Page 18 of Claimed By the Bikers
The handle glides higher, brushing over the bare heat between my thighs. I let out a soft gasp, my legs parting without conscious thought.
I press the cool handle against my clit, the temperature sending a shock of pleasure through me. My hips shift, my body desperate for more.
In my mind, Atlas takes the handle from me, his voice rough as he orders me to keep my hands to myself.
I rock the handle against me, the friction growing wetter, slicker. My breath comes faster, my moans muffled as I bite my lip. The danger, the cold metal, the image of all three men in the room. It pushes me closer, sharper, faster.
My thighs tremble as I press it harder against my clit, the cool, unyielding surface sending sharp jolts of pleasure through me.
My free hand grips the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the worn mattress as I fight to keep quiet. The walls are thin, and the last thing I need is someone—anyone—hearing me lose control like this.
But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when the image of Silas’s dark, hungry eyes burns behind my closed lids, his calloused hands guiding the knife’s handle with a precision that makes my breath catch.
In my mind, Garrett’s grip tightens on my hips, his low chuckle vibrating against my spine as he murmurs, “You’re trouble, Ember. Always pushin’ the edge.”
Atlas stands apart, his gaze locked on me, unblinking, like he’s memorizing every shudder, every gasp. His voice cuts through the haze, calm but commanding. “Don’t rush it. Let it build.”
My hips rock faster, the smooth handle slick now, gliding against me with every movement. The danger of it—the insanity of using something so lethal—only heightens the heat coiling in my core.
I’m an FBI agent, trained to keep control, to stay sharp, but right now, I’m unraveling, chasing a release that feels like it might break me.
The knife’s weight shifts in my hand, and for a split second, I freeze, my heart lurching as the blade’s sheath rattles softly. It’s still secure, locked tight, but the sound snaps me back to the risk I’m taking. My pulse hammers in my throat, but instead of pulling back, I lean into it. The thrill of danger, the recklessness—it’s all tangled up with the way I feel aboutthem.
I tilt the handle slightly, letting its rounded edge press deeper, teasing that aching spot that makes my toes curl.
A low moan slips out, louder than I mean, and I bite my lip hard, tasting the faint copper of blood. My body’s on fire, every nerve screaming for release, but I’m caught in the fantasy—Silas’s mouth on my throat, Garrett’s hands lifting my hips.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word barely audible over the pounding in my ears. My movements grow frantic, the handle slick and warm now, matching the heat of my skin.
The pressure builds, sharp and relentless, until it’s too much. My climax hits like a shock wave, ripping a choked cry from my throat as my body arches off the bed. My vision whites out, pleasure crashing through me, leaving me shaking, gasping, the knife’s handle still clutched in my trembling hand.
I collapse back against the mattress, my chest heaving, the cool air stinging my overheated skin. The knife slips from my fingers, landing softly on the bed beside me, the blade still safely sheathed. My heart’s still racing, my mind a mess of guilt and need.
I shouldn’t want them. I shouldn’t be doing this—losing myself in fantasies of men I’m supposed to be bringing down. But the ache in my chest, the pull toward Silas, Garrett, and Atlas—it’s stronger than duty, stronger than reason.
Wolf Pike Community Center buzzes with activity when I arrive Saturday evening. Long tables covered in checkered tablecloths stretch across the main hall, loaded with casseroledishes, homemade pies, and platters of fried chicken that smell incredible. Kids weave between the tables while their parents call after them, and the air vibrates with conversation and laughter.
“Ember!” Evie waves me over to where she’s arranging desserts on a side table. “I was hoping you’d come.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I smooth down my sundress. It’s something casual but pretty, with thin straps and a skirt that hits just above my knees. “This is incredible. Half the county must be here.”
“Pretty much. Wolf Pike takes its community dinners seriously.” She gestures toward a table near the back where three familiar figures sit. “Your bosses are over there.”
My stomach flips when I spot them. Atlas in a black button-down that makes his silver hair look striking, Garrett in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms covered in tattoos, and Silas in something dark that clings to his shoulders. All three are deep in conversation with other locals, but when Atlas’s eyes find mine across the room, he nods slightly.
“They’re popular,” I observe.
“Community pillars. Atlas handles a lot of the town’s business partnerships, Garrett organizes the volunteer fire department fundraisers, and Silas coordinates most of our social events.” Evie hands me a plate. “Come on, let’s get you fed before the good stuff disappears.”
I fill my plate with pulled pork, cornbread, and green bean casserole, noting how many people nod or wave as I pass. Word has definitely gotten around that I’m working at Wolf’s Den, and the reception is uniformly warm. Small-town hospitality at its finest.
“Mind if I join you?”
I turn to find a man about my age with sandy hair and friendly brown eyes. He’s holding his own plate and wearing a hopeful expression.
“Of course.” I gesture to the empty chair across from me at one of the smaller tables. “I’m Ember.”
“Jake Morrison. I run Morrison Storage out on Highway nine.” He settles into his chair with easy confidence. “Heard you’re working at Wolf’s Den. How are you liking Wolf Pike so far?”
