The Biker's Rules
A soft, desperate plea.
She’s so wet it borders on obscene, and my restraint is hanging by a thread. One wrong move and I’ll lose it completely.
Control is no longer a solid thing — it’s a rumor.
I pull my hand away, then, on some filthy impulse I don’t even bother questioning, drag my thumb across her lips, smearing her there. She doesn’t hesitate. She opens her mouth and sucks it in like a slutty, feral angel.
I freeze.
On the TV, Potter’s voice drifts through the room — “I’m not going home. Not really.”