Page 40 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
I pull her up for a kiss and taste everything we are on her tongue, and she melts into me with a helpless noise that might ruin me if I let it.
“Stand,” I tell her, and she goes soft and obedient.
She stands with Deacon’s help and pivots to face me.
Her eyes glimmer at the sight of my cock, shining with what came out of her last climax.
She straddles my thighs with a hungry certainty that feels like home.
I am seated, feet planted, hands at her waist, and when she sinks down the wet sound is louder now.
Her mouth opens on a perfect O that is not a word but I take it like one, and I keep her there for a breath so she can feel full, then I set the grind.
“Hands on my chest,” I say. “Use me. Take what you want.”
She does. Nails skim, then press.
She rides me in slow, greedy circles that turn tighter and faster as the heat climbs, and every time I tilt her hips the right way her voice breaks in a way that makes my jaw snap shut and my control fray.
Roman anchors the back of her neck with a steady palm, murmuring praise at the base of her skull that she drinks like water.
Deacon, softened and grateful, kneels beside the couch to kiss the slope of her collarbone and the place where her pulse flutters, his mouth careful, his breath a benediction.
The sounds gather and fold over each other.
Wet glide. Low slap.
Her breath turning into open-mouthed cries that climb and crack and drop and climb again, a music I could live inside.
When her rhythm loses shape, I catch her hips and reset it, then let her take over again so the next crest belongs to her and no one else.
“Look at me,” I say. “Say please.”
“Please,” she pants, not shy anymore, pupils wide, hair sticking to her cheeks. “Please do not stop.”
“Not stopping,” I promise, and I drive her through it, a deep, deliberate grind that drags a long, trembling sound out of her chest, and she comes apart against my mouth as I kiss her through it, stumbling and then flowing and then shaking again, and I do not rush it because urgency is easy and what I want to give her is thorough.
She slumps, and then the next wave finds her like a tide, smaller but wicked, a breathy little “Yes yes yes”that sounds like bells in a storm.
I hold her while it moves through, my lips at the corner of her mouth, my breath in her ear. “You are doing so good, so sweet, so filthy in the best way.
I am so pround of the way you take and ask for more in the same breath.”
Roman adds soft commands that keep her body from fleeing itself. “Open your throat. Breathe. That is it. Good. Stay with him.”
Deacon leans close and says something indecent and kind that paints color high on her cheeks and makes her grind down harder like she is showing off for him, and the couch complains again and the fire throws another wave of heat across her chest.
I am close enough to feel red at the edges, a bright nerve singing through me, and I refuse to fall. I lock my jaw and breathe like a man who knows the value of patience, and I praise her as if gratitude itself can bridle hunger.
“Not yet,” I tell her against her open mouth, my hand warm at the base of her skull. “You hear me? Not yet.”
“Yes,” she whispers, shaking, voice wrecked and shining. “Not yet.”
“Good girl,” I say for the hundredth time and it still tastes new. “Keep taking me. Slow. There you go.”
I slow it to a grind that is all pressure and heat, and she shivers and gives me a ragged laugh that turns into a gasp.
Roman kisses her temple like a seal on a promise, and Deacon’s thumb draws lazy circles at the notch of her throat to anchor her.
