Page 27 of Sexting the Bikers

Another pause.

She’s closer than she was before. Not touching. Not even brushing. But there’s something charged about the space between us—like stepping too far forward might detonate something we can’t take back.

I know this game. I’ve played it. Hell, I’ve designed it.

But Katya? She plays it like it’s instinct.

And the longer I sit here, the more I feel that line—the one between control and want—start to thin.

I lean in slightly, not much. Just enough to meet her where she is.

“You’re playing with fire,” I say quietly.

Her eyes don’t leave mine. “So are you.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s thick with heat. She’s studying me like she already knows I’ll crack, like she’s betting on it.

And for the first time since she walked into this place?—

I’m not entirely sure she’s wrong.

6

KATYA

The 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.