Page 94 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

I watch him work, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he stirs, steam curling in the air, the smell rich and warm.

He sets a mug in front of me with a little half-smile. “Didn’t think you’d mind a surprise.”

The first sip melts through me—hot chocolate laced with spice, the sweetness mellow, the cinnamon warming my tongue.

My eyes sting, unexpected tears pressing.

“Cruz,” I whisper. “This is…”

“Simple,” he finishes. His smile softens, deepening the lines around his mouth. “But sometimes simple is what saves us.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I step into him, pressing close, his heat seeping through the thin cotton of my shirt.

His arms come around me immediately, one hand at the small of my back, the other cupping the back of my head like he was waiting for this.

His mouth finds mine, not rushed, not demanding, but slow, patient, a kiss that feels like home and hunger both.

My lips part for him, my tongue sliding against his, and the low growl in his chest sends a tremor straight through me.

The mugs clink faintly as he nudges them aside, then he lifts me, setting me against the counter.

My thighs part for him easily, his hips fitting between them, his erection hard and insistent against my core.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against my lips, his breath hot, his hand trailing under my shirt, fingers brushing my ribs.

“I do,” I breathe, clutching his shoulders. “I want you.”

He groans, mouth finding my neck, sucking gently before dragging his teeth across the pulse there.

My head tips back, eyes closing as his tongue soothes the mark, his hands sliding lower, gripping my hips.

The window above the sink reflects us faintly—my hair wild, my eyes glassy, his broad body pressed into mine, heat radiating.

I watch us there, transfixed, as he grinds against me, slow, deliberate, his cock rubbing along my slit through the thin barrier of fabric.

“Look,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “See how you open for me.”

I do. I see it—the flush of my skin, the way my hips roll helplessly against his, chasing the friction.

My breath fogs the glass, my hands clutch his arms as his fingers tug at my waistband, sliding my pants down slow, baring me to him inch by inch.

He turns me gently, pressing my front against the counter, the cold surface shocking against my chest.

My ass pushes back instinctively, seeking him, and he groans low, his hands spreading me wide.

“You’re perfect,” he rasps, his thumb gliding through my wetness, circling my clit until I cry out. “So wet for me already.”

The head of his cock nudges at my entrance, hot and heavy, and I whimper, bracing my palms against the counter.

“Please, Cruz,” I beg, voice breaking. “I need you.”

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, stretching me until I gasp.

His hands grip my hips firmly, steadying me as he fills me, thick and deep.

I sob at the fullness, my walls clenching around him, and his groan tears through the kitchen.

“Christ, Marisa,” he hisses, his chest pressed against my back. “You feel like heaven. So tight. So ready.”