Page 33 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
The kitchen slides into a softer dark that glows from the hearth.
I break the kiss to breathe and to look at her, because I want to see what I am doing to her and what she is doing to me.
Her eyes are wide. There is color in her cheeks that is not from the cold. She does not look away.
“Tell me if I should stop,” I say.
She shakes her head once. The smallest movement. The clearest answer I have ever been given.
Roman’s hand comes to her hip, not claiming, anchoring.
The heat of him changes the temperature of the air.
Deacon steps behind her, close enough that she can feel the line of his body without being crowded.
We do not speak. There is no need.
The room breathes with us.
The storm thickens its voice on the roof.
Somewhere in the henhouse Cleopatra mutters like a queen satisfied that her kingdom is held.
I kiss her again, deeper.
She opens to me with a small sound that I will keep in my pocket for the rest of my life.
My fingers find the hem of her sweater and rest there, waiting for the consent that comes from a shift of muscle and a lean forward.
She gives both.
I slide my palm under the knit and feel skin that makes my head go quiet.
She turns slightly, the motion small and perfect, and Roman’s mouth finds the place where her jaw meets her throat.
Her breath stutters.
Deacon rests his hand on the back of her neck, a gentle weight, a promise to hold steady while we find the pace that belongs to the four of us and no one else.
The mugs sit forgotten on the counter, the chocolate cooling with a skin that will please no one.
The fire throws heat at our backs.
The storm writes white music against the windows. Her hands come up to my shoulders and hold on.
I bring her closer, and the kiss lengthens.
The world narrows until it is only this room, this night, this woman, these men who know how to be careful and hungry at the same time.
She smiles against my mouth, a quick curve that feels like the start of a holiday you are old enough to understand now.
I smile back, then kiss hers until it becomes a sigh.
We do not rush the next movements.
There is time for fast and for wild.
Tonight belongs to the kind of slowness that tells a body it is safe to want what it wants.
