Page 89 of Bishop

“Abri,” I warn.

She leans closer, her lips almost dancing over mine. “Just back away.”

Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck every moment that’s led me here and the memories that will haunt me once she’s gone.

“Kiss me, Bishop.”

I should.

I should shut her up with the most awkward contact of her life. One without expertise or finesse.

Too bad humiliation isn’t one of my kinks.

“That’s not going to happen.” I grab her chin, my fingertips digging into the most delicate skin.

She stiffens, seeming timid, almost goddamn skittish despite the tally of men that lay in her wake. It triggers something inside me, flicking a switch that never should’ve been discovered, let alone activated.

I itch to give her what she wants. To build her back up to the victorious viper I could’ve strangled the night of the gala. To not only strengthen who she once was, but to ensure she exceeds the power she previously had. To make her a goddess among lust-drunk men.

“Why not?” She blinks back at me, her innocence seeming pure, but who the fuck knows if it’s an act? Do I even care anymore? “I want you.”

Jesus Christ.

“What you want is a reprieve.” My cock thickens, pressing against my zipper. “You’re looking for respite from the pain.”

She lowers her gaze, in disappointment or agreement, I’m not sure. Either way, denying her is torture.

I force myself to release her chin. To stop touching. To quit fixating. But she’s so fucking beautiful.

“The best I can do is give you a distraction.” I ignore the regret already pounding through my temples. “As long as you don’t get caught up thinking this is something it’s not.”

She meets my gaze. “I won’t.”

“This means nothing,” I reiterate.

“I understand.” She licks her bottom lip. Subtle. Sweet.

“And no kissing.”

Her brows pull tight, but she nods. “Okay.”

God, I hate how gorgeous she is. How everything else about her is a contradiction. The strength that can quickly turn to fragility. The heartlessness that transforms into compassion. The fierce determination which changes to broken despair in the blink of an eye.

But that beauty always remains.

It’s a constant.

A torturously unwavering truth.

I grab the waistband of her jeans and tug her into me. “I’ll make you feel good.”

Her palms plant against my chest, her nails scratching through my shirt.

“You’re going to come around my fingers, belladonna.” I release the button on her pants. Lower the zipper.

She whimpers. “You can at least try.”

I lean close to her ear, releasing a menacing chuckle. “You think I can’t get you off?”

---