Page 55 of Sexting the Bikers
She’s sound asleep, lips parted, lashes fanned against her cheek, and for the briefest moment, I don’t move. My gaze remains on her skin, flushed where my mouth marked her. Something moves through me, immediate, almost primitive. I’ve never felt it before, at least not like this. Not this possessive heat that makes my pulse thud heavy in my throat.
I don’t let myself feel things for women, certainly not women who crash into my life with as much trouble as this one. But the truth is, just the sight of her lying in my bed is enough to set every nerve in my body on edge. It’s honestly a little fucking unsettling.
I’ve had women before, plenty of them. But I never wanted to wake up with them. Never wanted to see them in my bed, my space. Never wanted to lay claim to anyone or anything except my club, my brothers, my own hard-won freedom. Now, though, I can’t stop staring at her—at the curve of her hip, the way my sheets barely cover her thighs, the bruises I left on her skin.
A rooster crows in the distance, dragging me into the early morning. The club’s probably already stirring. I should get up, get moving, but I don’t. I just lie still, watching Katya sleep, my hand resting on her bare back without even thinking about it.
It’s a dangerous thing, wanting someone you shouldn’t want. She’s trouble—more trouble than any woman I’ve known—and every instinct tells me I should put some distance between us before it’s too late.
But all I want to do is pull her closer.
Then reality hits me like a freight train. I jerk upright, heart thudding, and reach for my phone on the bedside table. The screen lights up: it’s too late. The wedding. That goddamn wedding has come and gone.
“Shit.” The word rips out of me.
I’m on my feet before I can think—yanking on my jeans, shoving my arms through a shirt that smells like last night’s smoke and sweat. I glance at Katya, still sleeping, oblivious to the chaos outside these four walls, then look away, dragging a hand through my hair as I pace.
How long have we been out? Has anyone called? What the fuck has Novikov done in the last few hours? My mind’s racing through every possibility—retaliation, silence, bodies in the street. This whole mess could have exploded while I was tangled up in her, letting my guard down in a way I swore I never would.
I storm out of the room, bare feet thudding heavy against the hall floor, ignoring the questioning looks from a few early risers in the clubhouse. The place feels tense, quieter than it should be. There’s a hum in the air that says bad news is waiting around the next corner.
I need answers. I need to know if Novikov’s made his move.
The second I push through the door to the common room, the tension hits me like a fist to the chest. The air’s thick—everyone in the room is armed and twitchy, every pair of eyes fixed on the floor, the walls, anywhere but me.
Nobody looks rested. Most of the guys are still in last night’s clothes, hair mussed, guns laid across their laps or tucked under arms. Rooster sits by the window, shotgun balanced on his knees, gaze flicking outside every few seconds. A couple of prospects huddle in the corner, wide-eyed and pale, trying not to breathe too loud. The patched brothers—Bishop, Dog, Gage—are scattered around the bar, all pretending to be deep in thought, eyes fixed on their beers like the foam’s going to tell them their future.
Dog and Bishop won’t even look at me. Dog’s jaw is clenched tight, shoulders hunched, thumb worrying at the label on his bottle. Bishop stares into his drink, face blank, knuckles white around the glass. I can read the guilt, the worry, and somethingelse—something darker—etched into the set of their mouths, the flick of their eyes.
I scan the room, adrenaline burning off the last scraps of sleep and Katya’s warmth. I fucking hate this—hate the not knowing, hate the powerlessness, hate that I let myself get distracted in the first place. One good fuck, and I let the world spin out of my hands.
“What the fuck is going on?” I growl, my voice echoing in the dead room, making a few of the guys flinch.
Nobody answers. For a moment, I want to start flipping tables just to get a reaction, to snap them out of whatever spiral we’ve all been pulled into. I need information. I need control. I need to know how bad the damage is and whether I’m about to pay for my mistakes with blood.
“Did we hear from Novikov?” I ask, voice low, teeth clenched around the growing dread in my chest.
Bishop finally looks up, meeting my gaze for the first time this morning. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw tight, and there’s something hard in his face I haven’t seen in years. “No,” he says flatly.
The silence that follows is suffocating. The kind of silence that’s more dangerous than any firefight—where everyone’s thinking the same thing but nobody wants to say it out loud.
I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated. “Is there any news on the TV?”
Dog scoffs, not even bothering to hide his disgust. “What, you think the news is gonna report that we kidnapped a Bratva princess? Maybe they’ll have a segment on ‘Outlaw Bikers and Their Hostage Drama’ after the weather.”
“Shut your mouth,” I snap, shooting him a glare. He holds it, for a heartbeat, then looks away, jaw working.
Twitch, restless as always, grabs his gun from the table. “I’m gonna check the perimeter,” he announces, not waiting for ananswer. One by one, the others follow, eager for any excuse to get out.
Nobody’s saying what we’re all thinking. That we’re neck-deep in something we weren’t ready for. That we should’ve handled this differently. That someone fucked up. And maybe—just maybe—that someone was me.
When everyone’s gone but me and Bishop and Dog, I lean back against the bar, arms crossed, and stare at both of them. Bishop’s tapping his fingers against his glass, rhythmic, steady, but it’s a tell—he’s unraveling inside. Dog’s still glaring at the floor, but I can feel the heat radiating off him.
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask Dog, my patience already worn thin. He’s been shooting daggers at me all morning, barely keeping his mouth in check. I don’t have time for this, but I can’t let it fester. “You got something to say?” I challenge, meeting his glare head-on.
He snorts, shaking his head, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Fuck no. You’re the prez. What you say goes, right?”
His tone is all bite, no respect, and for a second I almost forget he’s family. Almost.
