Page 96 of Bishop

He straightens and swings to face me, shoulders broad, height towering, and blatantly meaning to intimidate. “Get the fuck out.”

My pulse kicks into top gear, the pounding of my heart felt through every limb as those hard eyes glare at me.

“I’ve never been drawn to touch a man because I wanted to, Bishop.” I hold his gaze. “Never once have I craved it like I do now.”

“You crave punishment,” he snarls. “You crave chaos and pain.”

“No, I crave you.” I reach out, my hand trembling as I palm the bulge in his pants.

He sucks in a hiss, his nostrils flaring.

“This means nothing.” I repeat his declaration from earlier. “We can forget it as soon as it’s over.”

“And if I decide to punish you for daring to touch me, will you forget that too?”

My heart thunders, the tempestuous storm deafening in my ears. “Yes. I’ve already done it a million times before.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Something fast and fleeting. Disgust? Pity?

“Tell me what you want, Bishop.”

“I want you to walk the fuck out of here before I betray your brother and uncle all over again.”

That’s why he’s angry? Due to loyalty?

“They’ll never know.” I squeeze his length, earning a groan.

“I’ll know.” He grips my wrist. “I’m not using you, Abri.”

Can he hear himself? Does he know how chivalrous he sounds?

He may be a bloodthirsty killer, but he doesn’t come close to being in the vile catalogue of perverted assholes I’ve previously been with.

“I wouldn’t let you use me. This is for my benefit.” I glide my free hand over his chest, my palm sliding over the plains of muscle, the fine dusting of hairs. “It’s purely selfish. I’m dying to know what you look like when you come.”

“If you don’t release your hold on my dick, you’ll soon find out.”

I smile, my belly tumbling in a way I’ve never felt before. Excitement? Adrenaline? Maybe it’s just the thrill of giving pleasure without underhanded obligation. Either way, I like the sensation. “Good. Now release my wrist, macellaio.”

His eyes widen for a split second of surprise before returning to narrowed slits. “You can call me a butcher in whatever language you like, belladonna, just as long as you remember that’s exactly what I am.”

“I’ll remember.” I inch closer, our thighs brushing. “I promise.”

His grip loosens on my wrist, the tiniest breath of reprieve that allows me to unclasp his belt and lower his zipper.

My pulse beats like crazy as I drag his suit pants and boxer briefs down to his knees, our eyes locked.

I’m dying to look at him. To see the generous length that rests in my palm. To examine the ridges and veins I can feel in my hold. But I want to maintain our heated gaze more.

I can’t fathom how he remains refined and restrained while I slowly stroke him. How he seems entirely controlled even though his cock jerks in my hand. “Teach me the way you like to be touched.”

“At this point, I’m a few short strokes away from coming. I don’t need to give you pointers to make it any more pitiful.”

I don’t believe him. He’s too disciplined.

I release him and lick my palm, lubricating it the best I can. “Is that right?” I grip him again, my heart skittering behind my ribs when his shoulders tense, a low rumble emanating from his chest.

“Are you looking for praise, la mia sirena ammaliatrice?”

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