Page 93 of Biker Daddies

“She’s good. She’s traveling right now. I think she’s in Greece,” I reply. They haven’t seen my mom in years. I see her every summer because I go to her. She doesn’t want to come back to America. Even another state would be too close to his dead body.

“So you have her. You have us. You have Harlow. Nothing will change that. We aren’t going anywhere. Okay?” Alto gives me a sad but reassuring smile.

He is always good at keeping it together. It’s why Grizzly made him the VP. Who the hell would take his spot? Even in pain with his face beat to hell, he still puts others before himself.

“I don’t know about you all,” Colt begins, limping his way to the fridge while holding his side. “I need a fucking beer. Maybe a bottle of whiskey. And an ice pack.”

Alto sighs, his cheeks blowing out as he flinches when he touches his lip. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’m going to shower first. Get all that sweat off me. Let’s reconvene in fifteen.”

“A shower sounds nice,” Colt groans. “I’m going too.”

We all have our separate bathrooms and I decide to go ahead and take one too. Heading to my room, I shut the door and see just how spare it is. Nothing in here makes it personal, besides Harlow’s panties on the floor.

I bend down and pick them up, placing them against my nose and inhaling, the scent of her filling my lungs.

I miss her. I wish she was here. I want to hold her and tell her everything is going to be okay. I can’t imagine how she feels right now. I bet she feels so torn between us and her father. I want her to choose us, selfishly. Unselfishly, I never want her to be without her dad.

I fall onto the bed and bury my nose in her underwear again, the smell of her honey still fresh, and my cock hardens in my jeans.

I’m sore all over from the beating I took from Prez. I ache, but no amount of pain will ever stop me from wanting her. Ever.

I unzip my pants and free my cock, wrapping her underwear around my fat cock, then stroking it. I groan, wishing it was her pussy tight around me instead.

I want her alone one time. I want us in bed, rolling around in these sheets, so the blankets smell of her and I can sleep soundly.

“Fuck, Harlow,” I say too loudly. The guys would hear me if they weren’t in the shower.

Closing my eyes, I picture Harlow on top of me, pinching her own nipples as she rides my cock. She gasps and groans my name. Her hands fall to my chest, using me as leverage to ride me harder and faster. Her sexual calls become higher, high-pitched whimpers echoing from the wall.

I grab her hips, pulling her back and forth harder. Her clit grinds against the spot above my cock.

“That’s it,” I whisper out loud to no one, fucking my hand quicker. “That’s it, Harlow. You’re taking my cock so good.” Her underwear causes a delicious rub against my flesh.

No one has ever made me feel like she does.

Worthy and wanted.

“Yes,” I moan for her, my orgasm building and causing my sack to pull tight against my body. “Fuck. Harlow! God,” I groan when the first wave racks my body.

My come soaks into her thin panties. I’m able to feel through the material. It’s warm, wet, and I wish it all filled Harlow. I want her bound to us, to me, in every single way possible.

Opening my eyes, I frown when I notice I’m by myself—well, I’m reminded that I’m by myself—which ruins the high of the orgasm. Sneering at myself for allowing too much emotion to show through me, I get up and toss her underwear in the hamper.

I undress, heading into the ensuite bathroom. I flip on the water and step in, not waiting for it to get warm. The cold spray against my semi-hard cock deflates it further. The shower is quick. I do what I need to do and get out, dry off, and throw on sweatpants and a t-shirt.

My reflection catches my eye. It isn’t anything I haven’t seen before, but still, the scars ruining my face almost hide the black eye forming.

Almost.

Nothing so hideous could ever do me the favor of hiding something.

There’s a cut on my other cheek and I flinch when I touch it, then I spin, lifting my tattooed arm to see a bruise spreading across my ribcage. Reaching under the sink, I pull out the alcohol and squirt some in my hand, then tap it into the wound.

It burns, but it’s welcome.

When I’m done, I walk out into the common area and see Colt. He isn’t wearing a shirt and his bruises are a little worse than mine. He has an ice pack against his ribs. When he sees me, he tosses a pack to me and the movement to catch it sends a spike of pain through my side.

“Peas?” he asks.

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