Page 87 of Bishop

He doesn’t react. But I’m sure emotions bubble under his tough exterior. Frustration maybe. Impatience, too.

My gaze falls to his mouth. To the lips that seem unfathomably soft for such an incredibly hard man.

What would it be like to kiss him? To lean forward and bridge the space between us? Would his harsh personality bleed into the contact? Would he be rough? Or would his lack of experience make the connection awkward?

“Don’t even think about it, belladonna,” he warns under his breath.

My fingertips pause at his cheek as I wait for him to storm away.

He doesn’t.

Why? Why does he continue to hold me? To remain close when he already knows what’s running through my mind? But that’s not all I think about. The faintest memories haunt me, dark and almost out of reach. When I’d been battling sedation and his hands were on me, his touch gentle.

“Did you run a thumb over my mouth the night you sedated me?” I whisper.

His mouth snaps shut, his lips forming a tight line.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I return the favor, trailing the pad of my thumb over the outer edge of his bottom lip, grazing the stubble beneath.

His nostrils flare. “Belladonna…”

I wait for more. A demand to stop. An insult to cause injury.

Nothing comes.

He falls silent, watching me with narrowed eyes.

“What would happen?” I murmur.

His jaw ticks. He doesn’t need specifics to understand I’m talking about a kiss. But he doesn’t respond, and my body warms as if he’s given approval.

I glide my thumb back to his cheek, my gaze trekking the path. “Why does it feel like kissing you would deafen my screaming mind?”

“Because you’re in pain and any distraction, no matter how toxic, feels like it would be a reprieve.”

A lump forms in my throat.

I’m sure he’s right. That doesn’t mean I’m any less curious.

“You’d regret it,” he grates.

“I’ve regretted a lot of things in my life.” I meet his eyes, dragging my fingertips to the sensitive spot below his ear, his skin awakening with goose bumps beneath my touch. “None have been as modest as this.”

I place my free hand to his chest, feeling the heavy beat of his heart under my palm, the thudding tempo matching my own.

I still can’t read his emotions. Can’t figure out what lurks beneath that cold blue stare.

I swallow and inch closer, the slight hint of cigarette smoke brushing my senses, the whisper of his breath caressing my lips. Adrenaline floods my body, sending warmth between my thighs. My pain and sorrow are pushed to the back of my mind as curiosity and attraction thrive.

“Don’t do it,” he warns.

I can’t help it. I keep touching, returning my thumb to his lower lip to drag more adamantly over the tempting flesh.

“Enough.” His hand snaps up between us, his palm curling around my wrist.

I gasp even though it’s not a harsh touch.

The gentleness of his fingers leaves me frozen. The contact is delicate yet merciless in an exquisite mix, as if loyalty to my uncle fuels him but desire calls in equal measure.

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