Page 6 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

Dog: Didn’t say I would.

Another beat. Another message pops up before I can decide whether to scream or throw the phone across the room.

Dog: But now I really want to.

I stare at the screen.

Dog is flirting. Hard.

And part of me knows I should shut it down, stay focused, keep my head clear.

But the other part—the part that knows men like him—sees a door swinging open.

He wants to be the hero? Let him. Maybe I can use that.

I climb onto the bed, back against the headboard, phone warm in my hand. My heart’s still pounding, but for a different reason now.

Use him, I tell myself. You’ve done worse to survive.

I type, slowly.

Me: You really that desperate to rescue a damsel in distress?

The reply comes fast.

Dog: Nah. Just curious what kind of trouble comes with that mouth.

I feel the flush crawl up my neck before I can stop it. I should be annoyed. Offended.

Instead, my legs shift under the blanket.

Focus.

Me: That depends. What exactly do you think this mouth can do?

A beat. Then:

Dog: Now you’re speaking my language.

Another message follows, seconds later.

Dog: I’d bet it’d look good wrapped around my fingers first.

My breath catches.

I should back off.

I meant to just bait him. Set a hook.

But something about the brazenness—the raw, reckless honesty of it—makes heat bloom low in my stomach.

My thumbs move before I can think.

Me: You think you could handle it?

Dog: I can handle you flat on your back, legs over my shoulders, begging.

Jesus.

I swallow hard, the burn of it hot and low, and squeeze my thighs together without thinking.

This is supposed to be a game.

But I’m slipping, fast, and it feels too good to stop.

Me: I don’t beg.

Dog: You will.

I bite my lip.

Stare at the phone.

Then type slowly, deliberately.

Me: You’re all talk.

Dog: Say the word, sweetheart. I’ll show up. I’ll ruin you so good you won’t remember that bastard’s name.

I exhale, shaky now, my fingers brushing over the waistband of my leggings as if on autopilot.

Me: Tell me how.

His answer comes without hesitation.

Dog: First, I’d make you take off your shirt real slow. Let me see what I’m working with.

Dog: Then I’d push you down and put my mouth everywhere you’re trying to hide.

Dog: And when you’re shaking and soaked through, I’d flip you over and fuck you like I don’t need to breathe.

I drop my phone on the blanket and press my hand between my thighs, eyes fluttering shut.

The next message vibrates the phone against the bed, and I snatch it up again.

Dog: I’d get you on your knees next. Make you look up at me with that bratty little mouth you’re so proud of.

I swallow, hard.

My skin’s flushed, thighs pressed tight.

I start rubbing my thighs together beneath the blanket, slow and instinctive, chasing the friction without even thinking. My nipples ache under the thin cotton of my shirt.

I should stop. This was supposed to be bait. A hook. Nothing more.

But my breath is ragged and shallow, my fingers gripping the phone like it’s the only thing holding me together.

I type, smirking faintly:

Me: Easy, puppy. Didn’t think you had it in you.

Dog: Say that again and I’ll make you whimper it into the mattress.

Dog: Twice.

God.

I clench my legs tighter. My toes curl. I’m too far in, and I know it.

But I also know I have to pull myself out.

Focus.

There’s too much at stake.

I breathe in hard—shaky, uneven—and force myself upright. My body’s still humming, still aching, but I lock it down the way I was trained to.

I switch tactics.

Me: Come get me then.

There’s a pause. Then:

Dog: What?

Me: Where are you, puppy?

Dog: I’m at the clubhouse. Why?

Me: I’m out back behind the Novikov estate.

The typing stops.

Dog: What the hell are you doing out there?

Me: Battery’s dying.

Me: Are you coming or not?

Another pause.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid.

The screen lights up one last time.

Dog: I’ll be there in 10.

I don’t wait for a reply.

The second I hit send, I’m moving.

No tears now. No shaking hands. That part’s done.

I slip off the bed, crouch low, and move to the window again. This time I don’t just tug uselessly at the frame—I study it.

It’s locked, yeah. Reinforced too. But everything has a weakness. You just have to find it.

I run my fingers along the seam of the latch, feeling for give. The lock is old-school—decorative brass, fancy-looking but lazy. Whoever installed it wasn’t thinking about someone like me.

I grab the nail file from earlier—still tucked into my boot—and angle it carefully under the lip of the locking plate. It takes patience, leverage, and pressure from just the right angle.

The metal creaks.

I pause, heart hammering, listening.

Silence.

Good.

I press harder, twist, and feel the lock give with a soft metallic snap .

“Got you,” I whisper.

The window groans as I ease it open, inch by slow inch. Cold night air hits my face. I breathe it in like it’s the first thing that’s been real in hours.

There’s a drop. Not high—maybe ten feet to the ground. I can take it.

I loop my jacket tighter, tie the sleeves around my waist so they won’t catch. Then I climb onto the sill, boots braced, hands gripping the edges.

One last glance behind me.

The dress still hangs in the wardrobe, a pale, mocking ghost. I slip out into the dark, swing my legs down, and lower myself as far as I can. My fingers burn holding my weight, but I drop the last few feet and land in a crouch.

Grass underfoot. Cold. Damp.

I exhale slowly. I made it.

But I’m not free yet.

I duck low, staying in the shadows, heart pounding with each step away from the house.