Page 37 of Property of the Bikers

Chapter Seventeen

MIRA

Jax walks me back across the compound without speaking.

The cold is sharp after the heat of the church room, and I pull my jacket tighter with one hand and match his pace across the gravel, past the workshop, past the main building, toward the main house. The perimeter lights throw long shadows. Somewhere on the north fence, two men are running the circuit, their flashlights moving in slow arcs through the dark.

I accepted. I said it out loud in front of every man in that building, and the words sat in the room with the weight of something that doesn’t come back once it’s been said.

Jax stops at my door.

He turns and looks at me in the particular way he has, the one that presents itself as easy and isn’t, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. The compound runs its quiet night around us. Somewhere inside the main building, a door closes. The generator hums at the edge of the property.

“You just swore yourself to us,” he says. “You know what that means.”

“I’m property now,” I say.

“You’re protected.” He holds my eyes. “Different.”

He steps closer.

The space between us is smaller than it was a second ago and my back is against the door and he’s looking at me with something that has been there since the first night, underneath the warmth and the breakfast burritos and the careful questions that weren’t casual, and I’ve been filing it away every morning and not examining it and now it’s standing right in front of me with nowhere left to file it to.

“Been wanting to do this since you walked in,” he says.

I look at him. At the jaw and the green eyes and the easy posture that is not easy at all when you know what’s underneath it.

“Then do it,” I say.

He kisses me.

It starts slow, testing, his lips firm against mine like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away. I don’t. I push into him, and the kiss turns hungry. His tongue slides deep, claiming my mouth while his hand fists in my hair. The other grips my hip and pulls me against him, careful to keep the angle so nothing presses too hard on my belly.

He tastes like whiskey and winter and pure intent.

He reaches behind me, unlocks the door, and walks us inside without breaking the kiss. The room is dark except for the perimeter lights leaking through the window. He kicks the door shut and locks it with a solid click.

“Jacket off,” he orders against my lips.

I shrug it down my arms. His hands take over, peeling my shirt up and over my head. When my swollen breasts spill free into the cool air, my nipples tighten instantly. They’re heavier now, fuller, more sensitive than they’ve ever been.

Jax groans deep in his chest. “Fuck. Look at these.”

He doesn’t rush. He stares at my tits like he’s been starving for them. Both hands come up and cup their weight, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I gasp. They feel so full and tight it almost hurts in the best way.

“These got so much heavier carrying that baby,” he mutters. “All swollen and ripe for me now.”

He lowers his head and sucks one nipple straight into his hot mouth. The pull is strong and wet. I moan loudly, my back arching. He sucks harder, tongue flicking fast, then slower, drawing it out like he wants to memorize the taste. His hand kneads the other breast, fingers digging in gently while he nurses the first one with filthy hunger.

I thread my fingers through his hair and hold him there. Every pull sends sharp pleasure straight between my legs. Milk hasn’t come in yet, but my body feels like it’s preparing, aching and leaking a little under his relentless sucking. He notices and groans louder, switching to the other nipple and sucking even harder.

“These tits are mine now,” he says around my flesh, voice muffled. “Gonna spend hours on them every night. Suck them until you’re dripping for me. Until this body knows exactly who it belongs to.”

He keeps going, switching back and forth, sucking one while he pinches and rolls the other. His teeth graze just enough to make me whimper. He licks broad stripes across the swollen curves, then sucks again, pulling deep until my knees feel weak. My breasts feel worshiped and claimed at the same time. He’s not gentle. He’s thorough and possessive, groaning every time I moan louder.

His free hand slides down and spreads wide over the firm, round curve of my seven-month belly.

“This belly too,” he rasps, mouth still latched on my tit. “Carrying our future now. Swore it tonight in front of every man in the club. This baby is Ruthless. You are Ruthless. Every inch of you.”