Sayer had to admit he liked her looking at him. Closing the distance, Sayer took Diamond’s hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles in a slow, deliberate kiss. His touch was warm, grounding, a silent promise. Now was not the time to speak about what had happened earlier. That could wait. Right now, he wanted her to feel safe. To know he would keep her safe. Even if she didn’t need him to do that, he would.
With a gentle but insistent grip, he guided her toward the bed. When the backs of her legs met the edge, he nudged her down, his hands a steady reassurance against her hips. As she settled, he dropped to one knee before her, his fingers wrapping around her ankle with a tenderness that made her breath catch.
He lifted her foot, his thumb sweeping in lazy circles over her skin, and pressed his lips to the soft arch. The warmth of hisbreath sent a shiver curling up her spine. Slowly, deliberately, he traced a path with his mouth, kissing along the curve of her ankle, the dip of her calf. His lips skimmed over her knee, then along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, each press of his mouth slower than the last—methodical, reverent.
Her fingers curled into the sheets, a sharp inhale betraying the way his touch unraveled her. The flickering candlelight cast moving shadows across the room, the air thick with the scent of lavender and something distinctly him. Every kiss, every touch, sent a pulse of warmth through her, a heat that built with each inch he traveled.
And still, he took his time—savoring her, worshiping her.
He gently kissed her mound making her moan. “Don’t move.”
Diamond froze, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t want him to stop. The heat of his command settled over her, sparking something electric beneath her skin.
Sayer’s touch was firm yet reverent as he slowly lowered her leg, his fingertips grazing along her calf, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Then, with a deliberate nudge, he coaxed her legs farther apart.
She didn’t resist.
A slow, knowing smile played on his lips as he took in the way she yielded to him. The air between them thickened, charged with an unspoken tension. The only sounds were the hushed whisper of fabric shifting, the uneven cadence of her breath, and the steady, measured inhale of his own.
He took his time—watching, waiting—before leaning in once more. His tongue dipped into her. Diamond moaned louder. Shetried not to move, but she needed him to move a little more. That’s all she needed. Just. A. Little. More.
Chapter Eleven
Engines growledlike thunder rolling over asphalt as the motorcycle club rolled in, a storm of chrome, denim, and black leather slicing through the stillness of the afternoon. A line of bikes stretched down the road, each one glinting beneath the sun, custom paint catching the light like fire. The deep rumble echoed off nearby buildings, a sound that turned heads and sent a pulse through the ground.
At the front, Diamond rode composed and steady, a silent command in her posture, flanked by the Sgt.-at-Arms, who scanned the area with sharp, unreadable eyes. Behind them, the rest of the crew moved in tight formation, riding two-by-two—boots up, patches proud, and expressions unreadable behind mirrored shades.
The scent of motor oil and exhaust clung to the air as they pulled into the lot, kicking up dust and gravel. One by one, kickstands dropped. Engines cut out. The silence that followed was louder than the noise—weighted, expectant. They didn’t have to announce themselves. Their presence said everything.
As helmets came off, it became immediately clear—this wasn’t your typical outlaw club. This was a female MC, and they wore their presence like armor. Long hair spilled out in waves, braids, or tight coils, some dyed wild colors, others streaked with road dust. Faces emerged—fierce, focused, unbothered by the stares they drew.
Leather creaked as they swung off their bikes, jackets marked with their club’s patch catching the light. Tattoos peeked from beneath sleeves and collars, silver rings glinting on fingers that had seen both throttle and trigger. They moved with purpose—confident, calm, commanding.
The Harlots didn’t come to blend in. They came to be seen. And judging by the way the crowd parted, the way murmurs swept through like wind, they were impossible to ignore.
The first thing the Harlots noticed was the chaos—loud, messy, and dangerously disorganized. From the moment their boots hit the pavement, it was clear this rally had gone sideways. Security near the stages looked overwhelmed, barely managing the crowd as rowdy spectators pushed forward. Burnouts tore through the middle of the lot, rubber smoke thick in the air as engines screamed and people scattered. Even the swap meet was a madhouse, vendors yelling, merchandise toppling, and no one stepping in to restore order.
Diamond didn’t hesitate. She led her chapter straight through the chaos and into the Royal Bastards’ clubhouse, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. Inside, she found Teller mid-argument with a red-faced vendor, voices rising above the muffled roar from outside.
The vendor stormed off with a muttered curse, and Diamond stepped forward. “Teller.”
Teller turned, visibly tense, then relaxed when he saw her. “Diamond. Glad you ladies could make the rally.”
She didn’t waste time. “Yeah, brother. Let’s skip the pleasantries. You’ve got problems—and we can help.”
“Can you… help?”
Diamond smirked, already turning to her girls. “Ladies, we need security tightened on the bandstands and the swap meet area. Domino, grab a couple of the Bastards and shut down that fucking burnout party. If they wanna light up tires, they can do it out back where it won’t kill someone.”
Without question, the Harlots moved, a wave of black leather, denim, and purpose, slipping into the fray like they’d been waiting for a fight.
Diamond looked back at Teller with a raised brow. “You can tell me thank you later.”
Teller chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as the clubhouse vibrated with the sound of order being restored. “Count on it.”
Teller’s gaze cut across the room, sharp and assessing, scanning for any signs of trouble. The place buzzed with noise—vendors arguing, club members coordinating, the occasional shout from outside—but he wasn’t just hearing it. He was measuring it. Calculating.
They needed to get everything back in order, and fast. Vendors. Logistics. Security. All of it had to tighten up before things spiraled beyond repair. The rally was teetering on the edge of chaos, and if they didn’t pull it back, it would crash—and burn—with his name attached to the wreckage.
