Page 26 of Claimed By the Bikers
I pull the shirt over my head and drop it to the floor. My bra follows, and I hear Silas make a low sound of appreciation. The cool air hits my heated skin, making my nipples tighten.
“Magnifique,” Silas murmurs, moving closer. “Even more beautiful than I imagined.”
“Keep going,” Atlas commands, his voice rough.
I kick off my shoes and reach for the button of my jeans. When I hesitate, Garrett moves behind me, his large hands covering mine. “Let me,” he growls against my ear.
His calloused fingers make quick work of the button and zipper, pushing the denim down my hips. I step out of the jeans, standing before them in nothing but simple cotton panties that are already damp with arousal.
“Fuck,” Garrett breathes, his hands settling on my waist. “Look at you.”
“We are looking,” Atlas says, his eyes tracking over every inch of exposed skin. “And we like what we see.”
Silas reaches out to trace one finger along my bare shoulder. When I shiver at the contact, his mouth curves in a predatory smile. “We can’t do this here,” he says, more to his brothers than to me.
“The house,” Garrett agrees, already moving to gather my scattered clothes from the floor. He picks up my T-shirt, bra, jeans, even my purse that I dropped during our struggle. Everything gets bundled together in his arms.
“What about—” I start, but Atlas is already shrugging out of his suit jacket.
“Arms up,” he orders.
I raise my arms, and he slides the jacket over my shoulders. It’s massive on me, hanging almost to my knees, but it does nothing to hide the fact that I’m essentially naked underneath. The silk lining feels cool against my heated skin.
“Walk,” Garrett says, his hand on the small of my back.
They guide me out of the office, through the empty restaurant. My bare feet are silent on the wooden floors, but every step makes me hyperaware of how little I’m wearing. Just panties and Atlas’s jacket, which gaps open with each movement.
My heart pounds as we approach the front door. What if someone sees us? What if there are customers outside, or staff members who stayed late?
As if reading my thoughts, Atlas opens the door and peers out. “Clear,” he says softly.
But as we step outside into the cool evening air, I hear a low whistle from somewhere across the parking lot. My face burns with humiliation as I realize someone can see exactlywhat’s happening. That I’m being walked across the lot wearing nothing but a man’s jacket, my hair disheveled from fighting, looking exactly like what I am—a woman who’s been caught and claimed.
“Keep walking,” Silas murmurs from behind me, his voice amused.
The path to their house feels endless. Every step reminds me that I’m essentially naked, that anyone could see me like this. That I’m an FBI agent being paraded around like a trophy by the men I was supposed to investigate.
The worst part? Part of me likes it. Part of me is getting off on the degradation, the loss of control, the way they’re treating me like I belong to them now.
When we finally reach the front door of their house, Atlas opens it and ushers me inside. I’ve never been inside their home before—always kept at arm’s length, always the employee who didn’t belong in their private space. Now I’m being brought in under completely different circumstances.
The two-story log structure sprawls around me, exactly as I glimpsed from the outside. Exposed wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, and heavy furniture fills the living room. Everything speaks of permanence, of men who built something to last.
“Upstairs,” Atlas says, his hand on my elbow. “My room.”
They guide me up the staircase, and every step feels significant. Weighted with possibility and threat in equal measure. This is their territory, their domain, and I’m being brought deeper into it as their captive.
Atlas’s bedroom matches the rest of the house—massive bed with dark sheets, heavy furniture that looks handcrafted, windows overlooking the compound behind the restaurant. Everything about the space speaks of the man who commands it.
Now it’s going to be the place where everything changes.
“Second thoughts?” Silas asks, setting my clothes on a chair by the window.
I turn to face all three of them, standing in the middle of Atlas’s bedroom wearing nothing but his jacket and my increasingly damp panties. They’re looking at me like predators who’ve finally cornered their prey, and I can feel my last defenses crumbling.
“No,” I whisper. “No second thoughts.”
Atlas’s smile is sharp as a blade. “Good. Because there’s no going back after this.”
