Page 6 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

I barely make it through the motel room door before my back hits the wall, fingers pressed to my lips where I can still taste him.

Silas. My heart pounds against my ribs, and heat pools low in my belly from that kiss.

The way he backed me against his motorcycle, the way his voice dropped when he said my name.

“This is so stupid,” I whisper to the empty room, but my body doesn’t care about stupid. My skin feels tight, electric, like every nerve ending is awake and demanding attention.

I kick off my boots and peel away my jeans, then my Wolf’s Den T-shirt. Cool air hits my heated skin, making me shiver.

In the bathroom mirror, I can see the flush spreading down my neck, the way my pupils are dilated. I look like a woman who’s been thoroughly kissed and wants more.

My hands shake as I turn on the shower, water beating against the fiberglass walls while steam starts to fog the mirror.

I step under the spray, tilting my head back as the hot water beats against my shoulders. My muscles should relax, but they don’t.

My chest still feels tight, my pulse refusing to settle.

I close my eyes and all I see is Silas—the way he pinned me against his bike, his voice low in that deep, accented growl when he said my name. My lips still feel swollen from his kiss, my skin humming with the memory of it.

My fingers drift over my own mouth, as if I can trace the shape of his kiss there.

But then Garrett’s hands flash in my mind. Steady, confident, the kind of hands that could pick me up like I weigh nothing. I imagine his palms sliding over my hips, his thumbs brushing the sensitive spots that make me gasp.

The water runs hotter, my skin prickling, but it’s not from the heat.

Then there’s Atlas. His storm-gray eyes always watch me like he’s cataloging every breath, every twitch. I imagine his grip, unyielding, holding me exactly where he wants me. His voice would be the one giving orders, deep and firm, the kind you don’t disobey.

My breath hitches.

My hand slides over my stomach, lower, my skin slick from the water. I lean against the shower wall, tilting my hips forward slightly as my fingers find that aching, desperate place that’s been throbbing since Silas’s mouth left mine.

The first touch makes me gasp.

I close my eyes and they’re all there. Garrett at my back, his breath warm against my ear. Silas is in front of me, his lips trailing heat down my throat. Atlas at my side, his hand wrapped around my wrist, guiding me, making me feel every stroke.

“God…” The word falls from my lips, swallowed by the steam.

My fingers work faster, the water slicking everything, heat rolling through my core. Every thought is of them. Three men I should stay far away from, three men I want so badly it makes me ache.

The pressure builds until I can’t hold it back. My climax crashes over me, sharp and overwhelming, my body shaking as the sound of water fills the tiny space.

I slump against the wall, my forehead pressed to the cool tile, my breathing ragged.

Steam clings to my skin as I step out of the shower, my towel wrapped loosely around me. My pulse is still unsteady, my legs weak from what I just did under the spray, but the heat in my body hasn’t eased.

The motel room is dim, the single lamp casting a soft glow over the bed.

I drop my towel on the chair, my skin still warm from the shower, my head buzzing from the kiss and from everything I’m not supposed to want.

I cross to the nightstand, opening the drawer for the small jar of pain relief balm I keep for long days. My fingers pause.

Next to the jar sits my concealed tactical knife, the handle dark and familiar. I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I shouldn’t even be looking at it.

But I do.

I lift it out, feeling the cool metal in my palm. The blade stays sheathed, locked. But the weight of it, the polished handle—it makes my pulse quicken.

It’s insane. I know it.

I pop the latch, sliding the knife free just enough to see the dark, smooth handle glint in the light. The blade stays sheathed.

Still, my pulse kicks harder.

I sink down on the edge of the bed, the cool metal handle resting against my fingertips. It’s cold at first, shocking against my overheated skin. I drag it along the inside of my thigh, feeling goose bumps rise in its wake.

I picture Silas holding it, his deep voice rumbling low as he traces it over my skin. Garrett standing just behind me, his hands firm on my hips. Atlas watching, that storm-gray gaze fixed on me like he can see every thought in my head.

The handle glides higher, brushing over the bare heat between my thighs. I let out a soft gasp, my legs parting without conscious thought.

I press the cool handle against my clit, the temperature sending a shock of pleasure through me. My hips shift, my body desperate for more.

In my mind, Atlas takes the handle from me, his voice rough as he orders me to keep my hands to myself.

I rock the handle against me, the friction growing wetter, slicker. My breath comes faster, my moans muffled as I bite my lip. The danger, the cold metal, the image of all three men in the room. It pushes me closer, sharper, faster.

My thighs tremble as I press it harder against my clit, the cool, unyielding surface sending sharp jolts of pleasure through me.

My free hand grips the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the worn mattress as I fight to keep quiet. The walls are thin, and the last thing I need is someone—anyone—hearing me lose control like this.

But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when the image of Silas’s dark, hungry eyes burns behind my closed lids, his calloused hands guiding the knife’s handle with a precision that makes my breath catch.

In my mind, Garrett’s grip tightens on my hips, his low chuckle vibrating against my spine as he murmurs, “You’re trouble, Ember. Always pushin’ the edge.”

Atlas stands apart, his gaze locked on me, unblinking, like he’s memorizing every shudder, every gasp. His voice cuts through the haze, calm but commanding. “Don’t rush it. Let it build.”

My hips rock faster, the smooth handle slick now, gliding against me with every movement. The danger of it—the insanity of using something so lethal—only heightens the heat coiling in my core.

I’m an FBI agent, trained to keep control, to stay sharp, but right now, I’m unraveling, chasing a release that feels like it might break me.

The knife’s weight shifts in my hand, and for a split second, I freeze, my heart lurching as the blade’s sheath rattles softly.

It’s still secure, locked tight, but the sound snaps me back to the risk I’m taking.

My pulse hammers in my throat, but instead of pulling back, I lean into it.

The thrill of danger, the recklessness—it’s all tangled up with the way I feel about them.

I tilt the handle slightly, letting its rounded edge press deeper, teasing that aching spot that makes my toes curl.

A low moan slips out, louder than I mean, and I bite my lip hard, tasting the faint copper of blood. My body’s on fire, every nerve screaming for release, but I’m caught in the fantasy—Silas’s mouth on my throat, Garrett’s hands lifting my hips.

“Fuck,” I whisper, the word barely audible over the pounding in my ears. My movements grow frantic, the handle slick and warm now, matching the heat of my skin.

The pressure builds, sharp and relentless, until it’s too much.

My climax hits like a shock wave, ripping a choked cry from my throat as my body arches off the bed.

My vision whites out, pleasure crashing through me, leaving me shaking, gasping, the knife’s handle still clutched in my trembling hand.

I collapse back against the mattress, my chest heaving, the cool air stinging my overheated skin. The knife slips from my fingers, landing softly on the bed beside me, the blade still safely sheathed. My heart’s still racing, my mind a mess of guilt and need.

I shouldn’t want them. I shouldn’t be doing this—losing myself in fantasies of men I’m supposed to be bringing down. But the ache in my chest, the pull toward Silas, Garrett, and Atlas—it’s stronger than duty, stronger than reason.

Wolf Pike Community Center buzzes with activity when I arrive Saturday evening.

Long tables covered in checkered tablecloths stretch across the main hall, loaded with casserole dishes, homemade pies, and platters of fried chicken that smell incredible.

Kids weave between the tables while their parents call after them, and the air vibrates with conversation and laughter.

“Ember!” Evie waves me over to where she’s arranging desserts on a side table. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” I smooth down my sundress. It’s something casual but pretty, with thin straps and a skirt that hits just above my knees. “This is incredible. Half the county must be here.”

“Pretty much. Wolf Pike takes its community dinners seriously.” She gestures toward a table near the back where three familiar figures sit. “Your bosses are over there.”

My stomach flips when I spot them. Atlas in a black button-down that makes his silver hair look striking, Garrett in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms covered in tattoos, and Silas in something dark that clings to his shoulders.

All three are deep in conversation with other locals, but when Atlas’s eyes find mine across the room, he nods slightly.

“They’re popular,” I observe.

“Community pillars. Atlas handles a lot of the town’s business partnerships, Garrett organizes the volunteer fire department fundraisers, and Silas coordinates most of our social events.” Evie hands me a plate. “Come on, let’s get you fed before the good stuff disappears.”

I fill my plate with pulled pork, cornbread, and green bean casserole, noting how many people nod or wave as I pass. Word has definitely gotten around that I’m working at Wolf’s Den, and the reception is uniformly warm. Small-town hospitality at its finest.

“Mind if I join you?”