Page 97 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
I can feel it in the way his body tightens, the way his cock jerks inside me.
He slams into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then he’s spilling.
Hot, thick spurts flood me, deep and heavy, filling me until I gasp, my cunt still fluttering around him.
He groans against my shoulder, grinding in deep to make sure none of it escapes, his seed spilling again and again until I swear I can feel it pooling inside me.
The reflection in the window shows me undone, sweat-damp and flushed, his body hunched over mine as he empties into me, claiming me.
The sight makes my stomach twist with something more than lust that feels like belonging.
Cruz finally collapses forward, still buried deep, his breath rough against my neck.
His lips brush my temple as he murmurs sweet nothings, bringing me down from the high.
He lifts me off the counter when my legs won’t hold me, his arms steady and sure as if I weigh nothing.
My body is still trembling, his cum warm inside me, but he doesn’t let me stumble.
He just carries me through the quiet hall, past the hum of the house settling, into the bedroom where the sheets are rumpled from earlier.
He lowers me carefully, tucking me beneath the quilt, his big hands smoothing it over me like I’m something fragile.
He leans down, kisses my hairline once, a press so gentle it makes my chest ache, then stretches out beside me.
His arm drapes heavy over my waist, his breathing evens, and for the first time in a long time, sleep drags me under without a fight.
I don’t know how long it’s been when the door opens again.
A low knock, then hinges creaking.
Roman’s broad frame fills the doorway, one arm steadying the bundle against his chest.
“The twins,” he murmurs, voice rough from hours awake.
I blink, the fog of sleep falling away, and push upright, the quilt slipping to my lap.
Cruz stirs but doesn’t rise.
Roman steps close and lowers the babies into my arms.
Their warmth soaks into me instantly, their little mouths rooting, fists twitching.
I pull them in against me, guiding each one to latch, their hungry noises soft but insistent.
My body responds without hesitation, milk letting down, and the release makes me sigh deep.
Roman doesn’t move away.
He lingers at the edge of the bed, watching, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
His pistol is still at his hip, his shirt damp with the cold of night watch, but his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen.
“They wouldn’t settle,” he mutters, almost apologetic.
“They’re fine now,” I whisper back, rocking slightly as their suckling steadies into rhythm.
Cruz leans over, his hand brushing my knee under the quilt, quiet reassurance that I’m not alone in this.
