บททั้งหมดของ claimed by the biker : บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 9

There are only two things in this fucked up world I give a damn about, motorcycles and women. ​I ride them both the same way with a heavy hand and zero mercy. I like easing into the stroke, feeling the machine warm up beneath me, then manhandling them around tight corners until the metal screams. I want them redlining, vibrating through my bones until they’re begging me to let off the gas. I don't do gentle. I do control. ​Sup, Boss. ​I didn’t look up. I stayed hunched over my bike, my knuckles bruised and stained with oil as I tightened a bolt. The sun was bleeding out over the horizon, turning the sky the color of a fresh bruise. Across the lot, the city was waking up, a swarm of suits and losers heading home to their boring lives. ​I’m good,I grunted, my voice like gravel being crushed. I stood up, wiping the grease onto a rag that had seen better days. We’re moving out soon. That rat Silas thinks he can duck me? We visit him tonight. ​I didn’t care about the money. I care

​ Please... ahh, slow, I gasped. My voice was barely steady, trembling under the overwhelming flood of sensations crashing through my body. Every nerve ending screamed as waves of pleasure built up inside me, making my limbs weak and my breath hitch uncontrollably. My skin felt like it was on fire, each shiver an echo of the intensity that held me captive. ​He didn’t slow down gently. No, his movements were deliberately languid, teasing me mercilessly as if savoring every moment of my helplessness. It wasn't kind; it wasn't tender. It was slow, like a predator toying with his prey. His calm, measured rhythm was maddening. ​ Shh, he whispered low, his voice a quiet growl that sent another shudder down my spine. It was as if he was enjoying my torment just as much as I was enduring it. ​Damn him. The way his dark eyes locked onto mine was hypnotic, filled with a dangerous mix of control and desire. His curly hair, damp and disheveled, clung to his forehead, making him look like som

The rag in my hand was grey, damp, and smelled faintly of sour yeast and industrial bleach. I pushed it across the scarred wood of the table, my movements mechanical. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see my mother’s face not the face of a mother who loved, but the face of a woman who was saving me by selling me to a man of God.Marry him, Ella. He will wash away the rebellion in your heart.The rebellion they talked about was just me wanting to breathe. But in my father’s house, breathing was a luxury.You missed a spot. The voice was like a jagged piece of glass. I didn't have to look up to know it was Elias. He was the kind of man who enjoyed the power of a small room. Since my parents had basically given me to him to work off some of their own perceived spiritual debts, he treated me like property.I’m sorry, sir, I whispered. My voice felt thin, like paper.Sorry doesn't get the grime off my tables. Elias stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He didn't ju

Ella’s POV"Ella, get up this instant!"My father’s roaring voice boomed from downstairs, shattering the last remnants of the peace I had found in my dreams. I swung my legs out of bed, the cool floorboards making me shiver instantly. I reached up, my fingers frantically trying to smooth out the messy tangles in my hair from how roughly I had slept. Just moving my jaw sent a sharp reminder through my face,the sting on my cheek from my father’s slap yesterday had settled into a tight, bruised tenderness.I hurried into the small bathroom, intentionally avoiding my dim reflection in the cracked mirror. After quickly washing my body, I walked back into the bedroom and opened my small wardrobe. Today was Sunday the day my father was formally introducing me to the pastor's family. Everything had to be perfect.I pulled out a long, stiffly ironed gown. It was modest, high necked, and completely covered my body, feeling more like a costume than clothes. As I pulled the heavy fabric over my h

The bathroom was thick with a heavy, suffocating fog of steam that clung to the walls and blurred the mirror into a slick white sheet. Ella kept the water scalding hot almost boiling, right at the edge of what her skin could tolerate. She gripped the rough, fiber sponge, digging it into her collarbones, her chest, her ribs, and down her thighs. She scrubbed with a frantic, desperate rhythm until her flesh was raw, burning, and a furious, bright red. She wanted to peel the top layer of her own skin right off, wanting to scrape away the lingering filth of those men’s eyes that still felt like grease on her body. But no matter how hard she pressed until her knuckles turned white and her arms ached, the memory of that morning refused to wash down the drain,Every drop of water hitting the tile seemed to echo the rhythmic, heavy footsteps of the congregation. Her mind dragged her right back into the suffocating atmosphere of that sanctuary, forcing her to live through the horror all over aga