Page 54 of Callum

Bishop laughs, reaching a hand out to run along my side, and I have to hide the way my body automatically flinches away from the touch. Thankfully, he’s too busy staring down my tank top to notice. “It’s a full house.”

I hum thoughtfully, looking at him through my lashes. “That means you get a lap dance, right?”

“That’s right, pretty girl.” The praising tone of Bishop’s voice makes me want to punch him in the throat, but I restrain myself when my eyes land on the gun sitting next to him on the table.

“We should move to the couch,” I point toward the living room, unfolding myself quickly from the chair. “It will be more comfortable.”

Bishop doesn’t question it, eagerly standing to follow me to the ends of the Earth for what is going to be a highly disappointing event for him. I breathe a sigh of relief when he doesn’t grab his gun off the tabletop.

It doesn’t take long to get him situated in the center of the couch while I press all the buttons on the ancient radio in the corner of the living room. I’m not entirely sure it still works, but anything is better than dancing in total silence.

The twenty-four-hour Christmas station crackles to life after a few moments of fiddling, and I hold in a groan. The station starts on October first and runs through the end of January—two thousand nine hundred and fifty-two straight hours of Christmas music.

You cannot convince me this station isn’t a little piece of Hell that slips the void once a year to give us all a taste of eternity.

I force my face into the sexiest look I can manage with a backdrop of Jingle Bells and turn toward Bishop. He’s watching me with hungry eyes, the music apparently not as off-putting to his sensibilities. Prowling toward him, I come to a stop between his spread thighs as I strip my tank top over my head.

Bishop immediately reaches out to grab me, and I have to stop myself from breaking both his wrists. This is why I never professionally stripped for the GiGi’s while sober. Ginetta couldn’t afford the bad press of me breaking some asshole’s nose every time they put their hands on me without my permission.

We tried for a few days when I was seventeen, but it didn’t last. When Ginetta told me she was moving me into the back office, I nearly cried in relief. I was far better suited to paperwork than taking my clothes off for money. It didn’t take long for me to work my way up to the top, becoming head of recruitment in just three years.

All that hard work for fucking nothing.

Bishop pulls me forward, and I’m just lost enough in my head that I don’t manage to stop him. My knees land on either side of his lap, and I let out a girlish giggle. I want to knee him in the balls and run like Hell, but I know I won’t get far even with my leg still healing. I need as much of a headstart as possible, which means…ugh.

I’m going to have to touch his dick.

This is the worst. I can see it rising to greet me through the tented front of his jeans, and I do my best not to roll my eyes.

Grinding on his lap is both boring and disgusting. The way he keeps groaning and grabbing at me is making my skin crawl, but I do my best to hold it together. I just need to distract him enough to get to the front door. My eyes lock on the door in question as I roll my hips against Bishop again.

Realizing I’ve spent entirely too long rubbing my tits in his face, I climb off Bishop’s lap. He makes a sound like I’ve shot him, and for a moment, I think he came in his pants like a teenager, but I can still see his pathetic erection when I step away. I reach for his hips, but he gets to mine first.

“Take these off. Let me see you.”

Oh, eww. Does he really think that’s sexy?

I suppose it probably would be if I were actually attracted to this sleazeball. Without warning, Callum’s voice fills my head, the deep rasp of his words skating across my skin. “Take these off, kitten. Let me see you.”

Yeah, okay. That would totally work.

I quickly peel off my tiny sleep shorts as I dance in a small circle on muscle memory alone, lost in my head. It’s much easier to shake my ass in Bishop’s face when I’m thinking about Callum. Even when I’m pissed at him for allowing a sadistic murderer to babysit me, I can’t deny how deeply my body craves him.

“You gonna help me, Red?” Bishop gestures to his hips, where he’s raised them off the couch. I force out a breathy laugh, trying to refocus on the task in front of me, but it’s almost impossible to make my hands touch him when my mind is so full of Callum.

“Of course,” I mumble, reaching for his zipper. Bishop moves suddenly, his hand cracking against the outside of my thigh. The sting spreads across my skin, but I don’t scream.

I can see the building tension in his eyes when I drop to my knees, pulling his jeans to his ankles in one swift move. I’m running out of time before this gets violent. I make a show of being impressed by his below-average dick, and it seems to work. The rigid set of his jaw loosens, and he leans back on the couch.

Sliding up his body, I let my fingers glide along his thighs, ghosting so close to where he’s clearly directing me. I do not want to touch his dick. Please, God, if you’re out there, smite me down before I have to touch his dick. I’ll owe you one!

I wait a beat, hoping for a miracle—nothing.

Great.

With a deep, deep internal sigh, I allow my fingers to run across the front of his boxers. Why is it already so wet? This is so much grosser than the dead body at Callum’s house. I’ll mop up congealed blood every day for the rest of my life if it means I never have to touch another sweaty pervert’s dick again.

Bishop thrusts his hips into my hand, and I can see the impatience written across his face. “Come on, Red. Take me out and have a taste.”

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