Page 9 of Claimed By the Bikers
I lead her through the controlled chaos of the dinner service, weaving between servers and bussers, past the kitchen where Finn’s calling out orders in his usual rapid-fire style.
The storage closet is tucked away in a narrow hallway, barely big enough for two people, and when I open the door, she brushes against me as she reaches for the napkins.
“Christ,” I mutter under my breath.
“Sorry, what?”
“Nothing. Just…the napkins are on the top shelf.”
She stretches up, and I step behind her, ostensibly to help, but really because I can’t resist being close to her. My chest presses against her back, and I feel her go still.
“Got them,” she says softly, but she doesn’t move away.
Neither do I. We stand there for a moment, her back against my chest, and I can feel her breathing. Feel the way her body fitsagainst mine like it was designed for this. My hands settle on her hips, just lightly, and she leans back into me.
Her hair smells like heaven, and she’s warm and soft in all the right places, and I’m about two seconds from saying to hell with appropriate when voices in the kitchen remind me where we are.
“Right then.” I step back, giving her space to turn around. “Back to work.”
She nods, clutching the napkins, and slips past me out of the closet. I follow, trying to ignore the way my hands are shaking slightly.
It’s been two hours since her shift started, and so far, I’ve been thoroughly impressed by both her skills and the sway of her hips. The little moment we had in the storage room is still fresh in my mind as though it happened seconds ago.
“How’s she doing?” Atlas appears beside me, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Better than expected. Handles herself well, remembers orders, doesn’t get rattled by difficult customers.”
“Any concerns?”
I consider this. “She’s almost too good at it. Like she’s been doing it her whole life. We might be underpaying her,” I joke.
Atlas rolls his eyes. “Keep an eye on her. Let me know if anything seems off.”
He disappears back toward his office, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling that I’m not taking the situation seriously enough.
By closing time, I’m highly impressed despite myself.
“Good first night,” I tell Ember as she hangs up her apron. “You’re a natural at this.”
“Thank you. Good teacher.”
Most of the staff have cleared out, leaving just us and a few customers finishing their drinks. Ember’s gathering her things when the front door slams open with enough force to rattle the windows.
Big guy in a trucker cap staggers in, already drunk and looking for trouble. I recognize the type. A long-haul driver who’s been on the road too long, had too much to drink at his last stop, and thinks he can walk into any establishment and demand whatever he wants.
“Kitchen still open?” he slurs, weaving toward the bar.
“Sorry, kitchen closes at eleven,” I tell him, keeping my voice level. “I can get you a drink, but no food.”
“Bullshit. I’ve been driving for twelve hours. I want a fucking burger.”
“Can’t help you there.”
His bloodshot eyes shift to Ember, who’s standing near the register, counting her tips. “What about you, sweetheart? You look like you’d be real accommodating.”
“Sir, like he said, the kitchen’s closed,” Ember replies. Her voice is professional but firm.
Trucker takes a step toward her, and I move to intercept, but he’s faster than his drunken state suggests. His hand shoots out and grabs a handful of her ass, squeezing hard enough that she gasps.
