Page 18 of Baby for the Bikers

I throw the comb onto my dresser with more force than necessary. What does Tom know? He’s just a nosy neighbor with too many theories about local motorcycle clubs and their dating habits.

“Wolf Pike’s different from other places,” he said, checking his work one final time. “People are free to live how they want here, love who they want. Nobody judges much.”

He was in the middle of another observation when Annie appeared in my doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “Tom, are you gossiping again?”

The way he jumped was almost comical. “Just explaining town dynamics to our new neighbor.”

“Mm-hmm.” Annie didn’t look convinced. “I’m sure that’s all you were doing. Come on, dinner’s ready.”

He left with a friendly wave and one final piece of advice: “Just keep an open mind. Wolf Pike has a way of giving people what they need, not what they think they want.”

I crawl into bed, pulling the blankets up despite the warmth of the night. My mind won’t stop replaying the day—the crash, the panic, the three brothers filling my doorway like they owned it.

The worst part is the curiosity that won’t leave me alone. I reach for my burner phone on the nightstand, hesitate, then grab it anyway. I’ve connected to the building’s Wi-Fi, a small indulgence that could be a security risk, but I need some normalcy after three months of paranoia.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I type:What’s it called when multiple men share one woman?

The results make my cheeks burn. Polyandry. Reverse Harem and MFM relationships. I click through a few articles, each more explicit than the last. The heat that’s been simmering low in my belly all evening intensifies with each paragraph describing the dynamics, benefits, and logistics of such arrangements.

I toss the phone away like it’s suddenly burning hot, as if Dad might somehow know what I’ve been reading. What am I doing? I barely know these men. To them, I’m just a debtor who destroyed their property. A problem to solve.

But the image of Ryder sliding my underwear into his pocket makes that analysis feel weak. Why would he do that if I was just a problem? What possible reason could anyone have for taking a stranger’s underwear except…

My mind fills in scenarios I have no business imagining. Three pairs of hands. Three mouths. Three very different men all focused on one woman. The way Tom described it—like it was the most natural progression in the world.

My hand slides beneath the blankets almost of its own accord.

Fingers graze over bare skin, teasing along the waistband of my pajama shorts. A shiver runs through me as I press my thighs together, already aching, already wet from thoughts I shouldn’t be entertaining. But the need is there, insistent and thrumming through my veins like a drug.

I slip past the fabric, fingertips skimming over slick heat. My breath catches, my pulse hammering against my ribs as I spread my legs, giving myself over to the moment. The first slow stroke is a tease, a whisper-light touch that makes me bite my lip and arch my hips, needing more.

Ryder Kane. His name pulses in my mind like a forbidden mantra, his gray eyes flashing as he slid my underwear into his pocket. Did he bring them to his mouth? Inhale the scent of me? Wrap the delicate lace around his fist while he stroked himself?

The thought makes my fingers press deeper, seeking. A moan slips free before I can stop it, the quiet room amplifying the desperate sound. My clit is swollen, throbbing, so sensitive that the next touch sends sparks of pleasure rocketing up my spine.

I circle slowly, teasing myself the way I imagine he would—deliberate, controlled, making me beg before giving in.

But he wouldn’t be alone. No, not just Ryder. There would be two more. Three men, all watching. Their hands would be everywhere, their mouths hot against my skin, claiming, marking, possessing.

I slide a finger inside, then another, gasping at the stretch. My walls pulse around the intrusion, greedy for more. I rock my hips against my touch, grinding down, chasing something just out of reach. My other hand moves up, slipping beneath my sleepwear to pinch a tight nipple. The added sensation makes my legs shake, the pleasure too much, not enough,almost.

I imagine them—Ryder, dominant and smug, guiding my wrist, making me move slower, torturing me with restraint. His brothers, watching, murmuring filthy praise about how wet I am, how desperate. The weight of their gazes alone is enough to push me closer, closer.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my hips snapping up as I stroke my clit harder, faster. The pressure builds, white-hot, coiling low and tight, threatening to break. My thighs tremble, my breathhitching, the orgasm barreling toward me with devastating force.

Then—release.

It crashes over me, violent and all-consuming, dragging a raw moan from my throat as I shatter. My back bows off the mattress, fingers still working, milking every last wave of pleasure until I’m wrung out, shaking, spent.

I collapse against the sheets, my chest rising and falling in rapid pants. The air is thick with the scent of sex, and my skin is flushed, damp, and trembling with the aftershocks. My fingers are slick, my body boneless, a satisfied hum vibrating in my throat.

And yet, as exhaustion pulls me under, one last sinful thought lingers:

If just the fantasy of them can do this to me, what would the reality feel like?

I’m just a woman. Wanting. Taking. Having.

My limbs feel heavy with satisfied exhaustion. Sleep that had seemed impossibly distant now pulls at me with gentle insistence. I curl onto my side, mind still filled with images of three very different brothers and the way they looked at me.

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