Page 37 of Sexting the Bikers
It’s smaller than Bishop’s. Less clinical. The walls are scuffed, a few posters peeling at the corners—vintage bikes, girls in denim shorts, a faded Ravagers patch pinned crooked above the dresser. His boots lie kicked off by the door. There’s a half-finished bottle of something cheap on the nightstand and a shirt draped over the back of a chair like he just yanked it off without thinking.
Lived-in. Wild. Chaotic.
Just like him.
I sit up slowly, the sheet falling around my waist, and press my hand to my chest to still the pulse hammering there.
First Bishop.
Then Dog.
God.
What the hell am I doing?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, letting it all catch up to me. The heat, the hunger, the way they both touched something I haven’t let anyone near in years.
I tell myself it was strategy. I needed allies. Protection.
But the way Dog looked at me last night…the way Bishop kissed me like I was the first thing in his life he didn’t want to control…
It wasn’t just about survival.
I felt it. Passion. Real, bone-deep, terrifying passion—indifferentways. Bishop was restraint finally shattered. Dog was chaos wrapped in devotion.
I drop my face into my hands, elbows on my knees, heart pounding.
What does that make me?
I grew up knowing better. In my world, a woman who moves from one man’s arms to another’s in the same breath is called a whore. No matter the reason.
And here I am.
I shake my head hard, as if I can throw the thought off like water.
I’m not a whore. I’m not. I’m just…trying to survive.
But even that excuse feels too thin this morning. Because last night wasn’t about Novikov.
It wasn’t even about staying alive. It was about forgetting. About feeling. About someone seeing me—and still wanting me.
I run a hand over the sheets beside me, trying to feel for warmth, but it’s long gone. For a second, I wonder if he even slept next to me at all. Did he hold me after? Or did I just pass out like some trembling mess in his bed while he slipped off to wherever men like him go when the fire burns out?
I bite my bottom lip, face heating as last night’s memories creep in—his mouth on me, his voice low and filthy in my ear, the way he made me come apart like I had no control over my body at all.
God.
I shake my head and pull the sheet tighter around myself for a moment.
This was supposed to be survival. Strategy.
Not whatever…thatwas.
I rise, gather my clothes from where they’re strewn across the room, and dress quickly, quietly, trying not to think about how my legs are still a little shaky. I step out into the hall barefoot, Dog’s door clicking shut behind me, and make my way toward the main room.
The clubhouse is quiet, still lingering in that strange post-night haze. Some light filters in through the blinds. I expect clutter, mess, the aftermath of whatever madness normally happens here—but it’s quiet. Almost peaceful.
My bare feet pad softly across the worn hardwood as I wander, looking at the wall I hadn’t noticed before.
