Biker Babes' Roadside Rally Strap-On Ride

I never meant for any of it to happen. I’m Jess, twenty-eight, married to a decent man who works too much and fucks me too little. For the last three years I’ve ridden my Harley alone on long desert loops just to feel something raw between my thighs and the wind whipping across my skin. That Sunday I was two hundred miles from home when the engine coughed, sputtered, and died.

The highway stretched empty in both directions, heat shimmering off the blacktop. I was still cursing the bike when I heard the low thunder of three other Harleys approaching. They slowed, then pulled off beside me in a loose half-circle of chrome and leather.

The tallest one swung a long leg over her seat first. Raven. Ink crawled up her neck and disappeared beneath a tight black tank top that barely contained her breasts. Her dark hair was shaved on the sides, the rest pulled into a thick braid. Next to her climbed Jax—curvy, brunette, hips that strained the seams of her riding leathers and a smile that promised trouble. The smallest one, Spike, had a shock of dyed red hair, sharp green eyes, and a compact, athletic body that moved like a predator.

They circled me slowly, boots crunching on gravel. I could feel their eyes dragging over the way my tight leather pants hugged my ass, the way my thin white tank clung to my breasts from the heat.

“Pretty little thing all alone out here,” Raven drawled, voice low and smoky. “What’s your name, sugar?”

“Jess,” I answered, and my voice already sounded too breathy.

Jax stepped closer, close enough that I caught the scent of motor oil, leather, and warm woman. “You married, Jess?” She tapped the thin gold band on my left hand with one black-nailed finger.