Page 91 of Bishop

“Are you always like this?” I growl. “Soaked and fucking perfect.”

“The perfection is a smokescreen.” She tilts her head back against the wall, panting as I swirl my fingertips around her opening, drowning my skin in her pleasure, spreading it over her clit. Back and forth. A precious little groan follows each brush of that tiny bundle of nerves, the sound sinking beneath my ribs to wreak havoc on my pulse. “What you see is nothing but a mirage.”

“You’re no mirage.” She’s real. Her flawlessness is undeniable. “You’re a fucking goddess.”

She moans. “A poisonous one.”

“True.” I nuzzle her neck. “But your venom is delicious.” I keep swirling my touch around her sex, along her folds, until she’s drenched from front to back. “Do you want my fingers inside you?”

She clings tighter to my wrist. “Please.”

I smirk against her ear. “There’s no greater sound than hearing you beg.”

“Then consider yourself lucky.” Her words are guttural. “You’re the only man who can make me do it.”

Goddamn, this woman works psychological magic like it’s her bitch.

She taunts me. Angers me. Then stokes my ego with the barest compliment that has my dick seeping.

I draw back, needing to see her. To watch her.

Those lust-drunk eyes stare at me half-lidded. Shallow breaths escape the most captivating lips.

I swirl my fingers, circling her opening, tormenting, punishing, just like she’s done to me for days.

“You want me to keep begging, don’t you?” she pants. “I bet you need the power play.”

What I need is to bend her over the bed and sink my cock inside her. To feel that sweet pussy milking me as she screams my name.

“No. The fact it comes naturally when you’re with me is more than enough.”

She cringes, but those hips keep rolling into my touch. “Then what do you need to quit teasing me? This is agony.”

“I need nothing.” I plunge two fingers inside her. Fast. Deep.

She gasps, her eyes closing, her pussy clamping around me.

So. Fucking. Perfect.

I picture what it would be like to have my dick where my fingers are. I can’t get the imagery out of my head, the sordid thoughts exquisitely painful torture that increase the throb along my shaft.

She rolls her hips with the curl of my fingers, her body dancing with my hand as she clings to me. Her breathing quickens, greedy, rapid inhales that come from parted, glistening lips.

I want to devour her. Fucking gorge.

Jesus. If this woman makes me finish in my pants, I’ll never live it down.

“How’s that feel?” I ask an inch from her mouth.

“Incredible,” she whimpers. “So good.”

“Yeah?” I raise a taunting brow, pretending like fuck that I’m unfazed by her when the reality is that I don’t know how I’m going to maintain my control when she comes. “How much do you wish it was my dick?”

Her eyes roll and she groans, rocking those hips harder, faster. “Unless you’re going to deliver, don’t tease.”

I’d never fuck her. Not in a million years. And not only because it would break the decade-long drought, or how Langston and Lorenzo would castrate me, but because I refuse to become another name on the list of men who’ve mistreated her.

I won’t be a fucked up memory she has to forget.

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