The Biker’s Stripper

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

I barely slept at all that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, the words from the glowing screen flashed in my mind again. Tomorrow. 8. Same place. Black dress.

They kept playing over and over in my head like a song I couldn't shut off. By the time the morning sun came up, I was already wide awake, staring blankly at the ceiling, my heart beating much too fast for a girl who was supposedly just paying off a simple debt.

I went to the hospital as I always did. Mom was in a much brighter mood than she had been in weeks. She talked happily about the garden she wanted to plant around our building when she finally came home, asking if I would help her pick out the right flowers. I smiled, nodded along, and held her thin hand, but a large part of my mind was already somewhere else entirely—just counting down the hours until eight o'clock.

When I left the hospital in the late afternoon, the sky was already turning a soft, glowing orange. I took the bus back to my apartment, unlocked the front door, and stood completely still in the middle of my tiny living room for a long time.

The black dress was still hanging right where I had left it in the closet after my last visit. I pulled it out and laid it carefully across the bed. The thin fabric looked even lighter than I remembered. It was almost nothing at all.

I took a slow shower, washed my hair, and stood under the warm water until my skin turned a healthy pink. When I stepped out into the steam, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked darker and deeper than usual. My cheeks already held a faint, natural flush that had nothing to do with the heat of the shower.

I dried off, slipped the dress on with nothing underneath, and stared at my reflection again. The dark material hugged every single curve of my body. I looked exactly the way he wanted me to look—available, owned for the night, and completely ready.

At 7:40, I locked my apartment door and walked down to the quiet street. I didn't have to wait very long.

The deep, familiar roar of the Harley reached my ears before I even saw its headlight cutting through the dark. Rector pulled his bike right up to the curb like he owned the entire city block. He didn't take off his heavy helmet. He only turned his head slightly toward me and waited.

I climbed onto the back seat behind him without saying a single word. My arms slid naturally around his waist the exact same way they had before. The thick leather of his vest felt cool against my cheek for a second before the heavy bike surged forward into the street, the rush of night air stealing the breath right out of my lungs.

We rode the whole way in silence. The bright city lights blurred past us in a rush of color. I could feel every single shift of his heavy body, every strong, controlled movement of his arms as he steered the massive machine through the corners. My heart stayed jammed high in my throat the entire ride.

The Skull MC clubhouse looked the same as it always did—the harsh outdoor floodlights, the rows of heavy bikes lined up like sleeping animals, and the two club members at the gate who opened it the very second they saw his face. Rector parked near the back entrance, killed the engine, and finally spoke.

"Off."

I slid down off the seat. My legs felt a little shaky and weak. He got off the bike, locked the handlebars, and started walking toward the door without even looking back to see if I was following him. Of course I was.

Inside, the main room was much quieter than it had been before. A few brothers looked up briefly from the bar, but they quickly looked away the second they realized who I was walking with. No one spoke to me. No one needed to say anything. Everyone in this place already understood.

Rector unlocked the door to his private room and held it open just long enough for me to slip inside. The heavy door clicked shut behind us with the same finality as my first night here.

The metal pole stood right in the center of the floor under the single overhead light. The heavy wooden chair waited in the corner. The big bed covered in black sheets looked completely untouched. And sitting right on top of the dresser was another thick, heavy envelope stuffed with cash.

He leaned his back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watched me.

"Dance."

One single word. That was all it took.

I walked over to the pole on bare feet. The first song began to play softly through the speakers, slow and heavy. I wrapped my hands around the cool metal and started moving the way I had the last time—my hips rolling, my body turning, every single motion careful and deliberate because I knew his sharp eyes were measuring every inch of me.

He stayed against the far wall for a long time, watching in silence. Then, slowly, he pushed off the wall and walked closer.

I felt the intense heat of his body right behind me a second before his hands touched my skin. One large, warm palm settled flat on my waist. The other hand slid slowly up my side until his long fingers brushed the underside of my breast right through the thin dress. My breath hitched sharply in my throat. I tried to keep dancing, but my rhythm instantly stumbled.

His mouth was right next to my ear now.

"You waited," he murmured.

It wasn't a question.

I didn't answer him. I couldn't find my voice. His thumb found my sensitive n****e and stroked it once, twice, circling with a slow, maddening patience. A soft, helpless sound slipped out of my throat before I could stop it. My body leaned backward into him entirely on its own, chasing the exact touch I had spent two long weeks trying desperately not to think about.

He made a low, pleased sound against my hair.

"Two weeks, and you're already this responsive," he whispered, his other hand sliding down my stomach to stop right above the place that ached. He pressed his palm down firmly, holding me trapped against him while my hips swayed to his touch. "Did you think about this while you were taking care of your mother? Did you lie awake in your bed at night, remembering how easily you opened up for me?"

A hot wave of shame and desire crashed over me at the exact same time. I hated that the honest answer in my head was yes. I hated that my hips kept rolling against his hand even as hot tears of pure confusion stung my eyes.

Suddenly, he turned me around so I was facing him head-on. His dark, intense eyes scanned my flushed face, my parted lips, and the way my chest rose and fell too fast. One of his hands stayed firm on my waist. The other hand rose up to cup my jaw, his rough thumb gently brushing the corner of my mouth.

"You're surprised by how much you want it," he said quietly, his voice rough and certain. "I can see it right on your face."

I swallowed hard, trying to find my pride. "I only came because of the debt."

A small, dangerous smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Keep telling yourself that, little stripper."

Then, just as fast as he had pulled me in, he stepped backward.

He stepped back so abruptly that I almost lost my balance and stumbled. The sudden loss of his hands left my skin feeling cold, aching, and empty.

Rector walked over to the dresser, picked up the thick envelope, and held it out toward me.

"Another payment. Your mother's next round of treatment is fully covered."

I took the money from his hand with unsteady, shaking fingers. He watched me quietly for a long, heavy moment.

"Freshen up. Then I'm taking you home."

I gave a small nod and walked into the small bathroom on legs that felt heavy and weak. Inside, I gripped the edges of the sink and stared hard at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were bright red. My lips looked fuller. My eyes were much too wide and bright. I looked like a woman who had been completely claimed, even though he had barely touched me at all.

When I came out, he was already waiting by the door with his keys ready.

We walked back through the quiet clubhouse in total silence. Outside, the black Harley waited under the bright floodlights, looking like a promise and a terrifying threat all at once.

I climbed onto the back seat behind him one more time. My arms wrapped tightly around his waist. As the heavy engine roared to life and we pulled out onto the dark road, I gently pressed my forehead against his broad back and closed my eyes.

The two weeks of silence were officially over.

And looking ahead, I already knew this dangerous new routine—the call, the dance, the sweet torture, and the trip back home—was going to ruin me much more completely than any full claim ever could.

Because every single time he stopped and pushed me away, I only wanted him more.