Page 31 of Sexting the Bikers
He doesn’t hesitate, peeling the skirt down my hips slowly, deliberately, tormenting me with every slow inch of skin he reveals. I shiver as the cool air hits my bare legs, but then he’s moving again, sliding his palm gently—so unbearably gently—up my inner thigh, until his fingers brush the damp lace between my legs. I gasp sharply, hips lifting instinctively to meet his touch.
“Fuck,” he breathes roughly against my neck, teeth scraping the tender flesh beneath my ear. “You’re so wet already, Katya.”
I shudder beneath him, heat blooming across my cheeks and chest. I open my mouth to retort, to maintain some semblance of control, but his fingertips circle lightly, teasing me through the delicate fabric of my underwear, and my words dissolve into a helpless moan instead.
“God, I knew you’d sound like that,” he murmurs darkly, fingers slipping beneath the lace now, pressing directly against the slick folds of my sex. “I imagined what you’d feel like. How tight, how perfect.”
“Bishop—” I choke out, the single word broken, pleading.
He eases two fingers inside me, slow and deliberate, filling me until my back arches off the bed in pure desperation. His thumb circles gently over my clit, igniting every nerve ending, making me tremble, making me beg.
“You like that?” His voice is velvet-smooth, dark and filthy, brushing hot against my skin. “You like feeling me inside you? You like knowing you’re gonna come all over my hand, Katya?”
“Yes,” I gasp helplessly, hips rocking against him, urging him deeper, harder. My own voice is foreign, raw, entirely abandoned to pleasure. “Please—please, I need?—”
He thrusts his fingers deeper, harder, pressing against that perfect spot inside me until stars explode behind my eyes. His thumb never stops its tight circles around my clit, relentless,ruthless. Pleasure coils tighter, harder, until I can barely breathe, until my heart feels like it might burst out of my chest.
“Come for me,” Bishop growls in my ear, voice ragged with lust, possessive and demanding. “Come all over my fucking fingers. Let me feel how good it is.”
His words undo me entirely. I cry out sharply as pleasure detonates inside me, clenching around his fingers in relentless waves of ecstasy. I come hard, body shaking uncontrollably, thighs trembling, every muscle drawn tight as I ride out the shattering release he’s pulled from my body.
He holds me through it, his breath harsh and uneven against my neck, murmuring filthy, soothing words into my skin as the world slowly comes back into focus.
“Good girl,” he whispers softly, pressing gentle kisses along my jawline, my throat, my lips. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”
His mouth is still on my skin, soft kisses trailing up my neck, slow and reverent now, like he’s trying to memorize every part of me with his mouth. My pulse hasn’t settled. I’m still trembling, wrapped in aftershocks and his breath, still pinned beneath him, still so incredibly aware of the heavy length of him pressing hard against my belly.
God, he’s hard. Completely.
I shift slightly, and he lets out a low, ragged sound against my throat. One of his hands moves again, sliding down between us, fingers teasing just beneath the edge of my underwear like he’s already thinking about how to undo me again. His lips graze mine—barely a brush—and I feel the moment stretching, the want deepening, reckless and alive and?—
“BISHOP!” Reaper’s voice crashes through the house like a gunshot. “Where the hell are you?”
We both freeze.
Bishop closes his eyes for a beat, jaw tightening. The heat between us crackles, broken, fractured—but not gone.
He pulls back, breath still heavy, gaze dragging slowly down my body like he doesn’t want to leave it. Then he stands, smooth and controlled, but I see the tension in his shoulders.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m alone in his room, half-naked, skin still tingling from his touch, my underwear damp, my mind spinning out like it’s no longer attached to reality.
What the hell am I doing?
7
DOG
Isit in the kitchen with a half-empty bottle of cheap-ass whiskey, my bruised pride, and nothing but the hum of the old fridge for company.
Didn’t think it’d go like this.
Didn’t think Reaper would look at me like I’d just pulled a fucking gun on the club.
We’ve argued before—hell, we’ve argued plenty. I get under his skin, he clamps down on mine. That’s the rhythm. That’s how it’s always been. But this? This one cut deeper.
This wasn’t just about protocol or making a mess of optics. This was personal.
And I can’t stop wondering if I made a mistake.
