Page 38 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

Cruz groans across the room, his pace on himself faster now. “Fuck, look at her…”

Her nails dig into my chest when I grip her ass and thrust up, the angle making her gasp around Deacon’s cock.

I feel her walls give that telltale grip that says she’s close, and I keep the pace, watching her try to breathe and suck and take me all at once.

Her body is clenching around me now, gripping me like she’s trying to drag me deeper.

I can feel every flutter of her muscles, every slick pull.

Deacon’s cock is still sliding between her lips, her moans vibrating down his shaft.

Cruz’s breathing is rough across the room, his hand pumping himself hard.

I hold her hips down, grind up into her, and let go.

The heat floods out of me in hard pulses, buried deep inside her, and the sound I make is low, broken, and guttural.

She whimpers around Deacon’s cock as I spill, her body shuddering in my hands.

When I can breathe again, I ease her forward, sliding out slow, my cock wet with her slick and my release.

I push her gently onto her back on the couch, and Deacon follows her, never letting go of her hair.

Kneeling between her thighs, I press my mouth to her pussy.

She gasps, her head tipping back, the taste of us thick on my tongue.

I lick her until she’s trembling, her hands tangled in my hair, then pull back with her still wet and open for the next man.

She meets Cruz’s gaze, her eyes dark, and crooks a finger at him.

His chair scrapes back, his cock flushed and ready in his fist.

He steps into the space I’ve left, and the way she parts her legs for him is invitation enough.

I lean back, breathing hard, watching him line himself up, knowing the next sound out of her mouth will be his to take.

7

CRUZ

She crooks a finger and everything in me answers.

Roman eases back with a last brush of his knuckles beneath her chin, heat still coming off his skin, and I step into the space he leaves like I have been walking toward it for a year.

Her breath is quick and shallow, her mouth open on the kind of small, hungry sounds that make a man forget the long winter behind him, and when I tell her eyes on me she gives me that without question, wide and shining.

“Good girl,” I say close enough that my voice lives in her mouth for a second. “You waited. Keep looking at me.”

Her knees part and I settle on the couch, hands firm at her hips, guiding her down until our bodies fit with a wet, shocked sound that steals both our breath.

The movement causes her to release Deacon’s cock with a wetpopthat makes me grow harder.

The fire throws amber over the line of her throat.

The couch complains.

Snow hushes the windows like a held note.