Sweet Claim of the Dirty Biker

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Arrow

The bike rumbles between my thighs like something alive, the vibration climbing up through my spine and rattling my teeth.

It’s past midnight. Club business is done.

My knuckles are split and aching, but the satisfaction is already fading.

Until I cut the engine behind the coffee shop and hear something that makes every hair on my body stand on end—a girl’s voice, high and scared, saying “please” like it’s ever done a woman any good in this neighborhood.

I kill the lights. Roll the Harley forward silent on the asphalt.

Three of them. Drunk, sloppy, crowding her against the back door.

She’s tiny. Half my size. Dark hair slipping from a messy bun, apron still tied around her waist, hands braced against the door like she’s trying to push through it instead of the lock.

One of the men grabs her wrist and my vision goes red.

“Hey.” My voice comes out flat. Dead. The voice I use before things get ugly. “The lady said no.”

They turn. Three sets of eyes, bloodshot and mean. They see the cut on my back, the leather, the patches. One of them laughs. “Mind your own fucking business, grandpa.”

Grandpa. I’m thirty-eight. The laugh dies when I step off the bike and they get a real look at me—six-foot-three, two-fifty, arms sleeved in ink, face that’s seen too many fights to count.

I don’t hurry. Hurrying means you’re scared.

I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and the sound bounces off the brick walls of the alley.

“She’s closing up,” I say. “You’re done here.”

The biggest one steps forward. He’s got fifty pounds on his friends, ugly sneer, hands that look like they’ve hit before. “We’re just having a conversation.”

The girl—Jesus Christ, she’s barely more than a kid—presses herself flatter against the door. Her bottom lip is trembling. It’s the trembling that does it. Something hot and possessive surges up my throat, unfamiliar and raw, and my hands curl into fists before I can think about it.

“Conversation’s over.” I’m already moving.

He swings first. Predictable. I duck under it, my body acting on muscle memory, and my right connects with his jaw. The crack echoes. Wet. His feet leave the ground before he hits the pavement, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even twitch. One swing. Done.

His friends freeze. They’re looking at me like I’m something that crawled out of the dark, and maybe I am. I turn to them slowly, knuckles throbbing, blood speckling the concrete between us.

“Either you carry him out of here, or I start on the two of you.” My voice doesn’t change. Doesn’t need to.

They scramble. Dragging their friend between them, stumbling over their own feet, casting terrified glances back. The alley goes quiet. Just the hum of the distant highway, the drip of a busted pipe somewhere, and the sound of her breathing—shallow, rapid, scared.

I turn to her.

And fuck me, I am ruined.

She’s pressed against the door like she’s trying to disappear into it.

Big brown eyes, wide and wet. Full lips parted, quivering.

She’s all soft curves under that apron—small tits heaving with each breath, narrow waist, hips that flare just enough to make my mouth go dry.

Her skin is pale under the yellow security light, flushed pink across her cheeks and throat.

Innocent. So fucking innocent it hurts to look at her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, and my voice does something strange. Softens. Gentles. I don’t recognize it.

She swallows. “Who are you?”

“Arrow.” I don’t offer the club name. Not yet. “You locked out?”

She nods, a jerky little movement. “My manager locks the back at ten. I was taking out trash and—” Her voice breaks. A tear slides down her cheek and something in my chest caves in.

I step closer. Slow. Giving her time to bolt if she wants to.

She doesn’t. She watches me with those huge eyes, trembling from head to toe, and when I reach for her I’m careful.

My hands could break her. I know it. She knows it.

But when my fingers wrap around her upper arms, she doesn’t flinch.

Just keeps looking at me like I’m something she can’t quite figure out.

“You’re coming with me,” I say. It’s not a question.

She should run. Any smart girl would run from a stranger on a motorcycle who just put a man in the dirt with one punch.

But she doesn’t. She lets me guide her to the Harley, lets me lift her—Christ, she weighs nothing—and settle her on the seat behind me.

Her thighs press against my hips. Her chest brushes my back through the leather.

My cock stirs, thick and hungry, and I grit my teeth.

“Hold on,” I growl.

Her arms wind around my waist. Small hands. Soft. They clutch at my cut like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.

I kick the engine over and the bike roars to life beneath us.

She gasps, her body jerking against mine, and I feel every curve of her through the thin cotton of her uniform.

Twenty minutes to the clubhouse. Twenty minutes of her pressed against me, her breath hot on my neck through my collar, her thighs gripping mine every time I lean into a turn.

By the time the clubhouse gates swing open, I’m hard enough to hurt, jaw clenched so tight I taste blood.

Brothers spill out onto the porch. Tank. Reaper. Ghost. They see her and their expressions shift—curiosity, then understanding, then something like respect. They know what this is. They’ve seen it before. A man finds his woman. The world rearranges.

I kill the engine. Lift her off the bike. She sways on her feet, dazed, and I catch her with one arm around her waist. She fits against my side like she was made for the space.

“Pres,” Tank says, nodding at the girl. “We got a situation?”

“No situation.” My voice is steel. “She stays with me. Anyone looks at her wrong, I break their fucking hands. Understood?”

They nod. No argument. I steer her through the door, through the main room with its stale beer and cigarette smoke, past the curious stares, and into the hallway that leads to my private room. I unlock the door. Push it open. Guide her inside.

The room is sparse. Bed. Dresser. Chair. A window with bars. I close the door behind us and turn the lock. The click is final.

She’s standing in the middle of the floor, hugging herself, still shaking. Those big eyes track me like I’m a predator and she’s not sure if she’s prey. Maybe she is. Maybe that’s exactly what this is.

I step into her space. Close enough that her breath hitches.

Close enough that I can smell her—coffee and vanilla and something sweet underneath, something that belongs only to her.

I bend down. My mouth finds her ear, and what comes out is raw, unfiltered, the truth I’ve known since the moment I laid eyes on her in that alley.

“You’re safe now, little dove.” My voice is rough velvet, a growl meant only for her. “But you’re also mine. Daddy’s gonna keep you close, fuck you raw every night, stuff that innocent belly full until you’re round with my kid and wearing my patch.”

She makes a sound. Small. Broken. Not fear—something hotter, deeper, a shudder that runs through her whole body and presses her tighter against me.

I pull back. Look at her face. Her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed dark, and there’s something in her eyes that isn’t terror. It’s recognition. Like she’s been waiting for me, and she just didn’t know it until now.

Outside this room, I’m ice. I’m violence. I’m the man who breaks jaws without blinking. For her, my hand comes up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing away the tear track, and my voice gentles to something I haven’t heard from my own mouth in twenty years.

“Nobody touches you but me,” I whisper. “Not ever again.”

She believes me. I can see it. And that—that right there—is the most dangerous thing either of us has ever done.