Page 10 of Bishop

We’re two peas in a pod, both leeching what we can from the other while the opportunity lasts.

“This is business, Gordon. A partnership. If I’m generous to you, I’m sure you’ll return the favor.”

“You know I will.” He pauses before his room, his arm curling around my waist to pull me to a stop. He nuzzles his face against my neck, a delicate lick gliding across the skin above my scarf. “So very generous.”

I itch for another bump. Just one more numbing hit to quieten the growing voices in my head threatening to shatter my tightly woven composure as he pulls a room card from his jacket pocket and releases the lock with a definitive click.

If Gordon finds out I know Bishop…

If my father hears that he was here…

I strengthen my sinful smile, locking it in tight.

Gordon leads me into the suite, past the short entry hall and into the main area. The curtains are closed, but the dim light from the freestanding lamp in the corner illuminates the king-size bed with its pristine white covers and matching pillows.

The room is untouched. There’s no luggage. No personal belongings.

Gordon doesn’t plan on spending the night.

These four walls only have one use, and once that’s over, he’ll go home to his wife and rest peacefully in his own bed.

The suite door closes with a bang, and I glance over my shoulder to confirm our privacy only to find Gordon’s guards have followed us inside.

I ignore the hairs bristling on my nape and turn into my mark, my palms coming to rest on his chest. “I think your men have earned an early night, don’t you?” I slide my hands around his neck. “I’m ready to talk business.”

“I’m ready, too.” He walks backward to the armchair in the corner, then takes the seat, dragging me down to his lap.

But the men don’t leave.

Instead, they creep farther into the room watching us intently. Finch moves around the bed to the waist-high window and cocks his hip against the sill while Boomer remains closer to the entry hall.

“You’re such a pretty little thing.” Gordon runs his fingers over my scarf, beginning to drag it back over my shoulder.

I place a gentle hand atop his. “It stays on.” I learned years ago that men don’t like to know when their pretty little things are scarred. They prefer perfection. Innocence.

“I like the way you smell.” He nuzzles his face into my hair.

I close my eyes, drifting somewhere far, far away.

“I’m going to have fun with you,” he murmurs. “So much wickedly sinful fun.”

I squeeze my eyes tighter, searching for the deeper bliss that usually comes from my drug high.

“You should make yourself comfortable on the bed.” Gordon pulls back to loosen his tie. “I have a checklist to get through.”

My pulse stammers, the edge of unease slithering closer. Why hasn’t he dismissed his guards? Is it so he can feel like more of a man? For bragging rights?

“A checklist?” I purr, pushing off his lap. “That’s a first.”

I saunter to the window side of the bed, ignoring Finch as I pass, then crawl atop the covers.

I ignore the lecherous way Gordon’s men stare at me. I ignore the niggling sense of danger too.

This is my stage. My show.

I call the shots. I just have to make sure they’re done tactfully.

I seat myself close to the pillows, my heels still on, my stomach a roiling ocean beneath my calm exterior.

---