Page 64 of Sexting the Bikers
“Checking in?” he asks, his gaze flicking briefly to me, then lingering.
Bishop gives a fake name and fake ID like it’s second nature, then hands over a platinum card from one of the burner wallets. Eli’s fingers hesitate over the keyboard as he takes us in—his eyes flicking to my still-windswept hair, tight jeans, and white tank top.
“Oh,” Eli says, in that carefully neutral tone hotel staff use when they’re definitely judging you but don’t want to lose a tip. “Let me see what we have available for…short stays.”
Bishop’s jaw tightens.
I blink. Then smirk. “Oh, I assure you, I take my time.”
Eli’s ears go a little pink, but he types faster.
Bishop mutters under his breath, “You couldn’t have worn a sweater?”
“You bought me this,” I whisper back, grinning.
We get two key cards and a room on the fourth floor. Eli gestures vaguely toward the elevator like he hopes we take the stairs and avoid sullying his lobby with our presence any longer.
I turn just as we’re walking off and wink at him. “Don’t worry, we’ll try not to break the furniture.”
The poor man actually chokes.
Bishop groans. “You’re going to get us thrown out before we’re even properly checked in.”
I giggle in response.
As we walk toward the elevator, Bishop side-eyes me. “He thinks you’re a hooker.”
I shrug. “Then he has excellent taste.”
He just rolls his eyes.
The room is spacious with a nice king-sized bed, minimal furniture, and a giant TV. Bishop paces, checking the lock for the third time, then the window, then the lock again. I watch him from the bed, legs tucked under me, hands busy with the corner of the blanket. He never really relaxes, even in a place as plain and anonymous as this hotel. There’s something tense about the way he moves, like he’s waiting for bad news to come knocking.
“You always do that?” I ask, trying to sound gentle.
He glances at me, then back at the door. “Yeah,” he says, voice flat but not unfriendly. “When you grow up in shitty apartments, you never trust a deadbolt. You check everything twice. Sometimes three times.”
I study him, the way he scans the room, the careful way he sits on the edge of the bed after, hands never quite still. “Did you move around a lot?”
He nods, a wry smile flickering and dying on his mouth. “My mom could pack up the kitchen blindfolded. We moved so much, sometimes I didn’t bother unpacking. If the fridge worked and the water ran, it was a good month.”
There’s a heaviness in his voice, a simple truth I can feel all the way in my chest. “That sounds hard,” I say, standing up. I have this awful urge to reach out and touch him.
He shrugs. “You get used to it. When you’re a kid and you’re hungry, you figure things out. By thirteen, I was running numbers for some old guys down the block. Helped keep the lights on. Money mattered more than anything. It meant food, heat, not getting kicked out. I learned early that honor doesn’t keep the water running. Nobody gives a damn if you’re good when you’re broke.”
We’re sitting on the bed, maybe two feet apart, but it feels a lot closer. The room shrinks around us. The city lights outsideglitter on his jacket, the line of his jaw in profile, the steady tension rolling off him.
He’s so close I can feel the heat of his body, almost hear his heartbeat. My skin tingles, prickling everywhere his gaze lands—neck, chest, hips. I cross my arms, pretending I’m cold just to keep them from trembling. He runs a hand over his hair, then his jaw, watching me like he wants to say something but thinks better of it.
We don’t touch, but I want to. God, do I want to. His eyes flick to my mouth, linger for a beat, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. My breath comes faster, but I don’t move. Neither does he.
Finally, he breaks the tension, standing up again. “I’m going to scout the other floors,” he says, voice rough.
I nod, too quickly. He turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence in his absence is loud.
The moment he’s gone, I let out a shaky breath, dropping back onto the bed, legs squeezed tight. My pussy is throbbing just from sitting so close to him—like my whole body’s been wound up and left wanting.
The door opens quietlyand Bishop slips back in, glancing over his shoulder before locking it behind him. I sit up on the bed, nerves still buzzing from earlier, but I force my expression to stay casual.
