Page 26 of Sexting the Bikers
That stops her. Just for a breath. A second. Maybe less.
But I see it.
The pause. The flicker behind the eyes. The part where the script runs out and she has to improvise.
She’s good. Real good.
But so am I.
The silence stretches. Too long. Long enough for the charm to wear thin. Long enough for the warmth in Katya’s eyes to flicker, just a little, like the mask’s getting heavy.
She knows how to hold a room. Knows how to throw smiles like daggers and use softness like armor. She’s calculating.
And right now, she’s stalling.
I lean against the bar, sip my drink, and wait. Not to be entertained—I’m not Dog.
Reaper’s done waiting.
“Dog,” he says, voice low but sharp enough to slice through concrete. “Outside. Now.”
Dog looks up, tension snapping across his shoulders.
Reaper doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. The weight behind it is enough to make the room feel colder. “You and I need to talk.”
Katya’s grip tightens on her glass, barely noticeable. Dog straightens up, jaw clenched, but he doesn’t argue.
He just nods once, slow and stiff, and follows Reaper toward the door.
I stay where I am, eyes still on the girl behind the bar.
Katya doesn’t waste a second. Her posture changes—barely, subtly—but I see it. The shoulders pull back, the line of her spine lengthens. Her fingers graze the rim of her glass a little slower. Her chin tilts just enough to catch the light across her cheekbone.
She’s not just pretty.
She’s dangerous.
And now I have her full attention.
She turns toward me with a kind of focused calm that would rattle a lesser man. Eyes sharp. Smile half-formed. The kind of look that promises a challenge, not a gift.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” she says, voice low, smooth, as if she’s commenting on the weather.
I meet her stare without blinking. “That a problem?”
Her lips twitch, almost a smirk. “Only if you bore easy.”
She says it like a dare, like she’s trying to crack something open. I take a slow sip from my glass, watching her over the rim. Her gaze follows every movement. She’s reading my reactions like she’s trying to pick a lock. She leans closer, elbows resting on the bar now, chin lifted slightly, her expression equal parts coy and calculating.
“You’re quieter than the others,” she says, voice soft but deliberate, like she wants to see if I’ll flinch. “More observant.”
“I listen before I speak,” I reply, tone even. “It saves time.”
That earns me a smile. A real one.
“And you,” I say, letting the words stretch, “don’t seem nearly as shaken as you were ten minutes ago.”
“I adapt fast,” she murmurs.
