Page 36 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

I slide into the heat of her mouth, watch her throat flex as she swallows me down.

Her hands keep moving—one stroking Cruz, the other wrapped around Deacon—until she’s choking softly around me and I have to pull back so she can breathe.

The way she looks up at me then with her mouth swollen, chin wet, eyes wide and asking without a word, is enough to make me want to take her right there on the floor.

I pull her to her feet, my fingers hooking in the waistband of her panties and tearing them down her thighs.

She gasps, half from the suddenness, half from the heat in my eyes, and I shove them aside with my boot.

My hands are on her again, one gripping her hip, the other hauling her up as I turn and press her to the wall.

The thud of her back against the wood makes Cruz suck in a breath.

“Undress me,” I growl.

She doesn’t hesitate.

Her hands find my shirt, jerking the buttons open in fast, clumsy bursts.

Her knuckles skim my chest as she shoves the fabric off my shoulders.

She’s panting, eyes flicking from my mouth to my body like she can’t decide what she wants more.

Her fingers drag my boxers and pants down further, the backs of them brushing my cock as she fully frees me.

I grip her jaw, tilt her head so she has to look at me. “Now.”

Her bra hits the floor, straps slipping down her arms.

Her bare breasts lift with each ragged breath.

I pin her there with my hips, my cock sliding against the slick heat between her thighs.

She moans and the sweet sound starts low and breaks higher when I push up into her, slow enough for her to feel every inch stretch her.

Her mouth falls open into that perfect, helpless O, her head tipping back against the wall.

I take her throat in my hand, not squeezing, just holding, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse under my palm.

“Eyes on me,” I order.

She drags her gaze back down, lids heavy, lips wet.

I drive up into her harder this time, my hips snapping, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the quiet.

She makes a broken little cry, nails digging into my shoulders.

“Fuck, you feel good,” I tell her, voice rough. “So tight, so wet…you were made for this cock.”

Each thrust shoves a small whimper out of her, the rhythm steady and punishing.

The wet slap of our bodies, the soft creak of the wall, the obscene squelch when I pull back—it all coils tighter in my gut.

Cruz is close now, his mouth on her breast, sucking hard enough to make her gasp.

Deacon’s hand is between us, his thumb circling her clit in quick, ruthless strokes.

She’s shaking, hips jerking to meet mine, her moans spilling out raw and desperate.