Page 70 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

“You ready for us, baby?” he pants, and I nod, knowing I can’t hold off the orgasm much longer.

Trigger’s salty cum hits the back of my throat a second before I feel Dash thrust even deeper, shuddering as he climaxes hard inside me, and I then fall right over the edge with them. I cry out, gripping Trigger’s thighs. He pulls away, allowing the scream to fully cry out from my lips as the orgasm continues to ripple through me. I turn my head toward the door as I’m still cumming, even as Dash becomes limp inside me.

Silhouetted in the doorway is a figure, and I almost cry out before I realize it’s Chief, silently standing and watching. I don’t know how long for. Perhaps the whole time. An excited, hungry part of me hopes he will walk over and join us. But then, after a moment, he turns and walks back out of the doors, which shut with a whisper behind him.

I frown, confused. Does Chief not want me? Is he jealous? Disappointed?

Suddenly, I don’t feel as confident and sexy. I feel foolish. Was this a terrible mistake? But then Trigger pulls me close to his bare chest, kissing me and murmuring how perfect I am, and I forget my worries. I start to wonder if I imagined Chief was there.

Dash kisses me on the lips, his touch tracing my breast and making my pussy twitch. “Well, that was fun.”

“That’s one word for it,” I pant, chuckling.

“Are you okay?” Trigger looks at me nervously, as if wondering if he overstepped or if I will somehow decide I still don’t want him.

I kiss him. “More than okay. That was… it was… just wow,” I say, lost for words.

“I have that effect on women,” Dash quips with a lazy grin, and I lightly smack his arm.

“I see the stupid jokes are back,” Trigger grumbles.

“I thought you were going to beat the shit outa me,” Dash says nonchalantly, but I can tell he was genuinely concerned.

“Trust me, the thought crossed my mind. But I meant what I said.” Now he looks at me, his eyes sincere. “I would rather share you with my best friends than not be with you, Sadie. If that’s what you want, I’m okay with it.”

“Is that what you want?” Dash asks hopefully.

I blink in surprise. “Is it what any of you want? You’re Mr. Date and Dash, I didn’t think you do commitment.”

He shrugs. “You’re different,” he says simply. The earnestness surprises me.

“Told you,” Trigger says softly. “So, what do you say?”

It’s all too much, I can’t think straight. “I don’t know. I like you both, I really do, I like all of you, I want to see where this goes…”

“But?” Dash finishes.

“But surely this can’t work long term. What about Owen? What about jealousy? We don’t even know what the others want.”

“We do,” Trigger says with certainty.

I don’t mention that I saw Chief watching, that he chose not to join, he might not want this. Me.

“You don’t need to make any decisions now. Just don’t dismiss the idea either. Give us a chance,” Dash says quietly.

I nod thoughtfully. “I can do that.”

It’s utterly insane, an impossible idea that’s bound to fail, but part of me can’t help but wonder, what if it doesn’t? What if this could actually work?

Chapter 22

Chief

One consequence of being the man everyone depends on is that people eventually mistake discipline for nature. After enough years of being the calm one, the reliable one, the person everybody turns to when things go wrong, people stop seeing the effort behind it. They assume self-control comes naturally. They assume restraint is effortless. They assume that because you rarely raise your voice, rarely lose your temper, and rarely let emotions dictate your decisions, you have somehow stopped having those emotions altogether. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

For me, control has never been the absence of temptation. It’s always been the decision not to act on it, choosing the sensible path when a less sensible one would be infinitely more satisfying. Most of the time, I am very good at it. Lately, however, my resolve has started to crack.

I spot Sadie before she notices me. She’s sitting outside the clubhouse, a coffee mug wrapped in her hands, watching Owen and several other children race around the yard while Moose charges after them with all the elegance of a runaway freight train. Every few seconds, another burst of laughter drifts across the open space between us, and each time, her attention automatically follows Owen. The habit seems completely unconscious now. No matter what else is happening around her, part of her attention is always fixed on her son. I take a seat at a table near the entrance where I can watch them but keep my distance.