Page 47 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

RYDER

T he bar is loud, smoky, and filled with the kind of people who don’t take shit from anyone.

Neon beer signs flicker against the old brick walls, casting a hazy glow over the crowd.

The scent of leather, sweat, and whiskey lingers in the air, mixing with the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

Rock music rumbles from the speakers, a classic AC/DC track that’s barely audible over the chatter.

The long wooden bar is lined with regulars, men in cut-off vests nursing beers while swapping stories from the road. In the back, a couple of guys throw darts, and a few pool tables are surrounded by onlookers betting cash.

I nod at a few of my brothers as I make my way to a booth, steering the soaking-wet girl with me. People look up, taking notice. Some give her a once-over, others glance at me in curiosity. But no one says a damn thing.

I’ve barely taken a seat before the first guy comes over.

“Rockweiler,” Denny calls out, grinning. He claps me on the shoulder, his eyes flicking to the blonde sitting across from me. “Didn’t know you were bringing company tonight.”

“She broke down in the storm,” I say flatly. “Figured I’d be nice for once.”

Denny snorts. “Yeah? Since when?”

I flip him off, and he laughs, slapping the back of my head before walking off.

Another guy comes by, then another. Small acknowledgments, shoulder grips, and greetings are thrown my way. A few of the younger prospects glance at the woman across from me with interest, but one look from me sends them walking the other way.

She stays quiet through all of it, barely touching her drink.

By the time she’s on her third, I know she’s feeling it. Her posture’s looser, her eyelids a little heavier, but there’s still tension in the way she holds herself, like she’s carrying something too heavy to set down.

I lean back against the worn leather booth, taking her in.

She’s young. Much younger than me. Mid-twenties, maybe?

Soft, full curves that she clearly doesn’t realize are fucking lethal.

Blond hair, a little messy from the rain.

Big, round eyes that dart around the room but never settle on me for long.

She’s wearing a sweater that clings to her chest and a pair of jeans that hug her thick thighs just right.

Yeah. She’s gorgeous.

And way too young for me.

But that doesn’t stop me from noticing how good she looks sitting across from me in my bar, drinking my whiskey.

“You gonna tell me your name, or do I have to keep calling you ‘princess’ all night?” I ask, taking a sip of my own drink.

She lifts an eyebrow, finally meeting my gaze. “Do I look like a princess to you?”

I smirk. “I dunno. Depends on the type of princess we’re talking about.”

She exhales, shaking her head, but I see the tiniest hint of amusement in her expression.

“Marcy,” she finally says, swirling the last bit of amber liquid in her glass.

Marcy. I roll the name over in my head. It suits her.

“Seems like everyone here knows you,” she comments.

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of a big deal,” I say with a grin, spreading my arms wide.

She snorts, and it’s the first real, unguarded reaction I’ve gotten from her all night.

It’s a good sound.

“Cocky,” she mutters.

“Confident,” I correct, finishing my drink.

She sets her glass down, exhaling. I can see it in her eyes—the moment the alcohol starts loosening whatever weight she’s been carrying all night.

“What about you, Marcy? What’s got you drinking like it’s a job?”

Her jaw tightens for a second before she forces a smile. “You know, just the standard birthday-from-hell scenario.”

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s your birthday?”

“Yup.” She reaches for her drink, then remembers it’s empty and sighs. “And it’s been absolute shit .”

Something about the way she says it—the way her voice wobbles just slightly—tugs at something deep in my chest.

I don’t know her. I don’t know her story.

But I know what it looks like when someone’s been beaten down one too many times.

I flag down a waitress and slide her my empty glass. “Another round for the birthday girl.”

Marcy blinks. “You don’t have to?—”

“It’s your birthday,” I interrupt. “We’re making it a good one.”

I smirk at her as I slide the fresh drink in front of her.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to bring a cake for me,” she says, rolling her eyes.

I chuckle, taking a slow sip of my whiskey. “I think I have something better in mind.”

Marcy gives me a skeptical look, but before she can protest, I slide out of the booth and extend a hand. “Come on, birthday girl. Let’s dance.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You dance?”

“Only when I feel like it.” I nod toward the open space near the bar where a few people are swaying, some grinding, some just enjoying the music. “Come on. You look like you could use a distraction.”

She hesitates, eyeing my outstretched hand like it might bite her. But then, with a sigh like she’s put upon—like this is some great inconvenience—she places her hand in mine.

I barely suppress the grin tugging at my lips as I lead her onto the worn wooden floor.

A deep, throbbing rock beat pulses through the speakers, vibrating in my chest as I turn to face her. At first, it’s awkward—she shifts on her feet, keeps her arms stiff, clearly not used to letting go. I don’t push. Just move with the music, keeping it easy.

“Relax, princess,” I murmur, hands settling on her hips. “Just follow my lead.”

She exhales, rolls her shoulders, and lets herself move.

And that’s when I really feel her.

Soft, warm curves pressing against me, hips swaying just right as she gets into the rhythm. I let my hands slide over the dip of her waist, pulling her closer. The scent of rain still lingers on her skin, mixing with something subtly sweet. Vanilla, maybe?

Marcy tilts her head up at me, eyes dark and unreadable. But she’s leaning in now, body easing into mine, trusting me to lead.

Damn.

I’ve had women in my arms before—plenty of them—but this… this is something else.

I let my fingers skim over her lower back, feeling the warmth of her through her sweater. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she moves even closer, her chest brushing against mine, her breath warm against my throat.

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs.

“At what?”

“Distracting me.”

I smirk, dipping my head slightly. “Thought you’d like that better than cake.”

She huffs a soft laugh, but I see it—the way her fingers tighten slightly against my shoulders, the way her breath catches just a little when I slide my hand lower, resting just above the curve of her ass.

I shouldn’t be touching her like this.

She’s too young. Too soft. Too off-limits.

But right now, in this moment, I don’t give a damn.

And from the way she’s looking at me, neither does she.

Her body fits against mine too damn well. The way she moves, the way she trusts me to lead—it’s messing with my head more than it should.

I’m not the kind of guy who gets caught up in moments like this. I don’t do soft. I don’t do sweet. But something about Marcy is different.

She’s not the usual bar bunny looking for a quick night with a biker. She’s not batting her lashes and throwing herself at me, trying to get a taste of the club life.

She’s just… here. And she’s real.

And fuck if I don’t want more.

I tighten my grip on her waist, leaning down slightly, close enough that I can feel her breath hitch. One more second. Just one more damn second of this?—

A crash shatters the moment. Shouting erupts near the pool tables, followed by the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping hard against the floor.

My jaw clenches. Goddamn it.

I pull back, hands still lingering on Marcy’s waist, reluctant to let go.

She blinks up at me, her lips slightly parted. She feels it, too. That tension crackling between us like live wires.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

I grit my teeth, looking over my shoulder. “Duty calls.”

At the far end of the bar, two guys are squaring up—one of them a regular, the other some out-of-town asshole who clearly doesn’t know where the hell he is. A couple of prospects are already moving in to break it up, but it’s my job to handle shit like this before it turns into a full-blown brawl.

I sigh, forcing myself to step back. Marcy’s arms drop from my shoulders, and the cool air between us is instant. I already hate it.

“Stay here,” I murmur, nodding toward the bar. “I’ll be right back.”

She gives me a mock salute. “Go be a hero, big guy.”

I shake my head, smirking despite myself.

I stride across the bar. The shouting grows louder as I close in, my body already shifting into work mode.

Tony’s got his hands clenched into fists, chest heaving like he’s two seconds away from throwing the first punch. The other guy, some wiry punk with more ego than common sense, is grinning like he wants to get his ass kicked.

“Alright, knock it the fuck off!” I call out

Neither of them listens. Of course they don’t.

Tony jabs a finger at the out-of-towner. “This asshole thinks he can come in here and talk shit like he owns the place!”

“I own the damn table, dumbass,” the guy sneers, his words slurring slightly. “Paid for my turn, didn’t I?”

Tony lunges, but I step between them, shoving my forearm against his chest and forcing him back a step. He’s a big guy, but I’m bigger. Stronger. He knows better than to push me.

“Back the fuck up, Tony,” I warn, my voice low and steady. “You know the rules—no fighting in the club.”

Tony grits his teeth but drops his fists, chest still rising and falling in sharp bursts. He knows better than to test me.

I turn to the other guy, who has the audacity to smirk like he just won something.

Bad move.

“You.” I step toward him, close enough that I can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he realizes just how big I actually am. “Who the hell are you?”

He lifts his chin, trying to act tough. “None of your goddamn business?—”