Page 7 of Sexting the Bikers

I feel the bikers’ eyes flick to me again—measuring, reassessing.

Dog—the one with the messy hair and easy smirk—grins wider, like he’s found something he wasn’t expecting.

“Bishop,” Reaper says, jerking his chin toward the cold one, “lock it down.”

Bishop gives a small nod, barely moving.

Dog stretches lazily and says, “Got any beer? I’d take a beer.”

I seize the opening like a lifeline. “Well, we don’t have that here,” I say, turning toward him, “but I’ll see if I can find some.”

Bakum’s scowl deepens. His jaw ticks, tight with barely held anger. From the look on his face, I know this won’t be the end of it.

There’ll be a price later.

“Good girl,” Dog says, pushing off the wall and sauntering toward me. “I’ll come with.”

“What—” Bakum starts, half rising from his chair.

But Reaper cuts him off, smooth and cold. “Better this way. Fewer ears.”

Bakum’s mouth flattens into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue.

Dog falls into step beside me, and we head toward the door.

I don’t look back.

I can feel the heat of his body next to mine, solid and dangerous, and I sneak a glance at him from under my lashes. Broad chest under a black T-shirt, rough hands, a cocky swagger that says he’s been in more bar fights than he can count—and won most of them.

Dog.

I wonder why they call him that.

Something tells me it’s not because he rolls over and plays dead.

At the edge of the hall, the lieutenant falls into step in front of us, stiff and nervous.

“Where would I find beer?” I ask him lightly.

He doesn’t meet my eye. “Follow me. Kitchen’s this way.”

Dog’s hand brushes lightly against my lower back, guiding me forward. And I can still feel it—the heat of him. The way his attention sticks to me even when he’s not looking.

The kitchen smells like bleach and stale bread. Big industrial ovens line one wall. An oversized stainless-steel fridge hums in the corner.

The lieutenant’s phone buzzes. He curses under his breath and steps away, already answering it, waving vaguely at the fridge. “Beer’s in there.”

I walk over and tug the heavy door open. Cold air rushes out, hitting my bare arms.

Behind me, Dog leans against a cabinet, arms folded across his chest, watching me like he’s got nothing better to do.

“You gonna tell me who you are?” he asks, voice lazy, almost amused.

I glance over my shoulder. “That depends who’s asking.”

He grins.

God, he’s handsome in that rough, reckless way that spells disaster. Messy dark hair that looks like he rolled out of bed ready to fight someone. Hazel eyes that don’t miss a thing. A chipped tooth when he smiles—like he got punched once and never bothered fixing it. Tattoo ink snakes down his arms, disappearing under the sleeves of his cut.