Page 105 of Bishop

“Night.”

I march down the hall, my vision clouded with her fucking grin as I close myself into my darkened bedroom.

I slam my clothes and towel on the floor beside my bed. Dump my cell on the bedside table. Shove my weapons under my pillow. Fling back the covers. Then slide my naked ass across the mattress as my temper sizzles.

This bullshit with her is dangerous.

I’m no good for her. Even in small, sordid doses. No matter if it’s for distraction, to ease anxiety, or merely for shits and giggles. And she sure as hell ain’t good for me either. She’s a certifiable, grade-A manipulator who enjoys fucking with the male mind.

I run a hand through my damp hair and listen to her brush her teeth. I stare at the ceiling a few minutes later when her feet pad down the hall. There’s a squeak of hinges. Her bedroom door closes.

Good.

That’s where she needs to stay. Preferably until her brother/s come to claim her ass.

I don’t want to see her again. To hear her. To drag her sweet scent into my lungs.

I snatch my cell off the bedside table and tap out a message to Langston.

Bishop

Hurry up and get your ass to Denver. Got news on Adena. She’s headed this way.

I shouldn’t rush his recovery. Shouldn’t push him when he almost died a few days ago. But this shit with Abri has to stop. I can’t remain alone with her. Not when each taste of her has me craving more.

Sleep doesn’t come.

Half an hour passes before I hear Abri call her mother and leave another pathetic, pleading message.

Soon after, she treks back down the hall, reigniting my annoyance at the thought of her opening my door. But she continues to the kitchen, the gurgle of the coffee machine poking at my anger.

I want to rail on her for focusing on caffeine instead of sleep. To get out of bed and in her face about the need for rest.

Instead, I keep my ass firmly planted under the covers, my imagination crystal clear as I picture her walking around the house in her sexy satin nightwear.

I don’t even budge an inch hours later when it sounds as though she’s camping outside my door again. I won’t carry her back to her room tonight. Won’t stare down at her through the darkness and think of all the things that perfect mouth could do while she rests peacefully.

I clench my fists. Thump my pillow. Turn onto my side. I’m so fucking exhausted because of her. Heavy with accumulated fatigue.

No more.

No more thoughts.

No more fantasies.

No more letting my dick run point on this fucked up situation.

I’m going to pass out, sleep like the dead, and wake up a new man—one that’s entirely done with illicit thoughts of Abri Costa.

At least that’s what I plan, but when I finally lose consciousness my hands are right back on that perfect body.

20

ABRI

I attempt to sleep in my own bed.

Once I fail miserably, I try to occupy myself with caffeine.

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