Page 19 of Sexting the Bikers

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Me:That depends. What exactly do you think this mouth can do?

A beat. Then:

Dog:Now you’re speaking my language.

Another message follows, seconds later.

Dog:I’d bet it’d look good wrapped around my fingers first.

My breath catches.

Ishouldback off.

Imeantto just bait him. Set a hook.

But something about the brazenness—the raw, reckless honesty of it—makes heat bloom low in my stomach.

My thumbs move before I can think.

Me:You think you could handle it?

Dog:I can handle you flat on your back, legs over my shoulders, begging.

Jesus.

I swallow hard, the burn of it hot and low, and squeeze my thighs together without thinking.

This is supposed to be a game.

But I’m slipping, fast, and it feels too good to stop.

Me:I don’t beg.

Dog:You will.

I bite my lip.

Stare at the phone.

Then type slowly, deliberately.

Me:You’re all talk.

Dog:Say the word, sweetheart. I’ll show up. I’ll ruin you so good you won’t remember that bastard’s name.

I exhale, shaky now, my fingers brushing over the waistband of my leggings as if on autopilot.

Me:Tell me how.

His answer comes without hesitation.

Dog:First, I’d make you take off your shirt real slow. Let me see what I’m working with.

Dog:Then I’d push you down and put my mouth everywhere you’re trying to hide.

Dog:And when you’re shaking and soaked through, I’d flip you over and fuck you like I don’t need to breathe.

I drop my phone on the blanket and press my hand between my thighs, eyes fluttering shut.

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