Page 52 of Sexting the Bikers
Bishop gives a low grunt. “He’ll want the haul counted.”
I scoop everything up, tucking it into a plastic grocery bag from under the bar, and make my way down the back hallway.
As I near Reaper’s office, I hear voices—hers, low and urgent, his, that familiar rumble that means he’s losing patience. I slow up, not wanting to interrupt, but I figure it’s nothing new. Katya’s been dancing circles around all of us since she landed in the middle of this mess.
I shift the bag in my hand and ease the door open a sliver, planning to just drop the loot off and get back to the rest of the crew. But as I reach the threshold, I stop short.
Reaper’s hands are buried in Katya’s hair, and she’s pressed flush against him, her fingers locked behind his neck, pulling him in deeper. They don’t hear me. They don’t see anything but each other.
I’ve seen plenty in the club—girls trading beds, patch-hoppers, old ladies who play the field until someone locks them down. Hell, I grew up knowing my own mother’s loyalty was only as deep as her latest bruises. I told myself it didn’t matter, that none of these women ever really belonged to us.
But this is Katya. I can still taste her on my tongue from last night, hear her laugh in my ears. For a second, I let myself believe maybe—just maybe—she’d choose me.
I watch Reaper’s hand trail down her back, strong and sure, holding her like she’s the only thing keeping him upright. Katya lets herself melt into it, sighing into his mouth, her eyes fluttering closed. The way she touches him isn’t the way she touched me. Or maybe it is, and I just didn’t notice. Either way, the sight knocks the air out of me.
My fingers tighten on the wallets, nails digging into the leather. It shouldn’t hurt. This is the way things work. Women move through the club, pick their favorites, settle for a night or a week before someone claims them for good. But with Katya, it feels personal—like I just lost something I didn’t even know I was holding.
I keep my distance, holding the bag of wallets tight, my mind spinning. I never step into the light spilling from the office—don’t make a sound, don’t even breathe too loud. They don’t see me. Maybe that’s for the best.
My gut’s a knot, anger burning a hole in my chest. I’m the one who brought Katya in, the one who risked everything—club loyalty, my own skin—just to keep her out of Novikov’s hands. But Reaper…Reaper’s the president. His word is law. If he wants her, she’s his, whether it’s right or not. That’s how it’s always been.
I duck back from the office, bag still in hand, and head down the back hall, jaw tight. I can hear my pulse in my ears. Every memory of her—laughing in my arms, pressed against my bike, her lips on mine—feels like a bruise now. Was it ever real, or was I just a soft place to land until something better came along?
I want to hate her for it, but I can’t. I want to fight Reaper, but I won’t. He saved my ass years ago, gave me a place here when Ihad nothing. He’s the reason I’m not rotting in some prison, or worse.
But it still burns.
I grip the bag tighter, my knuckles white, and pace into the dim kitchen, away from the chatter and the cleanup and the blood. I tell myself I’ll avoid Katya now, keep my distance, let her chase Reaper’s shadow if that’s what she wants. It’s the smart play. It’s what any brother would do.
But as I slam the bag down on the counter, I know I’m lying to myself. I always do when it comes to women, especially women who look at me like I might be worth saving. I can’t avoid her. Not really. Not for long.
And just how much will you lie to yourself, Dog?
The question hangs in the air, ugly and honest, echoing in the silence.
I wish I had an answer.
14
KATYA
Reaper lifts me onto his desk, sweeping aside a stack of papers and an old brass lamp without taking his mouth off mine. My pulse hammers in my throat, hands tangled in his hair, the whole world reduced to the heat between us and the hard line of his body pinning me where he wants me.
His hands are rough, calloused, possessive as they slide beneath my shirt, and my breath catches when he peels it up over my head. I shiver, half from nerves and half from the rush of cool air against my skin. His gaze flicks over me, hungry, almost devouring, and for once I feel powerful even as I’m so completely exposed to him.
He lowers his head, mouth closing around my nipple, and I gasp, arching into him, threading my fingers through his hair. He takes his time, dragging his tongue over sensitive skin, nipping and sucking until my body trembles against the slick wood of his desk. My hands curl around his shoulders, nails digging in, the heat building between my legs with every roll of his tongue and every growl rumbling in his chest.
His free hand cups my other breast, squeezing, kneading, pinching just hard enough to make me whimper. I can feel howmuch he wants me—his hips pressed between my legs, his cock hard through his jeans, the sheer force of his body making me feel wild and reckless.
He switches sides, kissing and biting, sucking me deep into his mouth until I’m panting, my head spinning. His mouth is everywhere—down my collarbone, up my neck, over my jaw, then back to my breasts, lavishing attention like he can’t get enough. He presses me back until I’m almost flat on the desk, his hands holding me in place, and I let him, surrendering to the hunger between us, needing more, needing him to take me apart and put me back together.
He lifts his head and looks at me, his lips slick, his eyes burning. “You drive me crazy,” he mutters, voice rough, hands already moving lower, dragging my skirt up around my hips, eyes locked on mine as he slides my panties down and off.
There’s a roughness to the way he handles me that makes me ache—makes me feel wanted in a way that’s nothing like fear. I’m sprawled across his desk, half-naked, my shirt bunched behind my back, my tits flushed and swollen from his mouth, my pulse thrumming with anticipation as he spreads my legs wide and sinks to his knees.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and he doesn’t hesitate—he drags his mouth over me, his tongue finding my clit with a slow, devastating swirl that makes my whole body jolt. He groans against me, the sound dark and filthy, and I buck up against his mouth, not caring how desperate I look, how greedy I sound.
He licks me with relentless focus, working my clit in tight circles, flicking and sucking until I can’t stop myself from moaning his name, my hands flying to the edge of the desk, clutching for something solid as he drives me higher. His stubble scrapes my inner thighs and his grip only tightens, bruising, possessive.
