Page 163 of Blood & Throttle
Ghost doesn’t even look up from his data pad. “Nah, me and Taz already called dibs. Try not to die in your sleep.”
Bishop slaps Luca on the back as they walk. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll keep you warm.”
Luca groans. “I swear to god, if you touch me, I’m setting the bed on fire.”
“You’re lighting a lot of candles for someone playing hard to get.”
The rest of us fall in behind them, boots crunching gravel as the Syndicate handlers track every step. Their rifles hang loose, their gazes don’t.
We haven’t even made it inside, and its already clear, this is not a place you stay.
It’s a place you survive.
Room nine is exactlywhat I expected—stained grey carpet. A bed that might collapse if you breathe too hard. A busted TV with a missing remote. The only redeeming feature? A tiny coffee maker in the corner like a trophy from someforgotten war with a few small packets of instant coffee next to it.
“Dibs on that in the morning,” I say, pointing.
“Didn’t realize we were fighting over coffee now.”
“Only when it’s the last good thing in the room.”
He dumps his gear on the floor and stretches, shirt rising just enough to show the lines cut into his hips. My mouth goes dry.
The bed creaks as I test it, bouncing slightly. “Well, it’s a double. We won’t have to fight for space tonight.”
“Who said I planned on giving you any?”
I glance over my shoulder and catch the look in his eye—lazy, lethal, and dripping with heat. My pulse stutters.
Fuck it.
I lock the door behind us and turn to find him already stripping off his jacket, stretching out like he owns the world.
Riot drops onto the bed with a grunt, arms behind his head, ankles crossed. Relaxed. Arrogant. Completely infuriating. That fucking smirk dances on his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and I’m done pretending he doesn’t.
I toe off my boots, shrug out of my hoodie, and cross the room slowly. Controlled. Letting every move be deliberate.
His eyes track me, a lazy heat simmering behind them.
“Something on your mind, Little Stray?” he asks, smug as hell.
“I think you owe me,” I say, stopping at the foot of the bed.
He lifts a brow. “For what?”
“For making me endure that ride.” I roll my neck, slow and dramatic. “I can’t feel my ass. Or my legs. And I do remember you saying before we left that you could help me out with that.”
“Maybe I did.” He exhales, eyes narrowing. “But even physical therapy isn’t free, sweetheart. What are you gonna do for me?”
I climb onto the bed, swing one leg over his hips, and settle onto his lap like I was made to fit there.
“I can think of a few things you might like.”
I grind my hips, slow and purposeful, dragging myself over the hard line beneath his jeans. His breath punches out sharp, and his hands twitch at his sides, like he’s debating whether to grab me or let me keep teasing.
“You trying to start something, Little Stray?”
I roll my hips again. “I plan on finishing it, too.”
