Page 66 of Sexting the Bikers
Tension coils low in my belly again, tighter this time, and I let go, shaking as I come around him, clutching his shoulders, my body clamping down, milking him for everything he’s worth. He groans, thrusts once, twice more, then follows, his own release wrung out of him with a shudder.
For a while, we just lie there, tangled together in the warm mess of sheets and breath and heartbeats thudding in time. He brushes a hand along my thigh, almost gentle, as if he’s memorizing every inch of me for the road ahead. I close my eyes and let myself float, safe for one impossible moment in the heat of his embrace.
We’re still tangled together, letting the last waves of pleasure fade, when a sharp knock comes at the door. The sudden sound jolts me from the warm, safe bubble Bishop and I made for ourselves.
He checks the peephole, then cracks it open just enough for the maid’s voice to slip through. He listens, then slips her some cash. His expression has changed, hardening into something cold and efficient. He crosses to the window, his eyes scanning the parking lot and hallway below with a look that makes me shiver.
“Get dressed. He’s here.” His voice is clipped, all business now. There’s nothing soft left. I watch his back as he pulls on his jeans and shirt, feeling a pinch of hurt that the warmth between us vanished so quickly. I roll off the bed, grabbing my panties and jeans and wriggling back into them as fast as I can, my heart pounding.
Bishop is gone a minute later, shutting the bedroom door behind him, and I hurry to tie my hair back, finger-combing it as best I can. The feeling of being dismissed stings more thanI expect, but I force myself to focus on the moment. This isn’t about me or him, not right now.
He returns, face tight with tension. “Room 514. That’s where they’re waiting. We need to go.”
I follow him out, trying to shake off the confusion and the ache in my chest.
We make it to the fifth floor, and my nerves are so high-strung I feel every thread of carpet under my shoes. Bishop keeps a careful pace, head on a swivel, his jaw tight. As we round the corner, two men in tailored suits step out of the elevator alcove, blocking the hallway.
Bishop slows, instinctively shifting his body between me and them. I try to sidestep, giving them the most polite, disinterested look I can muster, but one of them moves fast, clamping a hand around my upper arm. The grip is hard enough to bruise.
Bishop is on him instantly. “Get your hands off her,” he growls, pushing forward, but the second man is already reaching for him.
For a split second I think Bishop might start a fight right here, but the doors on both sides of the hallway suddenly swing open and more men pour out. Four, five, maybe six in total—all with the same cold, careful eyes.
I don’t even get a chance to shout before they take control, pushing us forward. One of them keeps a hand locked around my wrist, another clamps down on Bishop’s shoulder. There’s no violence, just that cold authority that says they’re not worried about a struggle.
We’re hustled down the hall and shoved into the nearest suite. The door closes firmly behind us, the sound final and absolute.
Inside, the hotel suite feels colder, too bright, and far too quiet. All the softness I felt minutes before is gone, replaced by the tight, hot pulse of fear and anticipation in my chest.
Bishop glances at me, his expression hard but protective, and I square my shoulders, ready to face my devils.
A man stands by the window, back straight, silver at his temples and a suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. He turns as we enter, his eyes fixed on me with the kind of calm, assured authority that makes everyone else in the room seem like background noise.
“Katya,” he says, his accent soft but unmistakable. He gives a slight, almost theatrical shake of his head, a hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth. “This isn’t how I thought you would make an entrance.”
19
DOG
Isit in the main room, the glow from the bank of monitors painting the walls in static blue. The security feed shows nothing but empty road, our battered bikes, the distant glint of the highway. No black sedans. No Russian muscle creeping in from the shadows. Still, my gut is twisted with unease.
I can’t stop thinking about Katya. I keep replaying the last time I saw her, the heat in her eyes, the tension in her voice. I tell myself she’s fine, that Bishop has her back, but it doesn’t help. Something is off. Something is always off when it comes to her.
Reaper walks in, shotgun slung over his shoulder, scanning the monitors with his cold, measured stare. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, hands on his hips, the air buzzing with nerves.
Finally I clear my throat. “You heard from Bishop?”
Reaper doesn’t look at me, but I see the tick in his jaw. “Should have checked in by now.”
I nod. “He’s not picking up.”
“Katya?”
“Nothing from her either.” I tap my foot, feeling every second stretch out, tight and sour. “What if this is a setup? What if she’s just bait?”
Reaper’s lips pull into a thin line. “You think she’s playing us?”
I want to say no, but doubt creeps in. I want to believe she’s more than just a pawn in somebody else’s game. Still, I can’t shake the possibility that we’ve been led into a trap.
