Page 30 of Sexting the Bikers
The screen lights up, but I don’t look at it yet. I take a breath and turn around, ready to ask him something, anything, ready to shift back into control.
And then I see his face.
He’s watching me.
Not a cold analyst, calculating angles behind unreadable eyes.
Justraw, hungry luststaring straight at me.
It hits me like a wall.
His jaw is tight, his gaze locked to mine, then dropping—to my lips, to my throat, to the way my chest rises with every breath I try to keep even. He’s not pretending anymore. He’s not hiding what he wants. And for one terrifying, electrifying second, I realize?—
Neither am I.
Because I want him to close the distance.
I want to know what it feels like when the man who never loses control finally breaks.
He breaks the silence first, his voice low but unexpectedly gentle. “You can go.”
I inhale—sharp, uneven, the chill of the words cutting through the heat between us—yet my feet refuse to move. My breath rushes in and out, too loud in the stillness, heartbeat thundering at the base of my throat while I stare at the hand he rests loosely against the dresser, knuckles white from how tightly he grips the wood.
A long moment stretches, taut as wire.
He tilts his head, studies me like he’s reading numbers only he can see, then adds in a tone that shivers straight down my spine, “Or not.”
One step, that’s all it takes for him to close most of the space. He doesn’t drag me forward, doesn’t cage me in—just lets the heat of his body bleed across the sliver of air between us until I can feel it where his hand lingers at my waist, fingertips burning through the leather like a brand.
I hold myself utterly still.
Because I said I wouldn’t make the first move.
Because I promised myself I wouldn’t beg.
And because right now I want nothing more than to break both vows.
His thumb brushes the inside curve of my hip in a slow, deliberate stroke, and whatever composure I have left frays apart. I look up, meet those ice-blue eyes, and in them I see the storm I’ve been baiting all night—desire riding shotgun with control, every nerve in his body strung tight and ready to snap.
That’s when he finally touches my face—one steady palm cupping my jaw, tilting it a fraction, giving me the briefest chance to back away.
I don’t take it.
His mouth captures mine in a kiss that detonates behind my ribs—hot, commanding, fierce enough to chase every ounce of strategy from my head. I taste vodka on his tongue, feel the rough scrape of stubble against my skin, and the world narrows to the press of his hand at my waist and the relentless slide of his lips over mine. My fingers fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, because distance suddenly feels unendurable.
His mouth never leaves mine as he backs me, step by relentless step, across the small span of floor. The backs of my knees bump the mattress, and before I can draw another breath he eases me down, the weight of his body settling over me.
The kiss deepens, hotter than sin, all velvety heat and scraped-silk sighs, his tongue stroking a slow, devastating rhythm that sets every nerve alight. My fingers slide beneath his shirt, mapping the hard planes of muscle and the sharp line of his spine; he answers by dragging his palm up my rib cage, caressing the curve of my breast through the thin cotton.
When he finally pushes the fabric aside and closes his mouth over me—warm, wet, and hungry—I arch into him on a broken gasp, the world narrowing to the shock-bright pleasure of his tongue circling, tasting, claiming. He sucks gently, then harder, and a helpless sound spills from my lips, half plea, half challenge.
Bishop growls—a feral, low rumble that vibrates against my skin—and the sound only fuels the urgency coiling between us. Every nip of his teeth, every sweep of his tongue, every hot exhale against sensitive flesh, turns the air molten, until thought disintegrates and need takes the throne. I clutch his shoulders, nails biting just enough to make him hiss and press closer, devouring every broken breath I offer, as if he’s determined to drink every last ounce of control I have left.
His mouth drags lower, teeth scraping softly along the curve of my breast, leaving a hot trail of kisses and bites down my rib cage until I’m writhing beneath him, fingers tangled helplessly in his hair. Every nerve in my body is tuned to him now, waiting breathlessly for the next shock of sensation, the next teasing touch that feels like fire under my skin.
Bishop’s hands find the waistband of my panties, fingers hooking beneath the fabric, pausing only long enough to look up at me, eyes dark and burning with a question he already knows the answer to.
“Take them off,” I whisper, barely recognizing my own voice, roughened by desperation and need.
