Page 35 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

My mouth is near her ear.

“On your knees.”

She lowers herself slow, eyes up, her lashes catching firelight.

The floorboards creak under her weight.

Her hands go to my belt, fingers brushing the ridge of my stomach through my shirt.

She undoes the buckle, slides the leather free, works the button and zipper.

My cock springs heavy into her palm, and I watch her eyes widen at the feel of it, at the size.

“Open,” I tell her.

Her lips part.

The first touch of her mouth is warm and wet, her tongue gliding over the head before I push deeper.

Saliva coats me quick, catching the low amber glow from the hearth.

The wet sound of her sucking fills the space between us, and my jaw tightens.

“That’s it,” I murmur. My hand cradles the back of her skull, guiding her, not forcing. Yet.

Cruz is beside her now, thumb stroking the side of her mouth each time she draws back, smearing her spit across her lips.

Deacon moves in close on her other side, his fingers in her hair, his mouth brushing her ear with words I can’t hear but see her react to—her breathing faster, her throat working harder around me.

She gags once when I push deeper, the vibration running straight through me.

I ease her back just enough for her to draw in air, her lips slick, a glistening string connecting her mouth to me before she swallows it down.

“Look at me,” I order.

Her eyes lift, glazed with heat, lashes wet.

She takes me again, slower now, her tongue pressing against the underside while her lips seal tight.

Each stroke of her mouth is deliberate, the wet pop each time she pulls back making my pulse pound.

I let her work me until my control frays, then I grip her hair and pull her off with a wet gasp.

She turns without needing to be told, taking Cruz in her hand and then her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.

He groans, head tipping back.

“Good,” I say, the praise meant for both of them.

Deacon’s zipper is already down.

She shifts again, hand on him, mouth still on Cruz.

The sounds are obscene, wet slurps, the low grunt of men being worked over by a woman who knows she’s in control by giving it up.

Her spit shines on all of us now, gloved over my cock, smeared across her chin.

When I take her face back toward me, she comes willingly, lips parted, tongue ready.