Page 28 of Sexting the Bikers

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.

Iwasattracted 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.