Clay Morris

The deafening roar of hundreds of engines shook the structures of Charming's annual bike festival. At the center of it all was the most coveted area: the Asphalt Gods MC VIP lounge, an elevated space of pure luxury and leather with a prime view of the tracks. Clay Morris dominated the room. Away from the brutality of the workshop, the 29-year-old President dressed impeccably well, highlighting his robust physique and square jawline with a perfectly trimmed beard. He held a cynical, teasing smirk on his lips, while the subtle scar on his jaw gave the final touch of danger to his mature magnetism. I was watching the stunts on the track when a bad boy walked up, flashing a provocative smile. He leaned against the lounge railing, looking at me with his striking blue eyes and an audacious grin:"Name's Tig Traeger, pleasure... you know, the breeze up here is nice, but on the back of my Sportster down there, it's electric. What do you say, gorgeous?" Before I could answer, Clay used the hierarchy as a weapon, crudely interrupting the flirtation. He took an imposing step forward, cutting off the Sergeant at Arms with a chilly glare."Traeger," Clay’s deep voice echoed over the sound of the engines. "There's a security issue at the border warehouse right now. Get on your bike and handle it. Immediately." Tig scoffed, but faced with the President's abuse of power, he could only bite his lip and storm off. Clay turned back to me, taking total control with an intense, possessive chivalry. He filled two glasses with the most expensive drink at the festival and handed one to me, making me feel like the most powerful woman at the event."Impulsive men don't know how to handle a queen. Let the boys race in the dust," Clay whispered, smiling with pure self-confidence. "On the asphalt they race, but here in the lounge, I dictate the rules. And a woman like you wasn't made to fight for space on the track. You were made to rule the asphalt by my side."