Page 18 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)
KATYA
R eaper lifts me onto his desk, sweeping aside a stack of papers and an old brass lamp without taking his mouth off mine. My pulse hammers in my throat, hands tangled in his hair, the whole world reduced to the heat between us and the hard line of his body pinning me where he wants me.
His hands are rough, calloused, possessive as they slide beneath my shirt, and my breath catches when he peels it up over my head.
I shiver, half from nerves and half from the rush of cool air against my skin.
His gaze flicks over me, hungry, almost devouring, and for once I feel powerful even as I’m so completely exposed to him.
He lowers his head, mouth closing around my nipple, and I gasp, arching into him, threading my fingers through his hair.
He takes his time, dragging his tongue over sensitive skin, nipping and sucking until my body trembles against the slick wood of his desk.
My hands curl around his shoulders, nails digging in, the heat building between my legs with every roll of his tongue and every growl rumbling in his chest.
His free hand cups my other breast, squeezing, kneading, pinching just hard enough to make me whimper. I can feel how much he wants me—his hips pressed between my legs, his cock hard through his jeans, the sheer force of his body making me feel wild and reckless.
He switches sides, kissing and biting, sucking me deep into his mouth until I’m panting, my head spinning.
His mouth is everywhere—down my collarbone, up my neck, over my jaw, then back to my breasts, lavishing attention like he can’t get enough.
He presses me back until I’m almost flat on the desk, his hands holding me in place, and I let him, surrendering to the hunger between us, needing more, needing him to take me apart and put me back together.
He lifts his head and looks at me, his lips slick, his eyes burning. “You drive me crazy,” he mutters, voice rough, hands already moving lower, dragging my skirt up around my hips, eyes locked on mine as he slides my panties down and off.
There’s a roughness to the way he handles me that makes me ache—makes me feel wanted in a way that’s nothing like fear.
I’m sprawled across his desk, half-naked, my shirt bunched behind my back, my tits flushed and swollen from his mouth, my pulse thrumming with anticipation as he spreads my legs wide and sinks to his knees.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and he doesn’t hesitate—he drags his mouth over me, his tongue finding my clit with a slow, devastating swirl that makes my whole body jolt.
He groans against me, the sound dark and filthy, and I buck up against his mouth, not caring how desperate I look, how greedy I sound.
He licks me with relentless focus, working my clit in tight circles, flicking and sucking until I can’t stop myself from moaning his name, my hands flying to the edge of the desk, clutching for something solid as he drives me higher.
His stubble scrapes my inner thighs and his grip only tightens, bruising, possessive.
He glances up, eyes heavy, cock straining against his jeans. “You taste so fucking good,” he growls, and then he’s back at it, eating me out like he’s starving, tongue plunging deep and then coming up to suck my clit hard, over and over, until I’m shaking, teetering right on the edge.
I arch my back, pushing my tits up, desperate for more—his hand comes up, squeezing one breast, thumb grazing my nipple while his mouth never stops. I lose track of everything but his tongue, his mouth, the fire he’s setting off inside me.
When my orgasm rips through me, hot and bright, my whole body tightens around his mouth as I gasp his name. He keeps going, slow and soft now, licking me through it, letting me come down sweet and shaking.
When I open my eyes, he’s standing, unzipping his jeans, his cock flushed and hard as he looks down at me like he wants to ruin me all over again.
I’m still trembling from the way he just made me come, legs shaky, barely able to sit up. I wanted to push him, to tease him until he snapped, but in the end it was me who surrendered, my body open and desperate for everything he gave me.
Reaper stands over me, one hand working his cock—thick, long, flushed a deep red at the tip. He’s big enough that my mouth actually goes dry, and the muscles in his arm flex with every slow stroke. He’s watching me with that same fierce hunger, daring me to look away.
“Do you want to touch it?” he asks, voice rough, a challenge woven through the heat.
I nod, my cheeks flushed, the need to please him knotting tight in my belly.
I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his cock, loving how heavy and hot he feels in my grip.
I run my thumb over the tip, spreading the bead of precum, then slide my hand down, squeezing, stroking him slow at first, then faster as I feel him grow even harder.
He groans, his breath hitching, and I watch his eyes flutter half-shut, that iron control slipping for just a moment. I tease him, twisting my wrist the way I know will drive him wild.
He lets me play with him, lets me have control for just a heartbeat, and I can feel the power in it—how much he wants me, how close he is to losing himself. The sight of him, so big and hard in my hand, makes me ache all over again, desperate for more.
I keep stroking him, loving the feel of him heavy and slick in my hand, the way his eyes darken and his jaw clenches every time I squeeze just right.
I drag my fist up and down his cock, teasing the tip with my thumb, watching him fight to keep control.
I want to see him lose it—I want to be the one who finally makes him unravel.
But just as he’s about to let go, he catches my wrist, stops me, and pushes me back onto the desk.
His body crowds mine, his cock nudging at my entrance, and my heart stutters in my chest. I want him, I want all of him—but there’s something I have to say, a secret that suddenly feels too heavy to keep any longer.
I draw a shaky breath, my legs trembling as he lines himself up. “Wait,” I whisper, my voice barely above a plea.
He’s impatient, breathing hard, hungry. “What?” he grits out.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “This is my first time,” I say, my voice small.
Everything about him stills. For a heartbeat, I wonder if I’ve ruined it, if he’s going to pull away and leave me empty. But he just looks at me, searching my face, his own breath coming slower, deeper.
“What?” he says again, quieter now, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“It’s my first time,” I repeat, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being naked.
He takes a long, steadying breath, the hunger in his eyes replaced by something softer, almost reverent. He lifts me off the desk, and for a moment disappointment flares in me—I told him the truth, but I didn’t want him to stop.
But Reaper isn’t done with me. Not by a long shot.
“I’m a greedy bastard,” he murmurs, pulling me into his arms, his voice a dark promise against my ear. “And I can’t stop now.”
He carries me through a door to the room next door—a small space with a narrow bed, barely big enough for one, let alone two tangled bodies. He lays me down, his hands gentle, his gaze never leaving mine.
Moonlight spills across the bed, painting everything in silver and blue as Reaper settles over me, his body blocking out the world. For a moment, he just looks at me—his expression softer than I’ve ever seen, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every curve and flush of my skin.
He leans down, kissing my mouth, then trails kisses down my neck, slow and unhurried, letting me feel every brush of his lips.
His hands slide up my sides, calloused palms cupping my tits, squeezing, thumbing my nipples until they’re peaked and aching.
He lowers his head, drawing one into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me gasp, his tongue hot and wicked.
My breath stutters as he drags his mouth to my other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, leaving me arching up into him, needing more. His hand moves lower, trailing down my stomach, fingers sliding between my thighs. I spread my legs for him, nerves fluttering with anticipation and need.
He strokes me slow at first, his fingers gentle as he circles my clit, teasing me until I’m writhing, breathless, my hips rocking up to chase the pleasure.
He murmurs quiet praise, telling me how beautiful I look like this, how soft and wet I am for him.
He slips a finger inside me, moving carefully, then another, stretching me, working me open until my thighs are trembling and I’m moaning his name.
He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, coaxing every bit of pleasure from my body, watching my face with that intense, focused look as he fingers me, thumb rubbing my clit in slow, torturous circles. My hands grip the sheets, my whole body burning for him.
When I’m close, so close, he pulls his fingers away and lines himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He looks at me, searching my eyes for any sign of fear or doubt. All I can do is nod, breathless, desperate.
After he slides in, slowly, he holds himself deep inside me for a breathless moment, his cock thick and unyielding.
“Fuck, Katya,” he murmurs, voice raw. He gives me a moment, letting me cling to his shoulders, letting me feel everything.
I can feel the stretch everywhere, my body trembling as I adjust around him.
The ache is sweet and sharp, nerves alive with every tiny movement as he begins to move.
He starts to thrust, slow at first, then faster, fucking me deep under the pale glow of the moon. Each thrust leaves me gasping, begging, nails digging into his back as he claims me again and again.
“God, you feel so good,” he groans, voice broken with need as he drags himself out, only to slam back in, harder, deeper, every stroke stretching me open, filling me completely. I arch beneath him, moaning.
He shifts, grabbing my legs and lifting them, bending one in front of me so my knee nearly brushes my chest, the other draped high over his shoulder.
The angle changes everything—he drives into me deeper than before, grinding against that spot that makes me see stars.
I writhe under him, fingers digging into the sheets, helpless to do anything but take it.
He pounds into me, the bed creaking beneath us, sweat slick between our bodies as he fucks me hard and fast, his hips slamming into mine over and over. Each time he buries himself to the hilt, I cry out, the sound echoing in the small room.
He leans over me, his mouth finding mine in a brutal kiss, swallowing my moans, then trailing down to my throat, my tits, biting and sucking marks into my skin as he fucks me even harder.
I shudder, legs trembling as he thrusts even faster, the edge so close I can taste it. My back arches, every muscle pulled tight, and I moan his name, over and over, desperate for release, desperate to keep him inside me just like this.
He keeps going, relentless, unyielding, driving me higher with every deep, punishing stroke, until I break apart beneath him, coming with a scream, my whole body clenching tight around his cock.
And still, he doesn’t stop, riding out my orgasm, chasing his own.
He fucks me through my climax, each thrust harder, more desperate, until I feel him start to lose control, his breathing ragged, the muscles in his arms and stomach trembling as he drives into me, stretching me wide open, my legs hooked high over his shoulders.
He buries himself deep one final time, groaning my name as he comes, cock pulsing inside me, heat spilling and filling me so completely that for a moment I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
He’s every bit as dominant as I expected—taking, claiming, demanding every reaction from my body—but what I didn’t expect is how much I respond to it.
How much I want it, want him to take everything, to make me his.
The roughness, the control, the way he handles me like he knows I’ll shatter for him.
It should scare me, but it doesn’t. It just makes me ache for more.
My mind reels, the last edges of my orgasm still fluttering through me, and reality sinks in. What started as manipulation—a way to gain favor, to get what I needed—has shifted into something far more dangerous.
Because for the first time, I’m not sure if I’m just playing.
And I’m not sure I want to stop.