Page 50 of Sexting the Bikers
“This is ol’ ladies work,” someone complains.
Reaper snorts from the other side of the room. “Since you move like ol’ ladies, it fits. And the next time I call and say ‘all hands on deck,’ I expect you here immediately.” His voice has that edge that brooks no argument.
The men around us hoot and holler, swept up in the easy mood, and I keep going—moving through the ruined salon, picking up glasses, brushing off the worst of the day.
I have to be seen. I have to remind them I’m here—not as a victim, but as someone worth noticing. Someone they’ll remember.
Reaper watches all of this from behind the bar, one eyebrow raised, a sly edge in his voice. “You recovered quickly.”
I don’t let him see the way my hands shake on the broom. I lift my chin, toss my hair back, and meet his gaze with a cool, practiced ease. “Maybe I’m just full of surprises.”
I school my expression as Reaper levels a glare at me—the kind that would make a lesser woman shrink. But I don’t shrink. I lift my chin, dust still clinging to my fingertips, the edge of my skirt brushing my thigh as I tilt my head just so. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, the kind that promises consequences, but all I can think is…this is the nut I need to crack.
“In the office,” he barks. “Now.”
The order slices through the noise in the room. All conversation dies. The men straighten. One of them mutters, “Damn,” under his breath as if I just got sentenced.
“Why?” I ask, playing innocent, letting the question drip with syrup instead of defiance.
Reaper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Don’t ask why. When I say something—jump.”
There’s tension in his jaw like he’s one thread away from unraveling. Something about that gets under my skin—in a good way.
I flash a slow, measured smile and set the broom down with care. “Well,” I murmur as I start to walk, hips swaying just enough to be noticed, “as long as you say ‘jump,’ I’ll try to land on my feet.”
Behind me, someone coughs to hide a laugh. Reaper’s eyes narrow, but I swear I see something flicker across his face—surprise, maybe. Interest. Something primal.
He storms into the office, and I follow, pulse quickening. He’s pacing before I even shut the door behind us, his energy coiled tight. This is the man everyone listens to, the man whose word is law in this chaotic little kingdom.
And I just danced a little too close to the edge.
Still, something about that appeals to me. There’s strength in him. Control. But beneath that simmering intensity, I wonder what kind of man he is when he isn’t barking orders or shootingdown his enemies. Is there softness there, or is he made entirely of iron and smoke?
I chuckle quietly to myself, amused by my own thoughts. Can I get him to purr like a pussycat? Doubtful.
Reaper doesn’t waste time, doesn’t bother with small talk or soft edges. He stares me down, his jaw tight, eyes dark. “I know what you’re trying to do out there,” he says, voice low, almost dangerous.
I blink at him, feigning innocence, lips parting just enough to let a little smile through. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Stop it. Whatever game you’re playing, it’s not going to work on me.”
He starts to pace, tension radiating off him in waves. “You think you can just strut around, making eyes at every man who looks at you? You think acting like you own the place is going to keep you safe?” His voice rises, rough and raw, years of command boiling to the surface. “Who do you think you are?”
But I don’t back down. I don’t give him the satisfaction of fear or shame. Instead, I step closer, letting the chaos of the clubhouse fade to a low, distant hum.
He keeps talking, but I barely hear the words. I see the way his hands clench, the way his chest rises and falls, the way he’s fighting something inside himself. The truth is, I’m tired of fighting, tired of being nothing but a pawn, tired of pretending I’m not as alive as the fire burning through me.
So I do the only reckless thing that makes sense—I cross the space between us in one smooth, sure motion, pressing my body against his, feeling the heat of him through my clothes. I tilt my head, lips brushing his jaw, breath catching as his hands instinctively find my waist.
He tenses, just for a second—then his resolve cracks, and I seize the moment, capturing his mouth with mine. The kiss is hot, hungry, everything we’ve both been holding back. My handsslide up his chest, fingers curling into the leather of his cut as his grip tightens on my hips.
He responds—God, does he respond—his mouth bruising, tongue sliding against mine, pulling me closer until there’s no space left at all.
Every inch of him is hard muscle and raw heat, and I feel him give in, just a little, to the chaos I bring. For once, I don’t care if it’s a mistake. I just want to burn.
13
DOG
