Pregnant with a Bikers Baby

Aftershock

Elena POV

"Let it go."

The command was a physical detonation.

The coil in my belly snapped, sending a shockwave of white-hot electricity ripping up my spine. I didn't just come; I shattered. My back bowed violently, the scream tearing from my throat raw and ragged, echoing off the damp tiled walls. My vision went white, blurring out the grime, the mirror, the man behind me, until there was nothing but the sensation of being ripped apart and put back together in the span of a heartbeat.

Jax didn't stop. If anything, he rode me through it, his grip on my hip bruising as he chased his own end. He growled, a low, guttural sound that sounded more animal than human, and followed me over the edge. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin there as he pulsed inside me, marking me as thoroughly with his body as he had with his words.

The aftershocks were still rippling through my muscles, leaving me weak and trembling, as he slowly pulled away. The sudden loss of contact made me gasp, my body instinctively trying to chase the heat he had provided.

I braced my hands harder against the sink, my breath hitching in uneven gasps as I tried to find my equilibrium. The bathroom was suddenly quiet, save for the heavy, ragged sound of our breathing and the distant, muffled thump of the jukebox from the bar. The air felt cooler now, raising gooseflesh on my exposed skin.

I felt him move behind me, the sound of his zipper going up like a gunshot in the small space. I watched him in the mirror, watched the way he ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair, his chest still heaving under the leather cut. He looked dangerous. He looked satisfied.

Then I felt it.

A hot, slick trail sliding down the inside of my thigh, cutting through the sticky humidity of the room like a brand. It was his c*m, leaking out of me, running over the ruined lace of my torn stockings and dripping toward my boot. It was visceral, filthy, and possessive—a physical reminder of what we’d just done, marking me from the inside out.

I stared at our reflection, my eyes tracing the path of that wet heat down my pale skin. I should have felt disgusted. I should have reached for a paper towel, cleaned myself up, and run back to the safety of my vintage car and my predictable life. But instead, I felt a dark, twisted sense of satisfaction. I belonged to the wreckage now.

The rough paper towel felt like sandpaper against my skin, harsh and abrasive, stripping away the lingering warmth but doing nothing to clean the mess inside. I watched him in the mirror as I wiped away the evidence of his possession—his c*m, the smeared mascara, the sweat. He was already halfway back to being the stranger I’d met at the bar.

He checked his phone, the blue light illuminating the sharp angle of his jaw and the grim set of his mouth. He was scrolling through messages, his thumb moving with quick, impatient flicks. The intimacy of the bathroom, the way he’d held me while I shattered, had evaporated like smoke in a drafty room.

"I gotta go," he said, the words clipped and devoid of the gravelly heat that had been there moments ago. He didn't look up from the screen. "Club business."

I stared at his reflection, my hand freezing mid-motion between my thighs. The adrenaline that had been sustaining me was starting to curdle, turning into something cold and jagged in my stomach. *Club business.* The dismissal wasn't just a phrase; it was a wall slamming down.

"Right," I said, my voice sounding thin and brittle in the tiled room. "Of course you do."

I dropped the soiled paper towel into the trash with a wet *plop*, the sound disgustingly loud. I didn't look at him again. I couldn't. If I looked at him, I’d see the indifference written all over that beautiful, dangerous face, and I refused to let him see me crumble. Not again. Not tonight.

I smoothed down the vintage velvet of my dress, my fingers shaking slightly as they traced the wrinkles. The fabric felt heavy, cloying now instead of armor-like. I adjusted the lace cups of my bra, wincing as the material scraped over my sensitive, bitten skin, and pulled the torn fishnets as straight as they would go. They were ruined, shredded beyond repair, just like my composure.

I turned to the mirror, wiping the last of the mascara tracks from under my eyes with a wet thumb. The girl staring back looked debauched and haunted, her lips swollen and red, her hair a tangled dark halo. But her eyes were hard. That steel spine I’d felt earlier was back, rigid and unforgiving.

I grabbed my bag from the counter where I’d dropped it, clutching the leather strap like a weapon.

I moved to the door, my boots scuffing loudly against the linoleum, purposefully putting distance between us. Every step was a battle to keep my knees from buckling, to keep the physical evidence of him from sliding down my leg any further and humiliating me. I could feel him watching me, that heavy, predatory gaze back in place, assessing me like I was a problem he’d just solved.

I reached for the handle, the metal cool against my palm, but before I could turn it, his voice stopped me.

"Elena."