Page 34 of Shadowed Whispers

Sheepish, that’s how Bishop looks right now, yet there is a glint in his eyes that says he feels no guilt for sneaking up on me or dragging me up here. Once upon a time, I thought he was all raw masculine energy, an intoxicating mix of dominance and sensuality.

“Guilty.” He gives me that megawatt smile that reminds me so much of the young boy I once knew.

I stare at him for a long minute, and all thoughts leave my head. I’m pretty sure I’m having a stroke, only worse, because Bishop is my instructor.

Shaking myself out of it, I pivot on a heel and march to the door.

“Firefly.” Bishop’s fancy shoes squeak on the tiled floor as he rushes toward me. Once again, just as I’m at the door, he slams a palm against it, preventing me from leaving. His heartbeat thrums against my back.

“Move,” I growl. My breathing becomes erratic, and with each inhale, I smell him—his tobacco and vetiver scent. It engulfs me until all I know and all I can breathe in is him—him and his stupid games, his stupid smile, and the memory of his stupid touch.

“You want this as much as I do,” he whispers, his lips grazing my neck. His words snake their way down my spine, eliciting a shiver that pools in my core, and my knees threaten to give out.

“Move,” I repeat, but I already know it’s a losing battle.

“No, I don’t think I will.” He presses me into the door, his body hot and warm against mine. Leaning down, he runs his nose along the sensitive skin of my neck. “You have every right to be mad at me,” he whispers, his lips moving against my neck.

Prickles of desire rise along my arms, chest, and legs. Again, I bite my tongue because he’s damn right—I’m mad at him.

“Tori,” I remind him.

“And?” He licks the spot right where my neck and shoulder meet. This is what drives me insane about Bishop. He’s always been a playboy, always will be. It doesn’t matter how obscenely intelligent he is, because at one point or another, he will hurt me. “What about Tori?”

He will use me, and he will drop me.

Use him first. The thought whispers through me, and I close my eyes as the internal struggle mounts to a fever pitch.

I shouldn’t.

He grips my hip and tugs me back into his body. The press of his cock fits perfectly between my ass cheeks. I can feel him pulsing through the fabric of our clothes, insistent and demanding.

Shit, he asked me a question, didn’t he? “Tori believes she’s dating you.” I drop my head as his teeth sink into my shoulder. I know it’ll leave a mark. He always does, and I used to love those marks and wear them with pride.

“She does.” He chuckles, but his words make me grow cold.

I buck against him, but he doesn’t dislodge. For a moment, my fear spikes, and the fucked up, twisted part of me finds excitement in the fight.

I once read about sexual abuse survivors who either shun sex or become hypersexual. I was the former, until Bishop walked into my life, and it didn’t matter how rough it got. I was always soaked and ready for him. That’s when I realized just how fucked up I am. Sure, I don’t want some people to touch me, like Professor Blackwood, but Bishop? I’d let him tie me up and fuck me until I forgot my own name.

I loved his games.

And his cock? Yeah, I loved that even more.

I remind myself it was only ever sex, just lust and no deeper connection. We were like two fireworks simultaneously exploding again and again.

“Tori says you two are together.” I barely get the words out as I hear the snick of the lock.

“She does,” he answers, and although I expected it, the answer still stings. I should stop this. I wasn’t good enough for him then, and I won’t be good enough for him now.

Besides, I have others who asked me for my attention—ones I ditched.

Regret burns through me.

“Shouldn’t you go fuck her?” Again, I buck against him.

Laughing, he slams me against the door, his hands gripping mine. My backpack is long forgotten on the floor.

“Why?” he asks, but I can tell he isn’t really paying attention to his words. He’s paying attention to me, to my breathing. “I have you right here, ready and willing.”

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