Page 25 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)
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 under his 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 his stomach, 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’m close, 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.
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 than I 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.”