Page 63 of Sexting the Bikers
KATYA
Bishop insists we stop at a strip mall off the highway—a squat building with more empty storefronts than working ones. “If you want to blend in, you can’t wear that,” he says, eyeing my shirt that I borrowed from Reaper.
“Yeah, no shit,” I say, looking down at the stained Metallica shirt.
“For a Bratva princess, you sure have a mouth,” he says, eyeing me.
“I’m hardly a princess,” I say. “My family have just been surviving for a long time. Old blood can only take you so far.” I realize I’ve said too much.
“Well, Novikov wants you guys—Riazanovs, is it?” he says.
I nod.
“He wants you dead for a reason,” he finishes. “If you were weak, he wouldn’t care.”
I sigh. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”
He nods quietly.
When I step out of the cramped changing room, Bishop is waiting, arms crossed, a frown between his brows. He looks meup and down as I adjust my skintight tank top and smooth the jeans over my hips.
“What are you wearing?” he asks, narrowing eyes. I know exactly what he sees.
I shrug, feigning innocence as I reach for my hair tie. “You’ll see.” I know damn well the fabric of this top is thin enough that the peaks of my nipples are visible in the neon light.
He just shakes his head and pays, and before I can overthink it, we’re back outside, heading for his bike.
Before Dog rescued me from Novikov’s estate, I had never ridden a motorcycle before. I’ve seen them roar down city streets in Moscow and New York, and always admired the fearlessness it must take to sit exposed like that, body pressed to someone else’s. But I didn’t know what it really felt like until now—straddling the seat behind Bishop, clutching his waist, heart thumping out of my chest as he kicks the engine to life.
We hit the road as dusk settles in, the sky streaked with violet and gold, headlights flickering to life all along the coastal highway. The wind snaps my hair back and chills my bare arms, but I don’t care. I press my thighs tighter around Bishop, feel the engine rumble through both our bodies. My palms flatten against his stomach, gripping him harder than I need to, feeling his warmth even through the rough leather.
It’s reckless, maybe. The throbbing between my legs has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the freedom of this moment.
I don’t know what kind of trouble we’ll find at that hotel. But right now, with the ocean at our side and my body pressed tight to Bishop’s back, I don’t care.
The Marriott risesout of the sleepy coastal town like it doesn’t belong here.
It’s the only building for miles that doesn’t look like it survived a tornado and a meth lab explosion. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the last sliver of sunset, and the landscaped entry glows under a line of tasteful, low-lit palm trees someone probably waters every morning with corporate enthusiasm.
Bishop parks the bike just past the awning, and I swing off, tugging my jeans up and brushing wind-blown hair from my face. Inside, the air is cool and perfumed with something generic and expensive—probably cucumber sage or linen mist or some other spa nonsense.
I don’t wait for Bishop. I walk in like I own the place, my boots echoing off polished tile, eyes locked on the elevator bank at the far end of the marble lobby. No one even looks up.
Not until Bishop grabs my arm. “Are you nuts?” he hisses.
“What?” I blink up at him, pretending innocence. “I’m just heading up.”
“We need a room.”
“Are you sure that’s necessary?”
“Yes,” he deadpans. “We’re sitting ducks out here. We need to figure out their plan, maybe scout the place. Hotels like this don’t just let anyone waltz around unless they’re guests.”
He’s right. It’s not the kind of place you loiter in without a reservation or a credit card that hasn’t been declined three times.
“Fine,” I say with a little shrug. “Let’s go book our honeymoon suite.”
The lobby is chilled and smells like citrus. Some ambient jazz plays in the background, and everything from the floor tiles to the concierge smiles like it’s been through PR training. A tall, bored-looking receptionist watches us approach—his name tag says “Eli.”
