Riding Hard With My Hot Biker Stepbrothers

002

Brie’s POV.

His arm stayed locked around my waist, keeping me seated across his lap, the hard line of his thigh pressing up between mine through the thin fabric of my dress.

Now that I was a bit sober, the private lounge smelled like expensive whiskey and faint cigar smoke. The bass from the main floor was only a distant throb now.

I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes. They were still faintly amused like he already knew exactly how this was going to end for me.

“What are you doing?” I breathed out.

“You asked me to play along.” His free hand settled on my outer thigh, his fingers warm and unhurried as they traced small circles over the fabric. “I’m playing along.”

I should have stood up.

Instead I stayed, my pulse fluttering as his palm slid higher, gathering the hem of my dress inch by inch until cool air touched the bare skin above my stockings. He didn’t rush. Just rubbed slow, deliberate paths along the outside of my thigh, then the inner, never quite reaching where the heat was gathering.

“Breathe,” he murmured against the side of my neck, voice low and almost gentle. “You’re wound so tight. Let me take the edge off.”

His fingers found the lace edge of my underwear and stroked over it, light pressure that made my hips twitch despite myself.

He kept talking in that same calm, coaxing tone while he rubbed—telling me how wet I already felt through the fabric, how my body was answering even when my mouth stayed quiet. Every slow pass of his hand sent fresh sparks low in my stomach. I bit my lip, trying not to rock into the touch.

Then, abruptly, his hand stilled and withdrew.

I made a small, frustrated sound before I could stop it. “Why did you stop?”

He leaned back just enough to look at me properly, one eyebrow lifting. The corner of his mouth curved. “Because I want to hear you ask for it. Nicely.”

Heat flooded my face. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.” His thumb brushed once more along the inside of my thigh, a teasing promise, then pulled away again. “Beg for it. Politely. Or I stop for good.”

I swallowed, my pride and my need at war inside my hazy mind. His eyes never left mine. He was patient — no, certain I would break first. The restraint only made the ache sharper. I shifted restlessly against his thigh and felt the hard evidence of his own interest, but he didn’t move to help me.

“Please,” I finally whispered, the word tasting foreign and humiliating and electric all at once.

“Louder. And nicer.”

My cheeks burned. “Please… keep touching me. I need it.”

A low sound of approval rumbled in his chest. “Good girl.”

His hand returned, this time slipping beneath the lace. The first direct stroke of his fingers made my breath catch.

He was maddeningly patient—circling, teasing, spreading the slickness he found without ever giving me enough pressure. When he finally slipped one long finger inside me, I gasped and dropped my forehead against his shoulder. He worked me open with slow, thorough thrusts, curling just enough to make my thighs tremble. A second finger joined the first.

The stretch burned in the best way.

His thumb found my c**t and began to move in tight, deliberate circles while those two fingers kept a steady, deep rhythm. Every time I tried to rock against his hand he adjusted the angle, keeping me right on the edge without letting me fall.

Soft, helpless sounds kept leaving my mouth no matter how hard I tried to swallow them.

“Look at me,” he said.

I lifted my head. Our faces were inches apart. His eyes never left mine as he added a third finger, stretching me wider, filling me until the pressure bordered on too much. The wet sounds of his hand working between my legs filled the quiet room. My dress was bunched around my hips. One of his arms still banded my waist so I couldn’t escape the relentless motion of his fingers.

He leaned in and kissed me for the first time—deep, controlled, tasting of whiskey. I moaned into his mouth when his thumb pressed harder against my c**t. The kiss turned hungrier. He bit my lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue while his hand never stopped.

I was shaking. Heat coiled low and tight, almost painful. My nails dug into his shoulders through the expensive fabric of his shirt. He curled his fingers inside me at the exact moment his thumb flicked faster, and the orgasm slammed into me so hard my vision went white at the edges. I cried out against his mouth, body locking, inner muscles clenching hard around his fingers as wave after wave ripped through me. He kept stroking me through it, slower now but unrelenting, drawing every last tremor out until I was limp and gasping in his lap.

Only when the last aftershock faded did he ease his hand free. He brought those glistening fingers to his mouth and licked them clean while I watched, dazed. Then he smoothed my dress back down over my thighs with almost clinical care, as if he hadn’t just taken me apart.

“Still think you only needed a few minutes?” he asked, voice rough.

I didn’t have an answer. My heart was still trying to climb out of my chest. He shifted me gently off his lap and onto the couch beside him, then stood. For a second I thought he might leave. Instead he crossed to a side table, poured something dark into a glass, and set it within my reach without a word. Then he walked to the door, opened it, and spoke quietly to someone outside. The door closed again. He didn’t come back to the couch.

I must have fallen asleep after that. The alcohol, the adrenaline, the shattering release—everything crashed at once. When I opened my eyes the private lounge was empty and quiet. The gold lights had been turned lower. My phone sat on the low table in front of me, screen dark until I unlocked it.

Ten missed calls from Mom. Three voicemails. A string of texts that started worried and ended sharp.

I sat up slowly, my body still sensitive, the scent of him lingering on my skin and the memory of his fingers still vivid enough to make my thighs press together.

The room was completely empty, save for a paper on the bedside table.

“+1 (909) 555-0145. Call me if you need me to play along again, girlfriend.”

My heart skipped a beat, but I also found my lips stretching into a smile. Just then, a call came in from my mother and I hurriedly answered.

“Brie Diana Brown, where in the goddess’ name have you been?!” She yelled into the speaker, her tone filled with worry and so much anger. “Have you forgotten what today is?!”

I quickly checked the date. Friday the sixteenth.

My heart sank. I was running late for the moving!