takes you hard against the wall.”

“And you?” Her voice comes breathless.

“Me?” I press closer, my chest against her back. “I’d bring it all together. Add the detailed work and the shading that gives it depth. Make these parts darker.” My fingers find sensitive spots that make her gasp. “And these lighter. Build layer after layer until it’s perfect—until you’re marked as ours inside and out.”

“When?” She turns her head, lips brushing mine. “I can’t wait.”

“Soon.” I nip her lower lip. “Once this one heals. We’ll take our time to make it last. Each brother adds his mark while the others watch. Maybe touch. Definitely taste.”

Her moan vibrates through both of us. The machine lies forgotten as my hands slide higher. Her skin feels like silk, still sensitive from the needle’s work.

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