Page 189 of Bishop

“I always want your scars bared to me.” He leans in and nuzzles my neck. Licks. Bites. “Your trauma is mine to tame.”

I whimper.

It is his to tame. He’s proven that every time he’s drawn me back from the height of anxiety. My wounds are his to own.

“And your body is mine to savor.” He says it like a threat, cold and vicious as he pulls back and roughly turns me toward the kitchen counter. His hand reaches around my waist, grabbing my zipper, tugging it down. “Are you sure you want this, belladonna?”

I nod. Pant.

“Say the words, Abri. Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

Oh, God, yes. “Please fuck me, Bishop.”

He yanks down my pants. Pulls at my lace underwear.

My breaths come hard and fast as another zipper grates. Then he shoves down his trousers.

He leans into me, his chest covering my back, his weight manipulating my breasts toward the counter, his low, husky growl tickling my neck as he positions the head of his cock against my slick entrance. “Sarai la mia morte belladonna. Ma morirò volentieri.”

I want to know what he said, but I’m too busy holding my breath, waiting for him to give me what I need. To fill me. To complete this hedonistic ritual.

“You’re the sweetest damnation.” He thrusts deep.

I cry out, feeling him everywhere, his length stretching me.

“My precious, poisonous flower.” His arm snakes around me, nestling in my cleavage, his hand grabbing one breast as he fucks me, the other hand viciously gripping my hip.

My back aches with pleasure and I cry out, “Yes.” I hold onto the counter, taking each punishing entry, clenching my core around his dick. “Don’t stop.”

“There’s no stopping until your pretty pussy comes all over my cock.” He digs his fingers into my flesh. “I want you screaming my name.”

“I’m not going to last long.” My mind is too wild. My pulse too fevered.

“You’ll last until I let you come.” He releases my breast, his hand latching onto my throat in a restrictive grip as we continue to fuck. “Do you hear me?”

I shake my head, trying to wordlessly tell him I have no control. Absolutely no restraint even though I’m a slave to his commands. “Bishop.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

I freeze at the outraged male shout. One that didn’t come from Bishop. One that distinctly carried from outside.

I glance toward the kitchen window. “Was that Salvatore?”

“Ignore him.” Bishop keeps fucking me, keeps thrusting his cock so deep I can barely breathe. “Don’t stop squeezing your sweet little cunt, belladonna. It’s fucking heaven.”

I struggle to determine what to focus on. My brother. Bishop’s compliment. The harsh slap of our thighs through the quiet house.

It takes a split second for hypnotizing pleasure to claim victory, dragging me back into the clutches of thriving mindlessness.

I moan, arching my neck against Bishop’s grip.

“Good girl.” He snakes his hand from my hip to my sex. “You’re so damn wet, Abri.”

I jolt with the direct contact to my clit, the explosion of tingles blazing through my limbs. “I’m going to come.”

“Not yet,” he growls.

“I can’t help it. I’m close.”

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