Page 123 of Rider Daddies
“Sorry,” I grit out, handing over the drink. “Things since the crash have been hard.”
“Very hard,” interjects Ash.
He didn’t have to say that right in my fucking ear.
And in that honey voice too.
When the biker walks away from the bar, I snap around and get ready to give Ash a piece of my mind for being the world’s biggest, hottest torment.
But then I realize I don’t want to.
I’m tired of talking.
“What are you gonna do?” Ash looks down at me like he’s about to commit a felony, one of his eyebrows pulled up. “Tell me off?”
His hand is still between my legs, mind, petting my clit.
“You’re divine,” he says.
“And you’re in trouble if the other two see what you’re doing to me right now.”
“You better tell them to come join in on the fun.”
That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear come out of one of their mouths.
But it’s true. My near-death experience has changed them for the better. For this outcome, I’d do it all over again.
I bite my lip, looking up at my manager. “Do you think we can spare a few minutes?”
The sinful look on his face tells all. He raises a finger between us and curls it, gesturing for me to follow him.
Gladly.
When we leave the bar, Ryder and Saint take notice of us.
I give them my bestI-want-to-rip-your-clothes-offlook,and what do you know? They’re following Ash and me away from the main room, down to the bedroom I unofficially claimed as mine when I first arrived here.
When the door closes behind the four of us, the energy in the room feels so thick with sexual tension that I can feel it brushing over my skin.
The brothers might be on good terms, but that doesn’t mean they’re gonna be polite and invite somebody else to kiss me first.
Ryder beats them to it, of course, his mouth hot like molten lava.
Oh my god. I could faint. There’s a reason society has normalized a woman going to bed with only one man at a time—they don’t want the lucky girls of the world who can score a hat trick to have too much fun.
Maybe it’s selfish to hog all three brothers to myself when other girls here have their eye on my men.
But they’re mine.
The tattoo speaks for us.
And I don’t make the rules.
Ryder pushes me with such force that I end up on the bed, back crashing down onto the mattress.
Bearing in mind I was unconscious only yesterday, I’m surprised how well I’m taking this. The bandages are still wrapped around my leg, nearly cutting off my circulation. I’m also under strict instruction from the hospital to take care with my face since the stitches are still susceptible to infection.
But you reach a level of arousal and don’t give a fuck if your stitches are oozing infectious puss, or ripping open completely for that matter.
