Page 29 of Sexting the Bikers

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,possessivein 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.