Page 20 of Sexting the Bikers

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The next message vibrates the phone against the bed, and I snatch it up again.

Dog:I’d get you on your knees next. Make you look up at me with that bratty little mouth you’re so proud of.

I swallow, hard.

My skin’s flushed, thighs pressed tight.

I start rubbing my thighs together beneath the blanket, slow and instinctive, chasing the friction without even thinking. My nipples ache under the thin cotton of my shirt.

I should stop. This was supposed to be bait. A hook. Nothing more.

But my breath is ragged and shallow, my fingers gripping the phone like it’s the only thing holding me together.

I type, smirking faintly:

Me:Easy, puppy. Didn’t think you had it in you.

Dog:Say that again and I’ll make you whimper it into the mattress.

Dog:Twice.

God.

I clench my legs tighter. My toes curl. I’m too far in, and I know it.

But I also know I have to pull myself out.

Focus.

There’s too much at stake.

I breathe in hard—shaky, uneven—and force myself upright. My body’s still humming, still aching, but I lock it down the way I was trained to.

I switch tactics.

Me:Come get me then.

There’s a pause. Then:

Dog:What?

Me:Where are you, puppy?

Dog:I’m at the clubhouse. Why?

Me:I’m out back behind the Novikov estate.

The typing stops.

Dog:What the hell are you doing out there?

Me:Battery’s dying.

Me:Are you coming or not?

Another pause.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

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