Page 72 of Bishop

I do not think of her. I’m somewhere else. Alone. Undisturbed.

And that’s the way it needs to stay.

* * *

I wake with a hard dick, my breathing ragged, the flashbacks of an illicit dream still palpable in my mind.

Abri. Naked. Sweaty. Panting.

Fuck.

The room is pitch black. The quiet deafening. The door closed.

I reach across the bed. She’s not there. The sheets are cold.

I snap upright, my pulse slamming into fourth gear. “Abri.”

“In the kitchen,” she calls back.

Her voice shouldn’t be a balm, but it fucking disintegrates my aggression.

I slump back onto my pillow, my cock deflating as the occasional clink and scuffle of noise carries through the house.

I slept all day, which is great when it comes to getting away from the temptress, yet not so stellar when I should’ve been keeping my promise to find her daughter.

I retrieve my gun, climb from the bed, then find my shoes through the darkness to slip my feet inside. I walk down the hall, annoyed at myself. At her. At her father and mother. At Langston for getting shot. Pretty much at life in general.

I pause in the doorway to the open living area, and there she is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables at the island counter, her hair pulled back into a loose pony, her jeans snug around her ass, her neck injuries bare above the collar to her tight T-shirt.

She doesn’t turn to me. Does she even know I’m here?

When our positions had been switched this morning at breakfast, I’d known the moment her eyes were on me.

I’d thrummed under her attention, my pulse pounding, my dick beginning to stir.

It does the same now, boosting my annoyance.

She glances over her shoulder and smiles. “Did you sleep well?”

I grunt.

That curve of lips increases and God, it’s stunning. I don’t know if it’s because I’m now aware of what type of woman truly lies behind her expression or if it’s due to the perfection of her lips. Either way, it only continues to poke my bad attitude into more dangerous territory.

“I thought you’d never wake up.” She returns her attention to the chopping board and continues cutting. “Did you know you make this deep, low grumbling sound when you sleep? Kinda like a grizzly bear.”

An unfamiliar heat creeps into my face, like I’m catching a fucking cold or something. “It’s strategic. To keep my enemies at bay.”

She shoots me another glance and laughs, light and cheerful, showing a side of her I haven’t seen before. “Are you blushing?”

“I don’t fucking blush, woman.” I stalk into the room, heading for the fridge and the beer I bought earlier.

“Are you sure?” She turns and watches my movements, her humor-filled smirk shadowing me. “Because it looks really cute.”

She’s taunting me now? Does she also know she’s tugging at my fucking libido like a goddamn church-bell ringer?

After having to sit through breakfast with her in nothing but a sinful chemise, then all that sleeping-in-my-bed bullshit, along with the goddamn illicit dreams… This hell has to stop.

“It sure looks like a blush to me,” she coos.

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