Page 95 of Bishop

The scars on his back claim my attention. The long thick slash on his left shoulder. The two round, reddened circles above his right hip. Then the myriad of smaller faded lines.

His body is a timeline of violence, tattooed in marred flesh instead of ink.

“What do you want?” he grates, not looking at me.

I swallow and lick my drying lips. “How much do you regret touching me?”

“Regrets are a waste of time.”

“Then I assume you’re angry with me.”

His jaw ticks, his scowl hardening as he glares at the faucet. “Everything is fine, Abri. Go to bed.”

No, it isn’t. Not with us. Not with my daughter. Or my brothers. Or my life.

Everything is falling apart, and I just need something to be okay. Just one thing to make this nightmare a little less hellish.

“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you.” I swallow over the ache in my throat. “None of what we shared was an act.”

“I know.” He hangs his head, loose strands of his tousled hair falling to shroud his face.

“Then what’s wrong? Why can’t you look at me?”

His hands squeak against the counter, his fingers tense in their clawed grip.

“Bishop?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He glares at me over his shoulder. “I’m looking at you. Is that better?”

Each bitter syllable slices me like a paper cut, sharp and refined.

He knows it’s not any better. Not with the fury in his eyes or the hatred ebbing off him.

I raise my chin to the hostility. Breathe deep over the ache in my chest. “What did I do wrong?”

He winces and drags his focus back to the faucet. “Damn it to hell, woman. I’m trying to do right by you, but you’re making it fucking difficult.” He shuffles on his feet, shifting his hips, still hunched over the basin.

That’s when I see the formidable bulge against his zipper.

I swallow again, but it does nothing to alleviate the desert taking over my throat.

He’s hard. Really hard.

He rocks on his heels, the muscles in his arms tense, his Hulk grip on the counter seeming like he might rip it from the wall at any second. “Leave, Abri. My temper is threadbare.”

“And what about your lust?”

He scoffs, his lips thinning. “My dick ain’t hard for you, if that’s what you think.”

I’m well aware. It’s merely circumstance after what happened in the bedroom. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help him like he helped me. “Don’t worry. You’ve made it clear you’re not attracted to me.” The house returns to its pained silence, the air thick with tension. “I’ve never touched a man without incentive,” I whisper. “It’s always been a job.”

His jaw ticks. “Then it’s a good thing you no longer have to do it, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I inch into the room with timid steps to match my equally timid emotions. I’ve never felt like this before—wary and worried over the possibility of rejection.

He reduces me to feeble reluctance. All my self-assurance clasped in his palms to squash at will.

“I no longer have to.” I stop behind him, hating how he tenses. “The thing is…I want to.”

---