Page 103 of Bishop

I jerk harder, the reminder of who I am seeming meaningless when pitted against the crime of succumbing to her.

“I’m close.” She squeezes my face between her thighs. “So close.”

I feel it before she takes her next breath. The flutter of her pussy around my thumb. Her ass tightly clenching my finger. She comes undone against my hand, her delirious sounds of pleasure shoving me over the edge.

I pump my cock, my orgasm painful in its potency, my cum spilling against the tile.

She gushes against my face, fucking flooding my mouth. I drown in her, hungry for every last drop, my pulse frantic, the high blinding.

But all too soon the pleasure fades, my dick taps out, and Abri slumps back on the wall.

I inch away to stare up at the temptation I should’ve ignored yet couldn’t deny.

I may have lasted longer than her usual marks but I still became another pathetic fool to be notched into her bedpost.

She peers down at me, her eyes narrowed as if she’s reading my mind. “This means nothing,” she says softly.

It should mean nothing. Less than nothing.

Yet even my position on the tiled floor seems to be a sign of the exact opposite—me on my knees, her towering above me, my actions akin to worship.

You dumb prick.

Her leg slides off my shoulder, her grip falling from my hair. She watches me with caution, her chest still heaving with frantic breaths.

This whole lot of nothing is starting to feel a lot more like something.

Something I’m not familiar with. Something that festers without permission. A potent poison in my veins.

She’s becoming more than a job.

More than a pain in the ass.

More than just my boss’s niece. Or my best friend’s sister.

Fuck.

I remove my hands from her body. Rest back on my haunches. Let the shower spray batter my shoulders as I hang my head, her taste clinging to my tongue.

I’ve fucked up—that much is clear. Yet the worst part is that even with the acknowledgement, I still crave more.

The hunger hasn’t lessened.

What the hell has she done to me?

Slow fingers run through my hair, gently pulling the strands, dragging my head backward.

I could stop her. Could pull away. But I’m a fucking shmuck, starved with the need to look up at those eyes.

“It means nothing,” she repeats, her cheeks flushed, her long blonde strands clinging to her shoulders as her breasts haunt my periphery. “You mean nothing, Bishop.”

Her words are meant as a pardon. To appease the mistake of diving face-first between the thighs of forbidden fruit. But it only increases the severity of this shit show, her reasoning seeming to compound the fuck-up.

“You still mean jack-shit to me, too, belladonna.” I yank my head away from her touch and wipe the back of my hand over my mouth as I shove to my feet. “We’re done here.”

Her chin raises as she stares at me through a mask of indifference. No words. No taunts. She denies me what I want. A fight. I need to snarl and bark and spew venom until she hates me as much as I hate myself.

Instead, those long lashes bat with gentle lethargy, her cheeks still flushed with the pleasure I provided. “You’re vibrating.”

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