Page 4 of Mile High With the Bikers (Screaming Eagles MC #10)

RORY

Bull crosses his arms over his broad torso to capture the hem of his T-shirt with both hands and peel it up, revealing a broad expanse of tattooed skin that's stretched over the first actual six pack I've seen in my life. Is he even real?

I’m glad I have a few years of practice keeping my cool, but I'm pretty sure I've already bitten over way more than I can chew. Why did I let them get to me? Bull threw out the bait and I took it, hook, line and sinker.

If anyone comes back here and finds us like this, me playing cards with three partly dressed bikers, I'll be so, so dead. And maybe them, but definitely me. Even worse than that, Dad will give me that look that says: ‘Why did I even bother with you?’

I hate that I care. He can be distant, but he has the type of personality where, when he is focused on you, it’s like you’re the most interesting thing in the world. My memories of the nights we spent together working on some programming puzzle that was stumping him are like precious jewels.

But the thing about jewels is that even though they’re beautiful, you can’t survive on them.

I was already on the breaking point before this trip.

The rude man who slipped me five hundred dollars did me a bigger favor than he knew.

It’s more than enough to get me out of town without a trail, and once I’m out of town…

I don’t know, but I’ll be able to breathe again.

Bull’s shirt hits the floor, and the view of him in nothing but his jeans is even more distracting than I imagined it would be.

He really is built like a tree, massive and strong, with just enough padding over those cords of muscle to look like he’d give the best hugs and not count pizza slices.

He settles back into his chair, one massive arm over the back of Diesel’s seat, looking like he's posing just for me.

And when my eyes follow the trail of soft chest hair that narrows into a dark stripe past his shallow belly button and into his jeans, it's impossible not to notice the bulge down one of the legs.

Holy crap.

To my left, Shrapnel has his shirt on still, but he lost his jeans already, exposing powerful thighs with only his boxer briefs covering an impressive bulge of his own. If I squint, I think I might be able to make out the actual outline of his?—

I tear my eyes away, just to find Diesel on the other side.

He opted to take off his shirt before his biker vest, and now he's got it back on, bare-chested underneath.

There's a big bleeding heart tattoo over his heart, the blood inked so expertly that I feel like I could reach out and scoop it up with my fingertip.

Breathe!

My entire sexual history can be boiled down to making out in empty classrooms during the few coed events at my high school.

When they brought the girls and boys classes together for special occasions to prepare all the little future ambassadors for formal dancing and dining.

We’d take turns sneaking away while the others stood watch.

It was awkward and weird, but all we had.

That and Eamon, the intern that I spent a summer working with at nineteen.

Sweet, starstruck Eamon. He was so thrilled to be working for the Connor Whittaker, and thought I was the same.

He was more than happy to help me figure out what I’d been missing in the bed department—not a lot as it turned out.

When his internship ended, I was happy to erase his security clearance and move on with my life.

Nice guy, but nobody wants to sit around listening to someone who sounds like they would rather be with your father.

These guys are not Eamons. Maybe that's exactly why I’m risking it, because I know my plan could collapse completely, and I don’t know where that will leave me. What’s the saying? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die?

I lose a hand. It was bound to happen. Skill only gets you so far in poker, especially when you have to commit every round.

The way all three of the guys grin like wolves when it's finally my turn to take something off has me doing all sorts of mental math. What is something big enough to be interesting but not so much that I’m moving too fast?

“What's it gonna be?” Diesel's voice is sinfully low as his deep blue eyes strip me before I even move.

I pop the top button of my low-cut blazer.

With the white blouse under, it's not going to show anything but maybe the vague outline of my bra, but I’m starting to understand the appeal of strip poker.

It’s a game, but it feels intimate. The hot pool of excitement in my belly doesn’t know the difference between this and the first nervous reveal to a new lover.

Lovers .

“Fuck,” Shrapnel hisses, almost reverent, as I pull it off and drape it over the chair on the other side of the aisle.

I was right, you can see my bra through the thin silk, but I hadn’t realized just how obvious my nipples would be. Taking a sip from my drink, I draw a sharp little breath as I feel them crinkle at the attention. I'm going to drive myself crazy before they even get the chance to.

A few hands later, Bull is down to his boxers and Shrapnel is about to take off his shirt.

He meets my eyes and pulls it off in one movement.

Glinting in both his nipples are short silver bars with little balls on the end.

The first thing that goes through my mind is what they would feel like under my tongue.

Would the metal be cold or hot? And then I see the scars pocking his tan skin, and what looks like a military tattoo on his left pec.

At almost twenty-two, I’m not a kid, but these men who are probably all in their mid to late twenties somehow seem like they have decades more life behind them than I do.

In another round, Diesel's still wearing his vest, though his jeans are on the floor next to his chair. Every piece of clothing that drops makes it harder to focus on the game, and with nothing but thin cotton to hide the way their bodies are reacting, I know they’re all feeling the same way.

My concentration shot, I quickly end up in my bra and panties, making sure to keep my legs crossed and hoping nobody will see the damp spot I’m sure is growing.

There’s electricity in the air when we finally get to the round where no matter who loses, someone is going to reveal something that could get you arrested in public.

Bull puts down a straight. He’s safe for now.

Diesel has a pair of aces and I have a pair of threes.

Shrapnel eyes all of us, grinning confidently. Not looking good. I swallow hard.

School always came easily for me, the grades anyway. I’m not too proud to admit that I have enough of my father in me to maybe be a little overconfident in my own skills, and I’m starting to wonder if this was really a good idea.

“Well, fuck.” Shrapnel drops his cards on the table. Nothing, just high king.

I let out a shaky sigh of relief.

He stands up, which makes the thick bulge in his boxer briefs even more obvious.

“You don’t have to.” I blurt out awkwardly, staring right at his erection. “It’s just a game, right?”

But Shrapnel's anything but shy. With a cocky grin, he hooks his thumbs in the waistband, then looks down at me. “You wanna do the honors?”

“M—me?”

“Go on, you earned it.” His voice is teasing, but has an edge that wasn’t there earlier.

My right hand reaches out without checking with my brain first, but as soon as my fingertips hit hot male flesh, I wake up and snatch it back.

He shrugs. “Next time.”

The fabric clings for just a moment, stretched around him until he pulls the elastic past the tip. Suddenly free, his cock bounces out to stand thick and proud, and pointing right up at me. He pulls the tight boxers over his muscular thighs and lets them fall, his grin never leaving his lips.

Ooooooh my.

A bulge is one thing. It’s sexy and conjures up all sorts of images, but seeing his bobbing erection in the flesh is a whole different ballgame.

I'm no expert with cocks, I'll freely admit that, but what my hands on experience has been lacking, the internet made up for. Shrapnel’s cock has star quality.

I thought it was all clever angles and trick videography.

Obviously not for everyone.

How does that even fit?

I wet my lips, not sure what to say. I shouldn't be just staring at it, but I don't know where else I'm supposed to look, especially when he grips it and gives himself a couple of lazy strokes only inches from my face.

A glistening clear drop forms right at the tip.

When I finally pull my eyes up over his washboard abs, past the steel hanging from his nipples and up to his deep brown eyes, he's smiling at me.

“Changed your mind about touching? You can come closer. I don't mind.” He slides his fist up and down his length again, just for emphasis.

I know what I look like, and it’s nothing like the women in the porn videos.

I don’t have massive perky breasts, or do a thousand squats a day for a bubble butt.

I’m just me. An average girl who should really use the gym in our building more than twice a month and could probably stand to eat more vegetables and fewer cookies.

There's no way guys like this don’t have gorgeous women lining up, but he’s looking at me like I’m not just the only woman at the table, but the only one in the world.

It’s almost as distracting as his glistening cock.

“Game’s not over,” Diesel says with a snort.

“Oh no. I lost,” Bull jokes as he stands to pull his own briefs down. “We all know where this is fucking going.”

I gasp when he reveals himself, at least as thick and long as Shrapnel, swollen dark red with virile blood. He looks so hard it has to hurt.

“But I—” But I what? He's right. What did I expect? For someone who prides herself on being smart, I can be pretty freaking dumb.

“Fine, but for the record I think we all won.” Diesel shrugs off his vest, and drops his underwear.

It's like a three-cannon salute, with the three of them around me, cocks in hand.

“So,” Shrapnel says with a cocky grin. “Exactly what are the rules for the mile high club?”