Page 53 of Single Mom's Bikers

The first kiss is gentle, but when she straddles my lap, all pretense of gentleness vanishes. Her nipples harden under my palms as I cup her breasts, her body arching as I map every curve.

I trail kisses down her neck, tasting perfume. When my mouth closes around one nipple, she gasps my name. Her fingers tangle in my hair as I take my time.

Sliding to my knees, I guide her onto my desk. Papers scatter—club documents, garage reports, tonight’s threats—but nothing matters except getting my mouth on her pussy.

She’s already wet when I part her thighs, her scent driving me crazy. I take my time, pressing kisses to her inner thighs, making her squirm with need.

When I finally drag my tongue through her folds, she gasps my name. Her pussy is perfect—swollen and slick, begging for attention.

I start slow, teasing her entrance before moving to her clit. Her hands find my hair, trying to guide me where she needs me most.

But I keep my pace steady, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on her sensitive bud. Each time she gets close, I back off, making her whimper with frustration.

“Please,” she begs, hips lifting off the desk. “Rick, I need…”

I slide two fingers inside her while sucking her clit, curling them to find that spot that makes her shake. Her walls clench around my fingers as I work her higher, my tongue relentless on her clit.The sounds she makes drive me wild—little gasps and moans that echo through my office. When she finally comes, it’s with my name on her lips, her thighs trembling around my head.

“Please,” she begs after, pulling me up. “I need your cock inside me.”

When I slide into her, she’s still pulsing from her orgasm. We find our rhythm together, every thrust hitting deeper. There’s only this—her nails in my shoulders, her legs wrapped around my waist, the perfect way her pussy grips me.

She comes again, her walls clenching around me, pulling my own orgasm from me. For long moments, we just breathe together, my forehead pressed to hers.

“Stay,” I murmur, though we both know she can’t. “Soon.” I bring her to sit on my lap. “I want to wake up to you here. All of you. Soon.”

She smooths my shirt, smiling softly. “Patience, Mr. Cross.”

The title reminds me of duties, of threats lurking. She must feel me tense because she cups my face.

“What’s wrong? Really?”

I could tell her everything. About Death’s Head’s systematic approach, about Mario’s garage, about the map covered in warning signs, and us, the Black Wolves, genuinely worried for the future of Wolf Pike.

We’re not saying we’d lose to Death’s Head, but no doubt there would be casualties. It’s what we’re worried about.

But I don’t tell her any of this. Instead, I kiss her palm. “Just club stuff. Nothing we can’t handle.”

She leaves wearing my jacket, promising to return it tomorrow.

20

CHASE

The thing about bikers—theylove showing off. Which is why I’m sitting at this shitty bar outside Wolf Pike, pretending to be interested in some prospect’s new ink while actually watching four Death’s Head members huddled over their phones.

“Check this out,” one says, tilting his screen. I catch a glimpse before he swipes—our gallery’s storefront. The next photo shows Rick locking up. Then Zane with Owen and Violet outside the school.

My fingers tighten around my beer bottle, but I keep my expression neutral. Just another tattoo artist having a drink. Nothing to see here.

“Nice work,” I tell the prospect about his mediocre tribal sleeve, buying more time to observe.

“Thanks, man. Got it in Nevada.” He preens like I’ve handed him gold. “You do ink?”

“Here and there.”

A burst of laughter draws my attention back to the Death’s Head table. More photos are being passed around. This time, I glimpse Evie through our gallery windows, bent over paperwork.

Something cold settles in my gut.

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