Page 22 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

I’m starting to think you are trouble.

I take the phone back before Dash can answer again.

You like trouble, though.

I mentally cross my fingers as I wait for the reply.

The typing bubble appears. Stops. Starts again.

Maybe I do.

God, I want her. I want to be with her right now. I want to move this beyond just texting. I want to know what she looks like when she sends these messages, whether she blushes, whether she bites her lip, whether she’s touching herself while we talk. Fuck. The restless energy radiates off me, and suddenly I can’t sit still. I spring up from my seat, pacing, trying to think of a good way to ask where she lives, wondering how she would react if I simply showed up. She’d probably mace me. I’m not exactly the kind of stranger you want turning up on your doorstep in the middle of the night. All of a sudden, I regret the patchwork of tattoos I can’t hide, the snake that runs up my chest and neck. I’d flay them from my body to be able to hold her right now.

Chief notices the shift in me immediately. “Easy.”

I glare at him. “Fuck off. I’m fine.”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re getting wound too tight.”

“Maybe because every time I touch the phone, one of you assholes climbs over me trying to take it.” I pace, running my finger through my hair.

Dash points. “That’s because she likes me best.”

“She literally called you annoying.”

“In a flirty way.” Sometimes I wish I could have Dash’s confidence. Nothing fazes him.

The phone buzzes again, and I pounce on it.

So, which version of you is up talking to me right now?

I stare at the screen. Then type:

The dangerous one.

Her response comes quickly.

I knew it. Hi there, trouble.

Something possessive unfurls hot beneath my ribs again. Mine.

Dash groans loudly. “You two are unbearable.”

I grin slowly.

You scared?

The pause this time is shorter.

Maybe a little.

Chief watches me carefully from across the room. He knows that this stopped being harmless somewhere along the way, that I’m in too deep to stop now. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this about a woman. It’s never ended well. Despite that, I can’t quit. I’m already hooked. Maybe I need her to end this, before I hurt her, before I lose control.

I type before I can stop myself.

Good. You should walk away now, while you still can.

“Jesus fuck,” Dash mutters. Chief shoots me a glance that I think is appreciative but could also be judgmental. After all, why should they give her up because of me?