Page 20 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

A warm, slow stroke grazes my inner thigh, pulling me from the haze of sleep.

It’s soft at first, then firmer—a deliberate drag of fingers. My eyes flutter open, heavy with dawn, as Garrett’s hand slips beneath the hem of my panties, tracing the sensitive skin where thigh meets something more intimate.

I shift, the sheets cool against my back, and mumble, “Garrett, what—?”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips brushing the inside of my thigh. His stubble prickles, a familiar scratch that sends a shiver up my spine. I catch the glint of his eyes in the dim light, dark and focused, and my breath hitches.

I don’t argue.

He tugs my panties down, the lace dragging over my hips until cool air kisses bare skin. Then his mouth is there. A soft, slick sound as his tongue presses against me, lazy but sure, like he’s savoring the first taste of morning.

My hips jerk, a gasp tearing from my throat. My fingers find his hair, thick and messy, and I grip tight, not to pull him away but to anchor myself as he moans low, the sound muffled against my skin, vibrating through me.

“Garrett—” My voice cracks. My pulse races, my breasts aching with a strange, tender weight I’ve been ignoring for days.

His hands slide up, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of my thighs, holding me open with a gentleness that contrasts with the wet, eager lap of his tongue. It’s messy, unhurried, slurping softly, then circling with a flick that makes my toes curl.

I clutch the headboard with my free hand, wood creaking under my grip.

“Oh—God—” The words spill out as my thighs tremble.

His lips close around my clit with a soft suck, a wet pop that rips a cry from my chest. “Yes!”

My body coils tighter, every nerve alight.

The room narrows to this—his tongue, his hands, the ragged edge of my breathing.

A fleeting wave of nausea curls in my belly, gone as fast as it came, but it’s the third morning this week.

I push the thought down, lost as he licks deeper, tongue sliding in slow, deliberate strokes that make my hips buck against his hold.

“Don’t stop—” I gasp, voice hoarse, barely mine.

He doesn’t. His tongue flicks faster, then slow again, teasing, drawing me to the edge.

My back arches, sheets twisting beneath me, and I cry out, a raw, shuddering sound that catches in my throat.

My thighs clamp around his head as I come undone, pleasure crashing through me like a wave, sharp and overwhelming.

He stays with me, licking softly through each aftershock, his hands steady on my thighs, grounding me as I tremble.

I collapse, chest heaving, sweat slicking my skin.

My heart pounds in my ears, my body humming.

Garrett pulls back, breathing hard, his chin glistening as he crawls up beside me.

His eyes meet mine, a flicker of pride in them, but also something softer—like he knows me, knows us.

He brushes a damp strand of hair from my face, his thumb lingering on my cheek.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough, a grin tugging at his lips. His mouth brushes mine, still tasting like me, and I laugh, breathless, curling into the warmth of his chest.

The sheets are a tangled mess. My body feels like it’s glowing.

“You’re going to kill me one of these days,” I tell him.

“What a way to go.”

I curl against his chest, breathing in his scent and trying to ignore the slight queasiness that’s been bothering me for the past few mornings.

Probably just stress from the cartel situation, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind that keeps track of dates, keeps noting that I’m three days late, and my breasts have been more sensitive than usual.

Not thinking about that right now. Too many other things to worry about.

“Where are Atlas and Silas?”

“Atlas left early for a supplier meeting. Silas is in his forge, working on something he won’t tell us about.” Garrett’s fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. “We’ve got an hour before you need to be at the restaurant.”

“Good. I don’t want to move yet.”

“Neither do I.”

But eventually, reality intrudes. The restaurant won’t run itself, and Tuesday dinner shifts are always busy. I shower, dress in my usual uniform, and try to shake off the lingering unease that’s been following me around since yesterday’s revelation about those suspicious SUVs.

Atlas checked them out after we returned from the range, but whoever owned them was gone. No sign of forced entry, nothing disturbed, just the unsettling knowledge that someone had been watching us.

“You okay?” Garrett asks as I’m tying my apron.

“Just tired.”

“You sure? You’ve seemed off the last couple of days.”

“I’m fine. Really.” I stretch up to kiss him. “See you tonight.”

Wolf’s Den is already bustling when I arrive for my shift. Tuesday nights draw a good crowd—locals who don’t want to cook, travelers passing through, and the usual collection of bikers and truckers who treat the place like a second home.

“Thank God you’re here,” Lizzy greets me, looking frazzled. “We’re already running behind, and the McCready family just called in a reservation for eight people.”

“The ones with all the kids?”

“That’s them. Plus, Mrs. Hernandez is celebrating her birthday with her entire extended family, so we’re looking at a full house tonight.”

I grab my order pad and dive into the controlled chaos. Take drink orders for a table of truckers, deliver appetizers to the corner booth, refill coffee for Mr. Patterson, who’s reading his newspaper and pretending he’s not eavesdropping on everyone else’s conversations.

It’s good, honest work. The kind that keeps your hands busy and your mind focused on simple, immediate problems. Much better than worrying about cartels or mysterious SUVs or the possibility that I might be carrying one of my captors’ babies.

Not thinking about that.

“Ember!” Atlas calls from the kitchen pass. “Table twelve needs their order taken.”

Table twelve is a family I haven’t seen before—a couple about my age, the woman heavily pregnant like she’s ready to pop any second. The woman’s husband keeps fussing over her, adjusting her chair and asking if she needs more water.

“First baby?” I ask as I approach their table.

“Second,” the woman says with a tired smile. “But this one’s being more difficult than the first. I swear, if he doesn’t come soon, I’m going to evict him myself.”

“When are you due?”

“Three days ago. Doctor says he’ll come when he’s ready, but I’m ready now.”

I laugh, taking their drink orders and trying not to think about due dates and doctor visits and all the things that come with pregnancy. “I’ll get these right out for you.”

The evening passes in the usual rush of orders and refills and small talk with regulars. Around eight thirty, a commotion near the front door catches my attention. Two men I don’t recognize, obviously drunk, are arguing loudly about something involving the Denver Broncos and someone named Ashley.

“Fucking told you she was cheating,” the taller one slurs, swaying slightly as he gestures wildly. “Saw her with that asshole from the garage.”

“You don’t know what you saw,” his friend replies, but he’s just as drunk and twice as angry. “Ashley wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t she? Then explain why she was sucking face with him behind Murphy’s bar.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I? Ask anyone who was there Saturday night.”

The argument escalates, voices getting louder, other customers starting to stare. I catch Atlas’s eye across the room and nod toward the men. Time for management to intervene.

“Gentlemen,” Atlas says, appearing calmly beside their table, “let’s keep it down a little. We’ve got families eating.”

“Mind your own business,” the tall one snaps. “This is between me and him.”

“It becomes my business when it’s happening in my restaurant.”

“Your restaurant? Who the fuck are you?”

“The owner. And I’m asking you politely to either keep it civil or take it outside.”

“Or what?”

Atlas’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his posture. “Or I’ll help you find the door.”

“You threatening me?”

“I’m offering you choices.”

That’s when the shorter drunk decides to solve the problem by taking a swing at his friend. His fist connects with the tall guy’s jaw, and suddenly we’ve got a full brawl happening in the middle of the dining room.

Garrett appears from nowhere, grabs the tall drunk, and hauls him away from the other customers. Silas moves to intercept the shorter one, who’s now throwing punches at anyone within reach. Atlas coordinates the response, making sure innocent diners stay clear of the violence.

“Get them out of here,” Atlas orders, and his brothers comply.

The whole thing lasts maybe three minutes, but it leaves everyone’s adrenaline pumping. The drunk guys get thrown out into the parking lot with warnings not to come back, and gradually the restaurant settles back into normal dinner conversation.

“Exciting night,” Mrs. Hernandez comments from her birthday table.

“Never a dull moment,” I agree, refilling her iced tea.

By nine thirty, things have calmed down completely.

The pregnant woman and her family finish their meal and head home, the truckers settle their tab, and most of the dinner crowd clears out.

I’m in the kitchen helping Finn with the last of the dishes when we hear what sounds like firecrackers going off in the parking lot.

“Jesus,” Lizzy mutters. “Are those idiots back?”

More popping sounds, followed by what might be shouting. I exchange glances with Finn, who’s already moving toward the back door.

“Probably just the drunks acting up again,” he says. “I’ll go tell them to—”

The front windows explode inward in a shower of glass and gunfire.

“GET DOWN!” Atlas’s voice roars from the dining room as automatic weapons open up on the building.

This isn’t drunk locals. This is war.