Claimed by the Playboy MC President

Why me?

Thea

As soon as I stepped into the bathroom and shut the door, my knees finally decided to give out.

I sank back against the cool, peeling paint of the door, pressing my palms against my burning cheeks.

The tiny, flickering fluorescent light above the sink cast a harsh glare but I didn't need perfect lighting to know I was a mess.

I pushed off the door and leaned over the stained porcelain sink, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror.

My face was entirely flushed. A deep crimson was spreading all the way down my neck. My chest was still heaving and my eyes looked entirely too wild, too affected.

And worse… there was a dampness pooling in my underwear.

Damn it.

I cranked the rusted faucet, cupping my hands under the freezing stream and splashed the icy water aggressively over my face.

The cold helped clear the intoxicating fog that had crowded my brain but it couldn't erase what had just happened.

I was turned on. Unbelievably, embarrassingly turned on.

I grabbed a scratchy paper towel and patted my face dry, glaring at my reflection.

It was just biology, I told myself firmly. A stupid, involuntary physical reaction to a highly stressful situation.

Miles was a dog. He was a wealthy, entitled playboy who treated women like disposable party favors, hopping from a blonde on a leather sofa straight to me without skipping a beat. He was exactly the kind of toxic, unfaithful mess that Felix had turned out to be, just wrapped in a much more expensive, leather-clad package. I despised guys like him.

But as I tossed the paper towel into the trash, a traitorous part of my mind flashed back to the rock-hard wall of his chest. The sculpted cut of his muscles. The overwhelming size of him pressing against my faded jeans.

I hated him and I hated his lifestyle, but I wasn't blind. His physique was undeniably, devastatingly impressive.

"Get a grip, Thea." I muttered to the empty bathroom. "He is just another arrogant jerk with a nice set of abs."

I took one last, deep breath, smoothing down my messy hair and tugging my oversized t-shirt into place.

I unlocked the door and stepped back out into the garage, fully prepared to kick him out if he was still lingering.

But the shop was quiet.

I walked over to the main bays. His massive, custom-built motorcycle was still parked out front, gleaning menacingly in the afternoon sun but Miles himself was nowhere to be seen.

Sam was standing by the main workbench, staring down at a small stack of crisp, hundred-dollar bills and a torn piece of scrap paper.

He looked up as I approached, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and mild suspicion.

"Where is the guy?" I asked, keeping my voice as casually indifferent as I could manage.

"Left…" Sam grunted, tapping a grease-stained finger against the cash. "Didn't even ask for a quote. Just dropped a massive deposit, told me to order whatever high-end parts that beast of a bike needs and walked out."

A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. "Just like that?"

"Just like that!" Sam confirmed. He picked up the scrap of paper and held it out to me. "He left this, too. His contact number and the address for where he wants the bike dropped off when it's done."

I took the paper, wiping a smudge of oil off my thumb before reading the sharp, aggressive handwriting.

A phone number, and a street address.

My eyes widened as I read the second line.

I wasn't a real estate expert but you didn't have to be to recognize that zip code.

It was right in the heart of the Upper East Side, one of the most exclusive, expensive residential areas in all of New York City. The kind of neighborhood where the penthouses cost more than this entire auto shop and the block it sat on.

Who the hell was this guy?

"He specifically asked for you to deliver it, by the way." Sam added casually, reaching for his wrench.

My head snapped up. "Me? Why me?"

Sam shrugged, turning his attention back to the beat-up sedan. "Said a friend recommended your magic hands. Guess he wants the shop's top mechanic to handle the final handover. Don't worry about it, kiddo. We will get it fixed up, you drop it off and we make a massive profit. Easy money."

I looked back down at the piece of paper, my grip tightening until the edges crinkled.

He didn't want my mechanical expertise. He wanted to force me to come to his territory.

Easy money, Sam had said.

Looking at the arrogant scrawl of Miles' handwriting, I knew that there was going to be nothing easy about this.

Nope, I couldn't keep this to myself.

The bizarre realization that the obscenely wealthy, arrogant owner of the custom Harley was the exact same biker playboy from the Open Road clubhouse was burning a hole in my brain.

I immediately texted Clara, asking her to meet me halfway between the campus library and the auto shop. I needed to vent and I needed her to tell me I wasn't losing my mind.

But as I rounded the corner onto 4th Street, the words completely died in my throat.

A few yards down the alleyway, Clara was backed forcefully against a weathered brick wall.

Three massive, heavily muscled men had her boxed in. They were leaning in entirely too close, blocking her escape route.