Pregnant with a Bikers Baby

Angel

Elena POV

"Is this what you came here for, Elena?"

"Yes," I hissed against his skin, the word muffled by the roughness of his palm but no less desperate. I didn't recognize the voice that came out of my throat—it sounded feral, broken, hungry. It didn't sound like the girl who apologized for burning the toast, or the girl who let Mark choose the movie every Friday night. It sounded like the me I’d been burying under layers of politeness and cardigans.

The world outside this bathroom had ceased to exist. Mark, Sarah, the cheating, the betrayal—it all burned away in the friction of his body against mine. The only thing real was the burning stretch where he filled me, the cold porcelain digging into my hip bones, and the heavy, suffocating pleasure threatening to tear me apart.

He didn't let up. If anything, my surrender seemed to fuel something darker in him. He set a rhythm that was punishing, brutal, and exactly what I needed. Every thrust drove the air from my lungs, forcing me to hold on to the edges of the sink for dear life, my knuckles turning white against the stained ceramic. The mirror in front of me was a foggy, distorted mess, but I could see enough—I could see the way my body jolted with every snap of his hips, the dark head bent over my shoulder, the flex of muscle in the arm braced beside me.

My eyes squeezed shut, the visual overload too much to process alongside the physical sensation. I was nothing but nerve endings and electricity, a live wire stripped of its insulation. The friction between us was generating a heat that felt destructive, like we were setting fire to the damp, rotting wood of this bar and letting it burn us alive.

"Look at me," Jax commanded, his voice a ragged snarl against the shell of my ear. He didn't ask nicely. He demanded it the same way he took—without hesitation and with total authority.

His hand left my mouth, leaving my lips stinging and swollen, only to grip my jaw, tilting my head up until I had no choice but to stare at our reflection again.

His fingers were rough, digging into the soft skin of my cheek, forcing my gaze to lock onto the glass. What stared back was a stranger. A creature with wild, tangled hair and eyes that were blown black with desire, lips parted and swollen, face flushed a deep, hectic pink.

I looked ruined. I looked alive.

"You see that?" he growled, his hips snapping forward, driving a ragged gasp from my throat. "That's not a victim, Elena. That's a survivor."

His words hit me harder than the physical impact, a truth that vibrated through my chest and settled in the hollow space where my heart used to be. *Survivor.* It wasn't a title I would have claimed an hour ago. An hour ago, I was a casualty. I was the girl who wasn't enough, the one left behind for someone softer, someone safer.

But staring at my reflection—wild, disheveled, and undeniably present in this grimy, lit-by-fluorescents bathroom—I realized he was right. I wasn't breaking. I was shattering into a million sharp pieces, and under his hands, those pieces were being forged into something else. Something harder.

"I see you," I breathed out, the condensation from the mirror dampening my fingertips where I gripped the porcelain. "I see us."

The admission seemed to shatter the last of his control. The hand on my jaw tightened, his fingers pressing into my skin hard enough to bruise, marking me as his territory. The look in his eyes in the mirror wasn't just lust anymore; it was a terrifying, consuming ownership.

"Then don't look away," he gritted out.

The pace shifted, turning from a punishment into a devastation. He drove into me with a force that lifted my boots off the sticky floor, the sounds of our bodies colliding wet and loud in the small, tiled room. It was raw, it was dirty, and it was the most honest thing I had ever done.

The heat built between my thighs, a tightening coil that pulled at my spine and made my toes curl inside my heavy boots. I was spiraling, climbing a jagged peak that had nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with the sheer force of him. The smell of the bathroom—the bleach, the damp, the underlying rot—faded away until there was only the scent of leather, gasoline, and the salt-sweat musk of our skin.

He reached down with his free hand, his calloused fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between my legs with unerring precision. He didn't tease; he rubbed hard, fast circles that matched the brutal rhythm of his hips, sending shockwaves of overstimulated pleasure crashing through me.

"Come for me, Dark Angel," he commanded, his voice a low rasp that vibrated against my back. "Let it go."