Bound To The Biker Alpha

CHAPTER TWO

**Reader discretion is advised**

Shirley

I didn’t know how we got inside.

One minute, Dante was pulling the keys from the ignition, and the next, we were in my living room, our mouths locked like we were starving—like the air didn’t matter unless it was shared between us.

My back hit the wall first. His hands were everywhere—rough, demanding, sure. Fingers tangled in my hair, tugging gently but firmly, tilting my head until his lips claimed mine again. His tongue swept past my defenses like they’d never been there to begin with.

I moaned, shocked at the sound coming from me. But it wasn’t just desire—it was something deeper, more primal. Something I didn’t recognize but couldn’t resist.

His jacket hit the floor with a thud. My fingers found the hem of his shirt, dragging it upward to reveal a landscape of ink and muscle. Tattoos curled around his ribs like flames, wrapping his torso in wicked, beautiful chaos. He looked like danger. Like destruction. Like salvation.

I wasn’t supposed to want this. Not after what I’d been through.

But I did.

God, I did.

He peeled my top off with careful hands, lips dragging down my neck to the sensitive hollow beneath my ear. My breath hitched. I felt… alive. Not like the broken woman who had packed up her life in the middle of the night, but like someone seen—wanted—in a way I hadn’t been in years.

I couldn’t tell who led who, but soon we were tangled together, half-naked on the couch. The leather stuck to my thighs, and his hands gripped my hips like I might vanish if he let go.

“This isn’t smart,” I whispered, breathless.

He looked into me—not at me, not through me. Into me. “Nothing about you feels smart, Shirley. It just feels… right.”

And it did.

It felt inevitable.

Like kissing him was never a choice. Like he wasn’t a stranger at all.

His lips met mine again, slower this time—purposeful, drawn out, like he was mapping me inch by inch. His fingers trailed up my thighs, coaxing me to open to him. I did—willingly, helplessly.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against my skin.

“I can’t. I want you deep inside me, please,” I begged shamelessly.

That was all he needed.

He slipped a hand into my panties, finding me soaked and already trembling. I gasped, arching into him, as his fingers explored me with maddening patience. He kissed my throat, collarbone, the swell of my n*****s, and then lower—until his mouth replaced his hand and I shattered in his arms, biting my lip to muffle the scream building in my throat.

He didn’t let me fall apart alone.

He held me there, in it, through it—like he needed me to lose control.

When he finally rose above me, his jeans already unbuttoned, eyes dark with something far more intense than lust, I reached for him.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and rough.

“Yes,” I breathed, no hesitation. “I don’t want to feel anything else but this right now.”

He pressed inside me slowly—inch by aching inch—until I was full, stretched, and utterly undone. I cried out, clinging to him as he moved, each thrust deep and deliberate.

We moved like we were made for it.

Like our bodies remembered something we’d forgotten.

Like fate was in every gasp, every grind of hips, every whispered word. First slow thrusts, then a fastened rhythmic pace with our hips rocking up and down.

“Beautiful,” he muttered, brushing hair from my face. “Mine.”

That word made me tremble. I could swear I heard him growl like an animal but I assumed it was just the moans in my ears, like sweet melodies. I quivered.

Not in fear. In recognition.

He kissed me again, softer this time. Reverent. His eyes were half closed, I could tell he was enjoying it as much as I was.

The world outside vanished. The pain. The divorce. The questions.

There was only this—only him.

We rocked together, chasing the edge, falling off it together in a blur of heat and breath and unspoken promises. I clung to him as my climax tore through me, crying out his name.

He followed with a deep, guttural groan, burying his face in my neck as he spilled inside me.

Neither of us spoke.

There were no words big enough for what had just happened.

Somehow, we ended up curled together on the couch, tangled in a thin blanket that did nothing to stop the cool night air from drifting through the open window. His body was a furnace at my back. One strong arm wrapped tightly around my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder.

I wanted to stay awake. I wanted to ask him questions. I wanted to pretend this wasn’t more than lust.

But I was tired. Bone deep. And for the first time in a long time, I felt… safe.

So I let myself close my eyes.

And I slept.

—

I don’t know how long I slept.

It was still dark when I jolted awake, heart pounding, sweat slicked across my skin. My breath caught in my throat as the dream clung to me—hot, violent, wrong.

In it, I had been holding a silver blade.

Not just holding—using it.

There were werewolves. Actual wolves.

Dozens of them. Their eyes gleamed in the dark, their teeth bared, but they didn’t lunge. They were waiting. Watching. One of them stepped forward—a massive black wolf with amber eyes that looked far too human. His gaze pierced through me, pleading, but my hand didn’t hesitate.

I’d raised the blade.

And I had smiled. Like I was victorious in my quest.

I gasped and sat up, the blanket pooling around my waist. My body ached, still thrumming with the echo of what Dante and I had done—but that wasn’t what made me tremble.

It was the vivid nightmare.

No, the memory. It felt so real, like it was embedded in my brain.

I shuddered in fear. It was as if I’d done it before.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to force the images out of my head. The blood. The howls. The cold emptiness that followed. My stomach twisted.

A distant sound made me turn.

The front door clicked softly. I stood, clutching the blanket around me and moved toward the window just in time to see a motorcycle tail light vanish into the trees.

He’d left quietly. No note. No goodbye. Was I surprised? Actually, no.

I don’t know why that stung more than it should have. Maybe because I didn’t regret what we’d done. Maybe because for one night, I hadn’t felt broken.

And now, I did again.

Still, it wasn’t the disappearing act that left me shaken.

It was the look in that wolf’s eyes… the one from my dream. The one that knew me. The one that looked an awful lot like Dante Ryker.

I sank back onto the couch, pulled the blanket tighter around me, and whispered into the dark:

“What the hell is happening to me?”