Page 13 of Baby for the Bikers

“You’ve been brooding since this morning.” He wipes grease from his fingers and leans against the workbench, arms crossed. “Something you want to share, or are we doing the whole Ryder-special ‘silent and moody’ thing?”

I toss a wrench at him, and he catches it easily, grinning. He doesn’t push further, but the look lingers, a knowing gleam in his gaze.

They don’t know what I did. That I stood in her bedroom, fingers ghosting over the things she thought she’d kept private, and took something small but significant. Not because I needed it, but because I wanted something of hers, something she had touched, something that carried her scent.

I tell myself I took it to prove a point. That she can’t hide from us, that we’ll take what we want when we want. But that’s a lie, and I know it. I took it because I couldn’t stop myself.

She should have been afraid. That’s what anyone with sense would’ve felt when three men broke into her space, uninvited and unrelenting. But there was something else in her eyes when she looked at me—something just as sharp as the panic, something that made my pulse pound in places it shouldn’t.

She knew.

She saw I had taken something. And instead of fear, there was heat. Just a flicker, just enough to make my chest tighten.

I leave the garage early. The night air is cool against my skin, but it does nothing to quiet the restlessness rolling through me. It’s too easy to picture her—in that small kitchen, sleeves pushed up, kneading dough with the kind of precision that comes from years of repetition. I bet she does everything like that, like she’spreparing for something. Like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I walk up the stairs to our apartment above the garage, each step feeling heavier than the last. The second the bedroom door closes behind me, I pull the lace from my pocket and set it on the nightstand. I should leave it there. I should let this whole thing go.

But I don’t.

Instead, I run my fingers over the delicate fabric, tracing the soft edges, wondering if she picked these out for herself or someone else. I wonder if she had a reason for choosing black lace, if she looked at herself in the mirror when she wore them and thought about who might see them.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling sharply. I need to let this go. She’s trouble wrapped in something deceptively soft, and I don’t need another problem. But the second I close my eyes, I see her again—the way she stood her ground in that kitchen, the way her breath hitched when our fingers brushed. The way she didn’t look away.

I shove a hand through my hair, my body already betraying me. This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t want her like this. I shouldn’t be this caught up over a woman I barely know, a woman who doesn’t belong to me.

But I am. And she does. She just doesn’t know it yet.

The lace is still in my hand, twisted between my fingers, delicate and ruined. I should let it go. Should drop it, shove it in a drawer, pretend it means nothing. But that would be another lie, and I’m tired of lying to myself.

She’s there, in my head, in my skin, in the slow-burning ache coiling low in my stomach. She’s not even in the same building, but I can feel her like she is—like she’s standing right in front of me, breathing against my neck, daring me to do something about the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching.

A groan slips from my throat, low and rough, and I squeeze my eyes shut and grip myself, the need impossible to ignore. My strokes start slow, teasing like I’m trying to hold on to the last shred of control I have left, but that control is slipping, unraveling, just like I knew it would.

She’s in my head now. Twisting through every thought, ruining any chance I had of forgetting her. And I don’t want to forget.

My jaw clenches as I stroke myself even slower, teasing, dragging it out like I have all the time in the world. I close my eyes, let my head tip back against the headboard, and I let myself think about her.

Not just the way she looked when we broke into her apartment, but the way she tasted when she gasped, the way her body moved even when she was pretending she wasn’t affected. The way her breath hitched when our fingers brushed, when my gaze dipped lower than it should have.

I bet she sounds just as wrecked when she’s falling apart.

The thought punches through my control, and I groan, wrapping my fingers tighter, working myself with slow, measured strokes. My breath shudders out of me, my muscles locking tight as the pressure builds, sharp and unbearable.

I imagine her under me, hands gripping my shoulders, her lips parted, a flush creeping down her throat. She wouldn’t fight me.Not really. She’d pretend to, just for a second, just to see if I’d push harder, and when I did—fuck, she’d melt.

I’d press her down, pin her wrists, make her take every inch of me, make her beg for it. Not just because I want to hear her say it, but because I need to know she feels it too—the way this thing between us is inevitable, inescapable, something neither of us can run from.

I pump my fist harder, hips lifting into my grip, chasing the feeling, chasing her. The lace is still there, wrapped tight in my other hand, something fragile and pretty against my rough skin, something that shouldn’t belong to me but does now.

She does now.

A growl scrapes up my throat, my rhythm stuttering, pleasure coiling tighter, burning hotter. My breath is ragged, my body wound so tight it hurts, and when I finally let go, it’s not quiet.

It’s a wrecking, shuddering thing. A groan rips from my chest as I spill over my stomach, my pulse pounding so hard I can feel it everywhere. My fingers flex, releasing the lace just enough to look at what I’ve done.

I should feel satisfied. Should feel spent. But all I feel is the lingering hunger clawing at my ribs, the need that hasn’t gone anywhere.

This didn’t fix anything.

---