Ruin Me, Biker Alphas

A F**king Werck

~Valerie~

My face is pressed against the cold tile, and I’m pretty sure I look like a f*****g wreck.

The chill of the floor should be helping, should be cooling the fire under my skin, but it isn’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see those gray eyes, darker than the smoke in the bar, colder than the winter air he carries around.

He knew.

He didn’t have to say a word. The way his nose flared, the way his gaze dropped to the mess I’d made of myself... he smelled me. He smelled my need, my sin, my absolute pathetic desperation for him.

And then he just walked away.

“f**k,” I whisper into the dust on the floor. My voice is thrashed, scratchy.

I’m nineteen. I’m supposed to be in control. I’m supposed to be the one pulling the strings, walking in here and claiming his space, but one grunt. One, “Valerie,” from his throat, and I’m a puddle. Literally.

I roll over, my back hitting the crates of alcohol. A bottle of bourbon clinks against my shoulder, mocking me. Wipe the dust, Valerie. Do your job, Valerie.

How am I supposed to wipe bottles when my hands are still shaking? When my thighs feel like steel and my chest is still tight?

I drag my shorts back up. It’s a struggle. My skin is tacky, the denim sticking to me in a way that’s annoying and satisfying all at once. I look at the stool. The towel. The crates.

Gunnar is right outside. Rikky is waiting. And Ronan... Ronan is probably sitting upstairs in his office right now, acting like I don't exist. Like I didn't just scream his name in a dusty room while he was ten feet away.

I grab the towel. My knuckles are white as I grip it.

I’m not leaving. I’m not going back to being the innocent ward he checks on out of some f****d-up duty to my dead dad.

I stand up, my heels clicking sharply, the sound echoing in the tiny room. My legs are weak, but I force them to hold. I’ll clean his bottles. I’ll serve his beer. I’ll be the perfect little waitress until the moment I can get him alone again.

And next time, I won't be behind a closed door.

I reach for the first bottle, my heart still thudding a ragged rhythm against my ribs.

I'm coming for you, Alpha.

Just wait and see.

I stand up, my black stilettos clicking like a death knell on the tile. My legs are still a little weak, a little shaky from the two orgasms I just forced out of my body, but I lock my knees. I fix my top, making sure my t**s are sitting high and heavy, my n*****s still poking through the thin fabric like they’re screaming for attention. I grab the crates, my muscles straining, and I haul them toward the door.

I’m done hiding.

I push through the door and the wall of noise hits me. The bar is a hive of activity, the afternoon light fading as the red neon signs hum to life.

"There she is! The ghost of the storeroom," a voice calls out.

I turn to see a group of women standing by the stage area. They’re the dancers, the strippers who keep this place breathing. One of them, a tall blonde with legs that go on for miles and a waist so small it looks like it would snap, sashays over to me. Her name tag says Candy, but the way she looks at me is anything but sweet.

"Honey, with a body like that, why are you hauling crates?" Candy asks, her eyes raking over my curves. She reaches out, her long, manicured nails trailing down my arm before she cups her own breast, squeezing it until it spills over her lace bra. "Those tits... that ass. You’re wasted on the floor. Come backstage. One night on the pole and you’d have these bikers selling their souls to lick the sweat off your heels."

I let out a short, sharp laugh, feeling a new surge of boldness. "Maybe another time, Candy. Right now, I’ve got drinks to serve."

"Suit yourself, gorgeous," she purrs, winking as she walks away, her hips swaying in a way that makes every man in the room turn their head. "But if you ever want to see how much a knotting really costs, you know where to find me."