Page 23 of Renegade Ruin

So. Fucking. Wrong.

But just like every previous kiss from him, oh so right.

His tongue flits across my lips, demanding entrance, and it calms the chaos within me. My body moves of its own accord, opens for him, taking everything he’s offering me. My fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring at the base of his skull, at the same time his reach down and dig into my hip with bruising force.

Something between a growl and groan escapes him, and I want nothing more than to memorize the sound forever. His teeth sink into my lower lip, and he tugs like I’m nothing more than a piece of meat to tear apart, melting me into putty in his hands. He’s brutal, so unlike the rough but delicate Bishop I remember.

This isn’t that.

It's possessive, the way he takes control of me, demanding my submission. He’s ruthless, taking every ounce of his pent-up rage and frustrations out on my lips.

His hand slips from my hip and with one expert flick of his fingers, my seatbelt is off. He swallows the gasp of fear that escapes me and hauls me into his lap. Straddling him, I’m locked between his chest and the table. I teeter side to side, unbalanced by more than just the position, and Bishop tightens his grip—a promise he’s got me.

Bishop slides his hands up my thighs, pushing my skirt to my hips and giving his fingers access to the flesh on my thighs. “Do you know what this skirt does to me?” he moans against my lips. “The way it hugs every goddamned curve. Every time I see you in it, I have to force myself to forget how perfectly you fit against me.”

As if to prove his point, he rolls his hips, grinding his erection against the flimsy lace of my panties.

I whimper, and the world falls away, allowing me to chase the high he’s giving. I need more—more friction, more of him. I’ve dreamed of this more times than I can count.

The plane tilts to the side, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognize it’s making its final approach into the private airfield in Fort Myers. This is usually where I grip the seat and send up a prayer for a safe landing. This time, the only thing I’m praying is for Jesus to take the wheel and stop me before I take this mistake any further.

My hands search for skin as he deepens our kiss, eliciting an animalistic moan from him that I savor like a woman starved. I slip my hands beneath his shirt and hard, smooth muscles greet me. My fingers dance across his abs before gripping the sides of his torso and teasing his nipples with my thumbs.

I’m so focused on the harsh inhalation of his breath that I hardly notice as the plane touches down. It’s the first time I haven’t felt relief at the ground being firmly beneath my feet.

The fasten seatbelt sign dings off—startling me like Cinderella hearing the clock strike midnight.

The moment it does, Bishop snatches his hands back from my thighs, lifting them like a soccer player denying a foul. The problem with that is he absolutely drew the foul.

Pulling back, I slam my eyes shut, but I’m not fast enough to miss the dark look of regret that flashes over his features.

I wish I could say the feeling was mutual, but I’d only be lying to myself.

I miss him.

I miss this.

But I’m the only one.

“Willow.” There’s no hint of warmth in his voice.

I swallow hard, steeling my nerves before I press my hands into his chest, allowing for a healthy space between us, and open my eyes.

Bishop’s features are once again hard and closed off. He glances down to where my soaked panties meet the bulge in his jeans and back up at me. “Do you mind?”

My jaw drops.Do I mind? Yes, I fucking mind,I want to scream. Remind him he’s the one who started this, not me—but instead, I hold on to the bit of my heart that threatens to crack at the silent rejection. I can’t break in front of Bishop. I can’t even crack. Because as much as I’d hoped he’d hold me together, he just proved I can’t trust him with any part of me…including the hurt he causes.

My limbs shake as I gracefully scramble back into my seat and straighten my skirt.

The plane slows to a halt outside the hangar as we sit in awkward silence. The moment the doors open, Bishop is out of his seat, grabbing his bags in silence.

All I can do is glare daggers into the back of his skull, because if I speak, I’m either going to burst into tears or rip him a new asshole. Neither of which is productive owner behavior.

Because that’s what I am. His team owner—and he’s my employee.

Fuck.

I’m supposed to be stopping him from fucking up, not helping him fuck things up for the both of us.

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