Page 32 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

I crouch behind the red wedding dress, knees tucked to my chest, the silk cool against my cheek.

The closet smells of cedar and old perfume, a cloying sweetness that makes my throat close.

I try to breathe quietly, counting the seconds between each inhale, focusing on the steady rhythm so I don’t lose my nerve.

Outside the door, the house is changing.

A low rumble begins, like thunder rolling across floorboards.

At first it’s just one set of footsteps, measured and confident, a guard following his routine.

Then the footsteps stop. Silence stretches long and thin.

I imagine him spotting the sheet rope dangling from my window, the pale fabric twisting in the evening breeze.

In my mind, I see confusion flash across his face, quickly turning to panic.

A man like that hates surprises. He will call it in, and the storm will break.

Someone barks orders near the landing. The words rush by in Russian, too fast to catch every syllable, but I hear enough to understand. They think I’ve escaped.

Every slam of a door makes me flinch. My heart hammers so hard it feels like a fist against my ribs. The closet is suddenly too small. I taste dust on my tongue, fear thick in my blood.

A voice rises outside my door. It’s Gregor.

I recognize the gruff tone, the authority in every word.

He curses, orders two men to search the adjoining bathroom, another to check the balcony.

Keys jangle. The doorknob rattles once, twice, then stops.

I picture him standing there, glaring at the lock, deciding where to look next.

Please walk on. Please believe I climbed out that window. The prayer curls in my mind, though I’m not sure who I direct it to. I hold my breath and close my eyes, listening to their anger build like a storm trapped in the hallway.

A crash echoes down the corridor, something heavy hitting a wall. Someone shouts that they’ve found the rope. Another voice argues, says there’s no sign of me on the ground below. Confusion spreads like gasoline on water.

I crouch behind the thick folds of red silk, cheek pressed against the wood panel, breathing through parted lips. A strip of hallway light leaks through the narrow gap where the closet doors meet. Every muscle in my body quivers with the urge to run, but I stay frozen, waiting.

The door handle to my room clicks. I bite the inside of my cheek as the door swings open, hinges whining.

They don’t bother with the bed or the bathroom. They stride straight to the window, their silhouettes blotting out what little moonlight slips into the room. One man jerks the sheet rope, testing the knot I left on the nightstand leg. The rope gives a soft creak.

“Nevozmozhno,” he mutters in Russian, voice tense. “She’s really gone.”

The other leans out, scanning the grounds below. “How far could she get in ten minutes?” He spits the words, frustrated.

A cold thrill rushes up my spine. They believe the lie.

One of them smacks his palm against the window frame. “Search teams outside,” he snaps. “Lock everything.”

Boots scuff the floor as they back away from the glass. I hold my breath, afraid even the sound of my heartbeat might betray me. The closet door stays untouched. They never even glance in my direction.

The taller guard mutters something about reporting to Gregor. Thankfully, they leave the door open. Footsteps retreat down the hallway, swallowed by distant shouting and the slam of exterior doors.

I keep still, counting slow to twenty, then thirty, until the house settles back into uneasy silence. Through the closet crack, only the faint rectangle of moonlit carpet remains.

I slip from the closet and melt into the gloom, silk brushing my legs. The hallway roars with boots and shouted orders. I keep low, hugging the wall, sliding past open doorways without letting a toe touch the light.

Two guards rush by, rifles leveled, muttering about search teams sweeping the grounds. I press flat behind a console table, heart hammering. When they pass, I dart forward, counting each stride to keep my pace silent.

At the corridor’s bend, a lamp spills a pale circle across the floor. I wait for a shout from the far end—none comes—then sprint through the light, bare feet whispering over the rug. My chest tightens, every breath a knife between my ribs, but I don’t slow.

I aim for the service stairs. The kitchen door stands ahead, double panels of polished oak. Voices echo closer. I twist the knob and shove. It doesn’t budge.

Locked.

Shit.

I race my eyes around the pantry alcove. Shelves stacked with silver platters. A window above the sink, but too small. Footsteps pound down the hall. I have seconds.

A utility cupboard gapes open beside the door, shelves crammed with linens.

I dive inside, pulling the folding door mostly shut as boots thunder past. One guard stops outside the pantry, cursing about wasted time.

He rattles the knob, barking that someone should get keys.

His radio crackles. Orders fly. My pulse jumps with each word.

“I think I spotted someone downstairs.”

Gregor’s reply sends ice up my spine. “Told you that little bitch never left. She’s playing us.”

As soon as they leave, I yank open the nearest door near the pantry, heart stuttering. A narrow stairwell slopes downward, air turning sharp with damp earth. No time to weigh odds. I slip inside and pull the door until it almost latches, leaving just a breath of space so it won’t echo shut.

My feet hit the first step and I pause, listening. The basement stairwell yawns ahead, bricks sweating moisture, but voices boom behind me in the hall.

Cold clings to my skin as I feel for the rail. There is none. I descend by touch alone, fingers brushing rough concrete, feet testing each step before committing. Every exhale sounds too loud in the hollow stairwell. Above, boots pound, hunting.

At the bottom, the steps spill onto an uneven floor. Total darkness presses around me. I stretch my arms wide, palms skimming stone and rotting wood. A drip echoes somewhere to my right. The air smells of mildew and iron, like old blood and rusted pipes.

I slide along the wall, fingertips searching for edges, seams, anything that might be a doorframe. My pulse thrums in my ears. A door slams upstairs, followed by curses and the heavy tread of men fanning out. They will reach this level soon.

My hand snags on a metal latch set low in the wall. I crouch, groping it. Hinges groan as I tug, revealing a crawlspace barely wide enough for my shoulders. Stale air billows out, colder still. I duck inside, teeth clenching against the chill, and ease the panel closed behind me.

The crawlspace is a coffin of bricks and dirt. I inch forward on hands and knees, my tight dress catching on rough stone until I tear a slit in the skirt to move freely. My knees scrape, but the pain keeps me alert. Far ahead, a slit of light glimmers, a coal chute maybe, or a cracked storm vent.

Voices filter through the basement, angry, close. A flashlight beam sweeps the main chamber, catching dust motes that drift through the crack in my hiding panel. I press against the floor, willing my breath silent.

Panic claws at the edges of my mind, but I force it back. There has to be a way out.

My fingers close around a cold metal handle. Prayers and curses tangle on my tongue as I brace both feet and shove with everything I have.

The door pops outward, slamming into something solid.

A grunt echoes back at me. Then light spills into the duct and Dog’s face appears, inches from mine.

He rubs his chest where the door hit, then flashes a crooked, breathless grin.

Sweat and dirt streak his cheeks; his eyes blaze with reckless energy.

“Get out of the way, princess,” he whispers, voice low and urgent. “The bloodhounds are after me.”

Shock freezes me for half a heartbeat, then relief surges so hard my knees wobble.

I twist sideways, letting him squeeze into the cramped passage with me.

He shoulders the metal door closed behind him and slides the interior bolt home.

The latch clicks just as shouts echo down the basement corridor.

We’re pressed thigh to shoulder in a space barely wide enough for one. The darkness swallows us again, his breath hot against my ear.

I can feel my pulse in my throat. “How did you even get in?”

“Front gates were busy,” he whispers, catching his breath. “Thought I’d try the back way.”

“In the middle of a manhunt?”

His grin widens. “I knew you were causing trouble.”

We crouch, shoulder to shoulder, the air close and heavy with earth and old wine. For a moment I let myself lean into him, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and gasoline beneath the dust. Relief and fear tangle tight inside my chest.

Footsteps slow, then fade. Dog looks at me, expression softening. “You good?”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Better now.”

The clamor outside drifts off, boots echoing down the basement corridor until silence settles over the cramped duct. Dog’s body is pressed against mine from thigh to chest, the stale air alive with his heat and the faint scent of gasoline and sweat.

“How the hell are we getting out of here?” I whisper, forcing calm into my voice even though my heartbeat feels too loud.

“Let me think,” he mutters, turning his head just enough that our foreheads almost touch. We wait, breathing the same thin air. His pulse thumps against my ribs; every inhale brushes his shirt against the torn silk of my dress.

The darkness presses in, amplifying every sensation. My fingers grip the cold metal of the duct, but all I can really feel is him—warm, solid, so close I could count the rise and fall of his chest. A shiver drags down my spine that has nothing to do with the chill.

“Dog…” I begin, voice catching. His gaze searches mine in the dim light, only a sliver of moonlight seeping through a seam in the metal. “What if we don’t make it out alive?”

His hand comes up, rough palm cupping my cheek, thumb brushing a stray strand of hair away. The touch is gentle, absurdly tender in the middle of this filthy, suffocating crawlspace. “We will, princess,” he says with quiet certainty. “But if something happens, I need you to know?—”

I never hear the end of the sentence. His mouth covers mine, warm and insistent, chasing the tremor from my lips.

The world narrows to the taste of him and the thunder of my own pulse.

I lean into the kiss, pulling strength from it, from him, from the promise that neither of us is alone in this fight.

His mouth moves from mine, trailing down the line of my jaw, lips and teeth pressing urgent, hungry marks into the sensitive skin of my throat.

The heat building between us blurs everything—the danger outside, the ache in my knees, the taste of fear still caught in the back of my throat.

All that matters is Dog, the way his hands move across my body with a need that matches my own.

“Dog…this is insane,” I whisper, voice trembling with want even as my mind tries to remind me how reckless this is. My fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging to the broad strength of him as he nips at the skin just above my collarbone, marking me with little blooms of color.

“I can’t stop,” he breathes against my skin, his voice ragged.

He unbuckles his jeans, the metal clink echoing in the cramped space, and pushes my dress higher, baring my thighs to the cold air and his burning hands.

His fingers pull my panties aside and find my folds, slipping between them, seeking and stroking until he circles my clit, slow and purposeful, making my hips jerk in response.

He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest as he presses kisses down to my breasts.

His tongue flicks over a tight, aching nipple before he closes his mouth around it, sucking just hard enough to make me gasp.

I arch into his mouth, all thought vanishing, my hands tangling in his hair as his fingers work me with relentless focus.

I bite my lip, trying to stay quiet, but it’s useless with the way he’s touching me, the way his mouth laves at my skin. My legs fall open wider as he presses another finger inside me, curling just right, thumb rolling my clit until I’m gasping his name.

His lips are still at my breast when he lifts his head, breath coming hot against my skin.

He kisses me, fierce and desperate, and I lose myself in the wet heat of his mouth.

My hands tug at his shirt, fingers skating over the muscle of his back.

His breath comes harsh against my lips as he grabs my hips, shifting us so I’m straddling him, thighs pressed tight to his sides in the cramped dark of the cellar.

Dog works his jeans down just enough, cock springing free, thick and hot against my bare skin.

His hand slides between us, fingers teasing over my clit again as he aligns himself, the blunt head rubbing through my slick folds, making me whimper with anticipation.

I brace my hands on his shoulders, digging in for balance, dizzy from want and adrenaline.

He grips my hips, and with one long, slow thrust, pushes inside me. He curses softly, muffled against my neck, hands flexing on my waist as he buries himself to the hilt. My body clings to him, greedy and aching, the burn of him filling me so good I can’t think.

We move together, each thrust tight and hungry, his cock sliding deep, hitting every spot that makes me tremble.

His mouth finds my breast again, teeth and tongue lavishing my nipple as his fingers find my clit, circling in time with his rhythm.

My hips rock against him, faster now, and I lose any hope of staying quiet.

He kisses me hard, swallowing my gasps, his hips thrusting up as my thighs squeeze around him. The pressure builds fast, everything inside me coiling, tightening, his cock driving me closer to the edge with every hard, deep push.

“Fuck, Katya,” he groans, voice breaking as my walls pulse around him, clenching tight, drawing him in even deeper.

He holds me down, grinding up into me as I come, waves of pleasure crashing over me, stealing my breath.

I collapse against his chest, shuddering, lips pressed to the hollow of his throat as he keeps moving, chasing his own release.

A few more thrusts, desperate and rough, and he buries himself to the root, coming with a muffled growl against my skin. We cling to each other, bodies shaking, sweat cooling in the darkness, hearts pounding loud enough to drown out the world.