Page 8 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

T he burn of the vodka is smooth now.

Second glass. Maybe third. I’m not counting. I don’t need to. I’m not here to get drunk—I’m here to see how far I can push this man before he snaps.

But Bishop doesn’t snap.

He studies me with those sharp, glacial eyes like I’m a puzzle someone handed him with a missing piece. And the longer we drink in silence, the more I get the feeling he’s not going to stop until he finds it.

We’re close. Too close. Only the bar between us, and even that feels like a formality at this point. The countertop’s wide enough to keep us from touching, but not from noticing.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

We’re separated by a slab of wood and two glasses, but somehow, it feels like we’re closer than anyone should be. My skin throbs from his attention and he hasn’t even touched me yet. This is insane.

Bishop doesn’t flirt the way Dog does. There are no lazy grins or flashy lines. He doesn’t joke.

“You’re not like the others,” I say again, softer this time. It’s not a line. It’s just true.

He doesn’t smile. “I’m not Dog,” he replies, “if that’s what you mean.”

I want to curse under my breath. How can he read me so easily?

Dog has that wild, reckless energy—chaotic and bright, all impulse and smirking bravado. He’s the firecracker in a locked room. Dangerous, but in a way that makes you want to light the fuse anyway.

But Bishop?

Bishop is stillness. Tension wound so tightly beneath the surface it’s practically humming.

I tilt my head, letting my voice drop just enough. “No,” I say slowly. “You’re not.”

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not awkward. It pulses, hot and alive.

Outside, I hear raised voices. Dog and Reaper. Dog’s voice is louder, impassioned. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Reaper’s response is too low to make out.

I should be paying attention. That conversation probably involves my fate. But Bishop shifts slightly, and just like that, my focus snaps back to him.

God, he’s impossible not to look at.

He sits back just slightly, the lean muscle in his arms flexing under the black sleeves pushed up past his forearms. He’s not bulky like Dog, not towering like Reaper. He’s carved. Precise. Clean-cut in a way that feels all wrong for a biker—and somehow that makes it worse. Or better. I can’t tell.

Shoulders squared, posture perfect, as if he could break me apart without breaking a sweat and then go right back to sipping whiskey like nothing happened.

His eyes are a pale, unreadable blue, rimmed with thick lashes that soften absolutely nothing.

Sharp jaw, short dark hair, a small scar on his left hand that catches the light when he swirls his drink.

And I am—without question—losing my goddamn mind.

I thought I was attracted to Dog.

I was attracted to Dog. Hell, an hour ago I was soaking through my underwear sexting him.

Now?

Now I’m watching Bishop’s mouth as he speaks, imagining what it would feel like to have those cold hands on my skin, and wondering what’s broken in my brain to make that seem like a good idea.

I’ve flirted with dangerous men before. I’ve handled worse. I know how to be charming, how to distract, how to seduce when necessary. But with Bishop, it’s different.

Because it’s not just tactical anymore.

I take another sip, just to give my hands something to do. My fingers brush the rim of the glass, but I’m hyper-aware of how close his are on the other side. One flicker of movement and we’d touch.

“You always this composed?” I ask, voice soft. “Or do you ever crack?”

He just watches me.

And God help me, I want him to crack.

Not because I want the upper hand. But because I want to know what it looks like when that mask breaks.

“You’re surprisingly fun for someone who hasn’t smiled once,” I murmur.

“I’m fun in my own way,” he says, voice dry.

“Oh?” I lean in slightly, giving him just a little more to look at. “You hide it well.”

He cocks his head. “I know what games you’re playing.”

“Oh, do you?”

“You think you can tilt the room. You think flirting gives you leverage. That if you get close enough, we’ll forget you’re a liability.”

I hold his stare, but something coils tight inside me.

I meet his eyes. “You don’t know me at all.”

His eyes stay locked on mine.

And then, Bishop moves. He steps around the bar—slow, deliberate, like he’s not just closing the distance but taking it.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my chin to keep looking at him. Everything about him changes—not loud, not aggressive. Just…unleashed.

And I feel it in my spine. In my breath. That razor-fine line between fear and thrill.

There’s a feral edge in him now, something I’ve never seen from the men in my world. Not the Bratva boys with their cold arrogance. Not the spoiled heirs or the cruel killers who posture and threaten and call it power.

This is something else.

Gone is the cool, distant man calmly assessing my weaknesses. What stands in front of me now is something else entirely— something closer to wild.

His eyes are darker now, trained on me with a focus that makes my pulse thrum in my throat. He’s close enough to touch. The sudden proximity sends a bolt of heat right through my core.

It frightens me.

It excites me more.

I take a half step back—enough to give myself a breath of space without giving up ground.

My phone buzzes weakly in my jacket pocket. I glance down, more for the excuse than anything else. The screen lights up, showing one percent, and then goes black.

“My phone’s dead,” I say, clearing my throat. “I should charge it.”

His voice drops half a note. “I’ve got a charger.”

I glance back at him.

“But it’s in my room.”

I hesitate. Not because I’m afraid of him. But because of what I might do if I follow.

He watches me in that quiet, razor-focused way of his, and I know that if I say no, he won’t stop me.

But I don’t say no.

I nod. “Lead the way.”

I follow him up the stairs, one step behind, spine straight and chin lifted like I’m not walking into a den of temptation and risk and something far more dangerous than either of those things.

I can’t show weakness.

I learned that early.

Weak girls don’t survive in my world. Weak girls get used, passed around, and forgotten. They get traded like favors. Married off to murderers. They become stories whispered behind locked doors— cautionary tales.

I will not be one of them.

So I walk like my legs aren’t shaking. I breathe like I’m not counting every step. I pretend this is still just a game I’m playing.

But when his hand touches my waist—just the lightest pressure, the smallest guide as he opens his door and gestures me in—my brain short-circuits.

My breath catches in my throat, and I hate that he hears it.

He says nothing. But the air between us grows thicker with each passing second, and I can feel it pressing against my skin like humidity, like heat rising in a closed room.

It’s not rough. It’s not a grab. It’s just… his hand. Warm, steady, possessive in a way he probably doesn’t even realize.

I forget how to breathe.

I step inside the room, forcing my expression back into place, locking it down. One move. Just keep moving.

The space is exactly what I would expect from Bishop—clean, minimal, dark wood and steel, everything in its place. One desk. One bed. One dresser.

I cross to the outlet by the desk and plug my phone in to his charger with fingers that don’t tremble. Small win.

The screen lights up, but I don’t look at it yet. I take a breath and turn around, ready to ask him something, anything, ready to shift back into control.

And then I see his face.

He’s watching me.

Not a cold analyst, calculating angles behind unreadable eyes.

Just raw, hungry lust staring straight at me.

It hits me like a wall.

His jaw is tight, his gaze locked to mine, then dropping—to my lips, to my throat, to the way my chest rises with every breath I try to keep even. He’s not pretending anymore. He’s not hiding what he wants. And for one terrifying, electrifying second, I realize?—

Neither am I.

Because I want him to close the distance.

I want to know what it feels like when the man who never loses control finally breaks.

He breaks the silence first, his voice low but unexpectedly gentle. “You can go.”

I inhale—sharp, uneven, the chill of the words cutting through the heat between us—yet my feet refuse to move.

My breath rushes in and out, too loud in the stillness, heartbeat thundering at the base of my throat while I stare at the hand he rests loosely against the dresser, knuckles white from how tightly he grips the wood.

A long moment stretches, taut as wire.

He tilts his head, studies me like he’s reading numbers only he can see, then adds in a tone that shivers straight down my spine, “Or not.”

One step, that’s all it takes for him to close most of the space. He doesn’t drag me forward, doesn’t cage me in—just lets the heat of his body bleed across the sliver of air between us until I can feel it where his hand lingers at my waist, fingertips burning through the leather like a brand.

I hold myself utterly still.

Because I said I wouldn’t make the first move.

Because I promised myself I wouldn’t beg.

And because right now I want nothing more than to break both vows.

His thumb brushes the inside curve of my hip in a slow, deliberate stroke, and whatever composure I have left frays apart.

I look up, meet those ice-blue eyes, and in them I see the storm I’ve been baiting all night—desire riding shotgun with control, every nerve in his body strung tight and ready to snap.

That’s when he finally touches my face—one steady palm cupping my jaw, tilting it a fraction, giving me the briefest chance to back away.

I don’t take it.