Page 42 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
He sits back just enough to see my face.
His hands slide to my hips and hold.
He moves with the patience of a man who could hurry but would rather make time behave.
I anchor my hands to his shoulders and let my body tell him how close I am to the edge and how ready I am to be pushed over it again.
“Good girl,” Roman says softly, the praise landing like heat at the base of my throat.
“Perfect,” Deacon adds, and the word sounds measured, like he checked it twice.
I climb again, not like a sprint, more like a tide.
Cruz sets the pace, steady, deep, drawing me out of the stiffness I wear around the world and into the loose ease I keep only for this kitchen and these hands.
He kisses me through the moments when my breath breaks.
He says my name like a promise, then again like a prayer. When I forget to ask for more, Roman reminds me.
“Use your voice,” he says, quiet in my ear. I do. I ask. It makes everything simpler.
I fall with my eyes open.
I fall while kissing Cruz.
I fall while Roman’s palm steadies my throat.
I fall while Deacon’s forehead rests for one brief second between my shoulder blades like a man who has come home from a long road.
It is not loud.
It is inside, thorough and flooding, the kind that steals language and then gives it back as a laugh.
I shake. I breathe. I trust.
They hold.
Cruz is close. I can feel it in the way his breath changes.
He tries to wait.
His jaw locks like a gentleman pretending patience will save him. It will not, and it does not need to.
“Come with me,” I whisper, taking his face in my hands. “I want you to.”
He jolts, like the words traveled straight through his chest. “Yes, mi cielo.” His voice drops rough and grateful.
He falters, then moves again with a purpose that makes me grip him harder.
He keeps his eyes on mine, as if he needs proof that I mean this.
I give it to him. I tip my hips in answer.
I order him with my body in the most honest way I know.
He breaks in the way I have learned is his alone.
Not a shout. A quiet unmaking.
