Page 101 of Bishop

Say no. Say fucking no, Abri. For your safety. For my sanity.

She nods.

I feel the movement through every inch of my skin, my pulse ratcheting to higher levels with each dip of her chin.

I want her. Want this.

I can already taste her. Can imagine just how sweet that poisonous pussy will be on my tongue.

“Be careful what you wish for.” I palm the back of her thigh with a rough hand, violently yanking her foot off the ground, earning another gasp as I guide her leg around my hip, then grab the crotch of those panties. “I don’t appreciate misconceptions.”

That’s all I’m doing. Dissolving an illusion. Abolishing this good guy fallacy.

I tug at the lace. Yank. Her hips jerk with the rough handling as the material tears.

She needs to be scared of me. Fearful of my capabilities.

She’ll have more marks tomorrow. More bruises to convince her I’m not the man she mistakenly thinks I am.

I sink to the floor, hauling her thigh over my shoulder, the shower spray pummeling my back.

I face off with the trim patch of curls between her thighs, my dick stiff as stone. She’s pretty and pink, her pussy glistening, the puffy flesh calling my fucking name.

I despise how my mouth salivates. The way my tongue throbs. Her soft fingers threading through my hair don’t help either.

This needs to be a lesson for both of us.

A fucking circuit breaker.

I palm her stomach. Shove her back against the wall.

She gasps again, in shock or anticipation I’m not sure. I don’t give a fuck because I’m already planting my face between those impeccable thighs.

I latch onto her clit and suck, hard, the scent of her arousal filling my lungs as I slide both hands to her ass, my fingertips digging into all that lush flesh.

She squeaks. This temptress—this goddamn destroyer of men—squeaks as she grips my hair, her hips bucking into me.

The sound is an aphrodisiac. A cast spell.

I want to hear it all over again. To evoke sounds that shame her.

I part her sex with my tongue. Lick her slit. Hold in a groan at the sweetness.

It isn’t hard to understand how men get ensnared between these thighs. Every inch of her is perfect, right down to her taste. I can’t hold myself back from lapping at her, digging my tongue into her entrance over and over before returning to her clit for a harsh suck.

I feast as she pants, my beard sure to leave a rash on her delicate skin with how far I bury my face into that pretty cunt.

She needs the painful reminder of this pathetic mistake.

“Right there,” she whispers.

I should stop and focus elsewhere. Show her that I’m not a slave to her pleasure.

I should.

I. Fucking. Should.

Instead, her moans fuel me to lick faster, suck harder, my blood pounding with the need to hear her cries. She should feel disgusted by my touch. Tainted by what these hands have done to others. Yet when I slide my thumb inside her, she groans, her pleasure vibrating off the tiled walls.

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