Page 24 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

B ishop insists we stop at a strip mall off the highway—a squat building with more empty storefronts than working ones. “If you want to blend in, you can’t wear that,” he says, eyeing my shirt that I borrowed from Reaper.

“Yeah, no shit,” I say, looking down at the stained Metallica shirt.

“For a Bratva princess, you sure have a mouth,” he says, eyeing me.

“I’m hardly a princess,” I say. “My family have just been surviving for a long time. Old blood can only take you so far.” I realize I’ve said too much.

“Well, Novikov wants you guys—Riazanovs, is it?” he says.

I nod.

“He wants you dead for a reason,” he finishes. “If you were weak, he wouldn’t care.”

I sigh. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

He nods quietly.

When I step out of the cramped changing room, Bishop is waiting, arms crossed, a frown between his brows. He looks me up and down as I adjust my skintight tank top and smooth the jeans over my hips.

“What are you wearing?” he asks, narrowing eyes. I know exactly what he sees.

I shrug, feigning innocence as I reach for my hair tie. “You’ll see.” I know damn well the fabric of this top is thin enough that the peaks of my nipples are visible in the neon light.

He just shakes his head and pays, and before I can overthink it, we’re back outside, heading for his bike.

Before Dog rescued me from Novikov’s estate, I had never ridden a motorcycle before.

I’ve seen them roar down city streets in Moscow and New York, and always admired the fearlessness it must take to sit exposed like that, body pressed to someone else’s.

But I didn’t know what it really felt like until now—straddling the seat behind Bishop, clutching his waist, heart thumping out of my chest as he kicks the engine to life.

We hit the road as dusk settles in, the sky streaked with violet and gold, headlights flickering to life all along the coastal highway.

The wind snaps my hair back and chills my bare arms, but I don’t care.

I press my thighs tighter around Bishop, feel the engine rumble through both our bodies.

My palms flatten against his stomach, gripping him harder than I need to, feeling his warmth even through the rough leather.

It’s reckless, maybe. The throbbing between my legs has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the freedom of this moment.

I don’t know what kind of trouble we’ll find at that hotel. But right now, with the ocean at our side and my body pressed tight to Bishop’s back, I don’t care.

The Marriott rises out of the sleepy coastal town like it doesn’t belong here.

It’s the only building for miles that doesn’t look like it survived a tornado and a meth lab explosion.

Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the last sliver of sunset, and the landscaped entry glows under a line of tasteful, low-lit palm trees someone probably waters every morning with corporate enthusiasm.

Bishop parks the bike just past the awning, and I swing off, tugging my jeans up and brushing wind-blown hair from my face. Inside, the air is cool and perfumed with something generic and expensive—probably cucumber sage or linen mist or some other spa nonsense.

I don’t wait for Bishop. I walk in like I own the place, my boots echoing off polished tile, eyes locked on the elevator bank at the far end of the marble lobby. No one even looks up.

Not until Bishop grabs my arm. “Are you nuts?” he hisses.

“What?” I blink up at him, pretending innocence. “I’m just heading up.”

“We need a room.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?”

“Yes,” he deadpans. “We’re sitting ducks out here. We need to figure out their plan, maybe scout the place. Hotels like this don’t just let anyone waltz around unless they’re guests.”

He’s right. It’s not the kind of place you loiter in without a reservation or a credit card that hasn’t been declined three times.

“Fine,” I say with a little shrug. “Let’s go book our honeymoon suite.”

The lobby is chilled and smells like citrus. Some ambient jazz plays in the background, and everything from the floor tiles to the concierge smiles like it’s been through PR training. A tall, bored-looking receptionist watches us approach—his name tag says “Eli.”

“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 outside glitter 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 quietly and 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.

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.