Page 95 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
He holds still for a moment, letting me adjust, then he begins to move.
Slow, steady strokes that make me moan, my ass pressing back into him, the counter edge biting into my hips.
The window catches us again, my face slack with pleasure, my mouth open in a silent cry, Cruz behind me, his expression carved in shadow and heat.
His hand slides up my back, tangling in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to whisper against my ear.
“You take me so well,” he murmurs. “Every inch. Let me give you everything.”
I cry out as his thrusts deepen, the rhythm steady, each one grinding me against the counter until my clit sparks with every drag.
The reflection blurs with my breath on the glass, the image of us ghostly and raw, and I can’t look away.
His other hand slips around, fingers circling my clit, working me in tandem with the slow, relentless slide of his cock.
My body jerks, my voice breaking, my orgasm building sharp and fast.
“Cruz—please—I’m?—”
“Come for me,” he growls, his thrusts quickening, his breath hot against my neck. “Show me how much you need this.”
The release rips through me, violent and sweet, my cry echoing in the kitchen.
My body shudders, my cunt clamping tight around him, milking his cock.
He groans, thrusting through it, holding me steady as I convulse against him.
Cruz stays buried deep, grinding slow, his cock thick inside me, his breath still rough against the back of my neck.
My legs are weak, my palms flat on the counter, but he doesn’t pull out.
His hand glides from my hip to my stomach, spreading over me, possessive and protective all at once.
Then he eases back, slipping free with a groan that makes my insides clench at the sudden emptiness.
I make a sound— needy, broken—but before I can complain, he murmurs against my ear.
“Not done with you yet. Want to try something.”
I barely get the words out, breathless. “What?—?”
He lifts me, twisting me so my ass slides against the cool counter.
My legs dangle over the edge and my hands grip his shoulders.
The mugs rattle when he shoves them aside with his elbow, the smell of cinnamon and cocoa rising again, thick and sweet in the warm air.
I’m sitting on the counter now, but he doesn’t climb over me.
Instead, Cruz crouches low between my thighs, lifting them high, folding me nearly in half.
The new angle leaves me spread open, knees up near my chest, cunt glistening and dripping for him in the light.
My breath catches. “Cruz…”
He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my skin as he lines himself up again. “This way I can see every bit of you. Can watch myself sink into what’s mine.”
And he does.
