Page 120 of Renegade Ruin

BISHOP: The Monarch’s owner.

WILLOW: Yes. Now turn it back on.

BISHOP: No.

WILLOW: No? I thought the whole point was to come in public.

BISHOP: No, the whole point was to punish you by keeping you on the edge of coming until I’m good and ready to give you the orgasm you deserve.

WILLOW: Turn. it. back. on. Bishop.

I’m not above begging. My body feels like a goddamned live wire. The slightest touch will send an electric orgasm through me.

BISHOP: There’s only one more inning. Come find me after you ditch the entourage.

WILLOW: Or you could come find me in the clubhouse right now and make good on your promise.

BISHOP: No. I’m going to leave you wanting, Kitten. And trust me, I’m wanting too. But I plan on taking my time with you. And you’re not coming unless it’s on my cock.

WILLOW: And if I do it myself?

We both know I’m not going to, but I love his filthy mouth and I’m not above taunting if it means I get more of it.

BISHOP: What I said before about wrecking you? It will look like child’s play if you take what’s mine. I doubt you’ll be able to walk for at least a week after.

Fuck me.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

WILLOW

Bishop Lawson is a sadist of the best kind.

And I’m his willing masochist.

He took mercy on me when the game ended and returned the toy to the lowest setting. A torturous reminder of just how turned on I am and that there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it until I get out of here.

Sitting at the postgame media table listening to Graham and Noah answer questions about his stellar performance, movement at the back of the room catches my eye. I zero in on where Bishop has slipped in. He’s changed out of his uniform and into jeans and his team hoodie with a Renegade hat pulled low over his eyes. A smile quirks at the corner of my lips. I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling. Everyone in the room knows what he looks like. He’s not fooling anyone.

His dark gaze connects with mine. It’s intense and possessive. I shift in my seat, jostling the still vibrating toy in my pussy.

Is this damn press conference over yet?

His lips twitch, and I watch as he pulls his phone from the pocket of his sweater and swipes. Seconds later, my phone buzzes on the tabletop and I don’t have to look to know it’s him.

I shouldn’t acknowledge him, especially in a room full of reporters, but I can’t help myself. I glance down at my phone and see his name and the preview of his message.

BISHOP: You are so fucking gorgeous up there. I wonder if I…

Heart thundering against my ribcage, heat fills my cheeks, and I don’t need to read the rest of the message to know the threat. My eyes dart to the back of the room, and I’m greeted by a wicked grin. He’s got his phone in his hand, his thumb raised, and the look in his eye tells me he’s seconds away from edging me in front of this entire room of reporters.

I should be furious, but I’m far too turned on for that.

“Ms. York.”

Hearing my name breaks me out of my lust filled haze, and I search for the person who called it.

A hand shoots up belonging to Ellis Monroe, a reporter fromThe Foul Line.

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