Page 86 of Bad Bishop
His deep groan of surrender echoed inside my body. His mouth opened over mine, his hand sliding into my hair. He tugged on the elastic holding my hair in a ponytail, letting the yellow tendrils fall across my face, deepening our kiss.
It felt like slowly drifting into a sweet dream while slightly drunk on the finest wine. Our tongues touched for the first time, and fireworks exploded in the pit of my stomach. All my bloodrushed between my legs. I clawed at his chest, rising on my tiptoes, demanding more.
His mouth became frenzied, greedy, nipping and biting and kissing and tonguing. We kissed for a few minutes before he ripped his mouth off mine, staring at me feverishly, a stunned glint in his eye. We were both panting hard.
“Shit.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “Fuck.”
My heart bottomed out. Did I do something wrong?
But then he grabbed my face roughly and kissed me again, even more wildly. I locked my arms around his neck, moaning into his mouth. He hoisted me up to wrap my legs around his waist, pressing me against the cubicle wall. I could feel the thuds of gunshots popping against my spine each time someone took a shot in the range, and the vibration seemed to hum in a tiny, secret place in my core. Wild and fast like my heartbeat. My husband tasted so good. Like coffee and mint and absolution. His cock was nestled in my opening through our clothes, pulsating against it.
I pulled my mouth from his, gulping a quick breath, and released my hands from around his neck to sign, “Do you think we’re doing it correctly?”
“Don’t fucking care.” His teeth caught my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. “I want more of it.”
We kissed again. This time our tongues danced together, and I dished it as good as he served it. I was putty in his hands. Hands that knew how to shoot the same target down to the millimeter. Hands that killed, tortured, and destroyed many lives.
Hands I knew would never hurt me.
My husband. My protector. My macabre fantasy.
Rubbing my breasts over his torso, enjoying the friction against my nipples, I traced the tip of my tongue along hislips, and then kissed him more deeply. He groaned against my mouth, sucking my tongue ardently.
The fabric of my shirt teased my skin, begging to be ripped.
It took everything in me to tear my lips from his, and I only did that because it felt like I was wetting myself. My underwear was damp, even though I didn’t feel like peeing.
I pressed my palms to his chest, and he immediately set me down, releasing me from his hold. But whereas I was panting like a rabid animal fleeing a predator, he appeared to be unaffected, save for his swollen, pink lips and the erection in his slacks.
“Okay?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You look terrified.”
My cheeks flamed with heat. “Something happened.”
“Yeah. No shit.”
“Not that…”
He wiped his lower lip with his thumb, searching my face.
“I think I had an accident.”
God, this was excruciating to admit. But what if that meant something was wrong with the baby? I knew nothing about childbearing.
“You think it was anaccident?” he repeated dispassionately. I felt him retreating back to his usual sullen mood. “Well, we don’t have to do that again.”
“No. Not the kissing part. I…I think I wet myself.” I felt my eyes glass over with unshed tears. How humiliating. How utterly unbearable that this was how my first kiss had ended. “I hope it’s not blood. My panties are all wet. I need to check.”
He stared at me. In disbelief at first, then with something else altogether. Hunger, delight, and amusement.
I had a feeling he wanted to laugh again, and that made me furious. Even if he didn’t want this baby, that didn’t mean he needed to be happy about it. I pushed off his chest, scowling.
“This is serious. Where’s the restroom?”
“Gealach.” He scooped me up by the waist, spinning me once as though I was a child, in a moment of heartbreaking gentleness. “Nothing’s wrong with you. We got a little carried away and your body—your smart, healthy,functioningbody—got itself ready in case we were going to have sex.”
