Page 65 of Sexting the Bikers
He drops onto the bed next to me, running a hand through his hair. “Definitely some suspicious types on the floor above us,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Russians, by the sound and the suits. I bribed one of the floor maids. She says she’ll get back to me with info.
My pulse skips. “Now what?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
He meets my eyes, heat simmering beneath the surface. “Now we wait.”
He grabs the remote, flicks on the TV, some generic cable news murmuring in the background, but we barely glance at the screen.
Bishop sits back, the blue glow washing over his face, and for a minute, the only sound is the hotel AC and the low hum of the city beyond the window. My leg brushes his. His fingers find my knee, tracing the line of my jeans. My whole body lights up, aching. He glances at my lips, and that’s all it takes.
I lean in, or maybe he does, it doesn’t matter. We crash together, mouths hungry, breathing hard. His hands are everywhere—fisting in my hair, cupping my face, slipping under my shirt to find bare skin, calloused palms rough and grounding. I gasp as he pulls me closer, bodies tangled, his tongue sliding hot and slick against mine.
He pushes me back against the bed, climbing over me, never breaking the kiss. My hands roam under his shirt, fingers tracing the hard muscles of his back, and he groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest. The TV blares on, ignored, as his hands grip my waist, sliding my tank top up, baring my stomach to the cool air.
It’s hot and wild, pure need driving every movement. I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer, his body pressed tight against mine.
Bishop’s mouth finds my throat, his breath hot against my skin as he trails kisses down to the hollow between my collarbones. His hands cup my tits through the thin tank, rough palms kneading gently at first, then harder—like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me. The fabric stretches, bunching underhis fingers until he pulls it up and bares the rest of me, till I’m topless.
He looks at me then, really looks—eyes dark and hungry, lips parted, his chest heaving just a little. His gaze rakes over my bare skin, and I shiver—not from cold, but from the way it makes me feel seen and wanted. He bends, slow and deliberate, burying his face between the soft valley of my breasts. I gasp as his tongue flicks along my skin, his stubble scraping lightly, sending heat all the way to my toes.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him to me, biting my lip as his mouth moves from one breast to the other, sucking and licking until I’m arching up, wanting him everywhere.
He glances up at me, his eyes meeting mine with a wild, unspoken promise.
And then he goes back to work, lips closing around my nipple, sucking deep, his face pressed close, lost between my breasts, and I can’t help the soft, desperate sounds that slip out as I clutch him tighter.
I push at Bishop’s shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric, greedy for the heat of his skin. He sits back just enough for me to yank it over his head, the muscles of his chest and arms flexing under the dim lamplight. My breathing stutters at the sight—broad shoulders, lean lines, a scatter of old scars that only make him look more dangerous.
I rise onto my knees, straddling his lap, feeling the solid length of him beneath me. The denim of his jeans presses against my thighs as I settle in, our bodies flush. His hands find my hips, gripping tight, pulling me closer until there’s no space left.
I lean down, mouth capturing his again, our kiss messy and eager, tongues tangling. He groans into me as I rock my hips just enough to tease, the friction sending sparks up my spine. My hands roam over his chest, nails scraping lightly down to hisstomach, then lower to the button of his jeans. I pop it open, dragging the zipper down.
He lifts his hips, letting me shove the denim partway down, enough to free him.
I brace my hands on his shoulders and move against him, slow, deliberate slides that make us both gasp. My hair falls forward, brushing his face as I kiss him on his jaw, cheek, lips.
Bishop’s hands find my hips and he urges me down onto the mattress, rolling me until I’m lying on my back. His mouth returns to my breasts, lips closing around one nipple while his hand kneads the other, teasing until I arch up, pressing myself closer to his heat. He lingers there, tongue circling, the scrape of his stubble deliciously rough against my sensitive skin. I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair, holding him right where I want him.
He lingers there, sucking until my back arches and I feel the pull deep in my belly. My breathing is unsteady, my skin prickling with goose bumps as his hands slide beneath the waistband of my jeans. I lift my hips, offering myself up, and he tugs them down.
He moves lower, hands gliding down my sides to the waistband of my panties. With one slow, deliberate motion, he slips them down my thighs, past my knees, and off completely. Cool air skates over my bare skin, but his body is all heat, all tension. He drags his mouth down my stomach, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, and then he’s between my legs, eyes dark and intent as he nudges my knees farther apart.
His breath fans over my center, and then his tongue flicks over my clit—soft, then firmer, building a rhythm that leaves me clutching at the sheets, back arching as pleasure surges through me. Bishop’s hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he works me with expert precision, alternating between sucking and gentle circles until my moans spill out, unrestrained. I’mclose, so close, hips canting into every stroke, my body humming on a live wire.
He looks up at me, his stubble rough against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, and I see something almost smug in his eyes. He enjoys this, enjoys unraveling me, and it’s working. I try to hold back, but he knows exactly how to push me to the edge, his tongue circling, his fingers slipping inside, curling until I can’t help but gasp his name.
Just as I’m about to come, right at that trembling precipice, he pulls away, leaving me suspended in the airless space between relief and need. I open my eyes in protest, but he’s already climbing over me, his jeans and boxers gone. He lines himself up, eyes never leaving mine, and then he’s pushing inside.
It’s easier than it was with Reaper, and the pain I remember is gone, replaced by a rush of pure, heady pleasure. He fills me completely, the stretch sweet and familiar, and I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. Bishop’s breath catches as he sinks in, and he gives me a crooked grin, one hand slipping beneath my back to hold me close.
He sets a rhythm that’s deep and unhurried, grinding his hips into mine with every stroke, making sure I feel every inch. My body welcomes him, slick and hungry, every movement slicker, easier, hotter than before. I can’t stop the sounds spilling from my lips—soft moans, pleas, a broken gasp when his thumb finds my clit again, circling gently as he moves inside me.
“Bishop,” I say, my back arching.
“Charles,” he pants. “Call me Charles.”
“Charles—” I breathe.
Bishop—Charles—bends to kiss me, swallowing my cries, his tongue tangling with mine, the taste of my own desire on his lips. He pulls back, moving faster, his muscles tightening under my palms, sweat slicking our skin. He murmurs things I barely catch—compliments, curses, my name over and over—his voice rough with need.
