Page 20 of Baby for the Bikers

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and immediately notice the state of my sheets. The evidence of last night’s activities is faint but unmistakable. Heat floods my face as I remember exactly what I was fantasizing about while making that mess.

The same three men who are now waiting in my living room.

Mortification battles with a strange, inappropriate thrill. Did they notice? Could they tell? God, I need to get those sheets in the wash immediately.

I gather my clothes and toiletries, then realize I’ve got another problem. The evidence of last night isn’t just on my sheets—it’s on me. My fingers still carry the faint scent of arousal, and the rest of me feels uncomfortably sticky.

I need a shower. I need to wash these sheets. I need these men out of my apartment so I can think straight.

First things first.

I strip the bed quickly, bundling the sheets into a tight ball. My laundry basket sits in the bathroom, but the washing machine is in a small alcove off the kitchen. Which means I have to walk past them.

In my pajamas. With nothing underneath.

My options are limited. I grab my towel and shower cap, planning my sprint to the bathroom. But the sheets need to go in the wash now before any of them might see.

Taking a deep breath, I wrap the towel securely around my body and tuck the corner in tight. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the thin cotton of my pajamas.

The living room falls silent as I emerge, sheets bundled against my chest, towel clutched with white knuckles. Three pairs of eyes snap to me immediately.

“Forgot something,” I mutter, skirting the edge of the room toward the kitchen.

The washing machine seems miles away as I feel their gazes tracking my movement. The towel suddenly feels too short, too precarious, as I bend to open the washer door. I shove the sheets in haphazardly, acutely aware of three sets of broad shoulders and watchful eyes behind me.

“Detergent,” I murmur, reaching for the shelf above. The towel slips slightly, and I clutch it with one hand while the other fumbles blindly for the soap. “Could one of you?—”

“Got it.” Maddox materializes beside me, reaching easily for the bottle I can’t quite grasp. His proximity makes my skin prickle.

I take the detergent without meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

“No problem, sweetheart.” His voice has dropped an octave, and the casual endearment sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine.

I pour too much soap into the machine, slam the door, and twist the dial with shaking hands. The ancient washer groans to life.

“Could you please stop gawking at me?” I say to the room at large, still facing the washing machine. “A little decency would be nice.”

“Sorry.” Brick’s voice sounds anything but sorry. “Didn’t realize morning laundry was part of the agenda.”

When I turn, all three have at least made a show of looking elsewhere, though I can tell it’s costing them effort. I scurry back to the bathroom, feeling their attention like physical weight despite their averted eyes.

Once safely behind the locked door, I lean against it, my heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with fear or anger.

The shower can’t get hot enough to wash away the inappropriate heat pooling in my belly. I scrub every inch of my skin, washing away all traces of last night’s pleasure and this morning’s embarrassment.

By the time I emerge, pink-skinned and clean, I’ve got my composure back. I dig through my limited wardrobe and pull out the denim shorts I’ve had since before running.

They sit higher on my thighs than I remember, hugging curves that haven’t diminished despite months of gas station meals and stress. I thought I’d waste away during all this running, but my body stubbornly maintains its hourglass shape, hips and ass refusing to shrink no matter how irregular my meals become.

I tug the shorts down slightly, but they immediately ride back up. With a sigh, I pull on a simple white T-shirt that somehow looks tight across my chest despite being a size large. Three months on the run was supposed to make me disappear in more ways than one, but my body didn’t get the memo.

The sneakers are practical, at least, though they do nothing to downplay the curves that make blending in so difficult. I study myself in the mirror with a critical eye.

The outfit is cute, but draws attention in ways that someone in hiding probably shouldn’t risk. Still, there’s something defiant in dressing for myself instead of for survival or my father’s approval.

As I’m finishing my hair, I remember the perfume buried in my makeup bag.

The saleswoman had sworn by it, claiming her husband couldn’t keep his hands off her whenever she wore it. I bought it in a moment of defiance against Dad’s rules—a small act of femininity he couldn’t control. I never had a chance to wear it since the club had strict rules about personal scents interfering with business.

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