Page 135 of Bishop

“Us?” She blinks back at me. “You’re leaving in the morning.”

For the love of Christ, what the fuck am I getting myself into? “But I’m not gone yet. Now keep going.”

“I hear your voice. It drowns out the panic.”

“Good.” I trail my fingers along her jaw, noticing a little too easily how she leans into the contact before I drop my arm back to my side. “Now I want you to touch three things and tell me how they feel.”

“Bishop,” she begs.

I don’t think she realizes she’s not gasping anymore, that she’s pulling herself back from the brink.

“Three things,” I demand. “Come on. Don’t stop now.”

She rests her head back against the door, doing the same with her hands. “I feel the texture of the paint coating the wood.”

“And?”

One palm rises to her neck to glide over her scarf. “The softness of silk.”

“Keep going.”

She drags in a deep breath, her eyes on mine as she reaches out, dragging her fingertips across my stubble that’s now grown into a beard. “I feel you.” Her brows furrow, as if in protest to her words. “You’re abrasive. So harsh and confounding.”

That seems like more of a personality assessment but I’ll take it.

“What do you smell?” I ease my hips back from hers, not wanting my cock to decide it needs in on this game. “Give me two things.”

“You.” Her fingers run along my jaw. “The hint of cigarette smoke and—” She inhales through her nose, her brows furrowing. “—mint?”

I grin. “I stole the Altoids from your car.”

“I’ll add theft to your list of transgressions.” Her smile is weightless, without joy as her hands fall to her sides. “Are you done with the questions?”

I should say yes. That’s it. All over. Even though there’s one more part to this exercise.

She’s already fought back the worst of her attack. There’s no need to continue.

“We’re done?” she asks so softly I barely hear it, her gaze eating away at me, her lips close enough for me to decimate.

Goddamnit.

“Final question.” I feel myself inching forward, no longer hearing her inhales. Is she holding her breath?

“What can you taste, belladonna?”

She gives a subtle shake of her head. “Nothing.”

“Then tell me what you want to taste.”

She stands taller, her expression wary.

I fucking hate myself for this. For wanting her. For craving. “Tell me how to kiss you.” I’m so close I can feel her radiant warmth. Can sense her softness. “Tell me how I should have done it in the first place.”

She doesn’t respond. There’s only the prettiest shade of blue staring back at me as I guide my hand back to her neck, my thumb grazing her scar.

Her breathing starts again, a barely audible hiss. But no words.

“You don’t want a repeat?” I trail my thumb back and forth in long, slow strokes.

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