Page 62 of Renegade Ruin

“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispers against the space below my ear.

“No.”

“Good.” He presses an open mouth kiss to the pulse point on my neck, sucking my racing heartbeat between his teeth. “Because I meant what I said. I don’t want to fight with you.”

My legs shake as I arch into him, nestling his hard cock against my ass.

“How was your therapy session today?”

He trails his lips over the crook of my neck to my shoulder and nips at the flesh where my blouse meets my flesh. “I don’t want to talk about that either.”

“Alright,” I whisper. “No fighting. No talking.”

“Not tonight,” he murmurs. “Do you still have your bag of tricks?”

I let out a small chuckle, rolling my eyes. Of course, he would ask about the bag of sex toys I shared with him on our first night together. I’d been so nervous he wouldn’t react well, but he shocked the hell out of me and promised we’d explore every inch of it and then some. We didn’t get the chance that night, but it played a supporting role in many of my solo endeavors—with him as the star of my fantasy. I didn’t think this is where we would be all these months later, so it remains nestled in my bedside table in New York.

“Yes,” I whimper as he continues to pepper my skin with stubbled kisses, “but it’s in New York.”

“Well, that’s a shame. We’ll have to see what we can do about that.”

Memories filter through my mind of all the ways he made my body sing, expertly utilizing the toys like he invented them just for me. My thighs clench together and my hips shift of their own volition, seeking friction.

“Mmmm,” he moans against my skin. “You like that idea?”

“You know I do.”

A growl of approval from deep in his chest vibrates against my back. His hands dig into my hips, their possessive grip turning me to face him.

A breathy gasp escapes my lips as he drops his mouth to hover above mine, inhaling my breath into his. He lifts me and steps forward to set me on top of the island.

My mouth yields to his kiss, parting to take him deeper, and his tongue ever so slightly sweeps across mine. It’s not like in the equipment room, which was angry and hurried. This time he’s commanding yet measured, like he’s holding back.

He raises one hand, curving it around my throat to bracket the back of my neck while the other slides my hips across the granite countertop to meet his, bunching my skirt at my waist.

“Forget the Renegades board. We aren’t living for them right now,” he mutters breathlessly against my lips, his words piercing my soul.

My chest heaves uncontrollably and a small moan creeps up my throat as my palms find his shoulders, sliding down his thick arms to his torso until I can dig my fingers into his waist. I feel Bishop’s lips curve up against mine, and I want to memorize the way it feels to have his smile. I want them all. Forever.

Fuck, I am so screwed.

The pads of his fingers slide down my throat and trace every ridge of my exposed collarbone before dipping to where the top button of my blouse meets my modest cleavage.

I know what he’s about to do, but before I can protest, he grips either side of the delicate fabric and tears the buttons apart.

“Bishop!” I exclaim, at the same time he lets out an incredibly sexy chuckle.

“Add it to my tab.”

“You mean the tab you still haven’t paid?” It’s not the first item of clothing he’s destroyed—starting with the La Perla panties he shredded that first New Year’s night, and most recently the skirt in his hotel room—and I get the strong feeling it won’t be the last. The man has a love of tearing my clothes from my body, and as much as I fight him on it, I can’t deny it turns me all the way on.

Though I wouldn’t mind if he stocked my closet. Ideally, in items he wants to rip from my body. Shit. I shouldn’t be entertaining the idea of wearing clothes just for him. Not that I didn’t wear this skirt today because I knew it would drive him crazy. I absolutely did. I may have ordered three more just like it for the same reason.

Bishop pushes the destroyed blouse over my shoulders and unclasps my bra with a flick of his fingers. His eyes go wide as the lacey white fabric falls away. “Jesus, your tits give me fucking life.”

My nipples tighten, and if I had to guess, it’s not from the cool air. My tits may give him life, but I’m constantly living for this man’s filthy mouth.

He runs his thumbs over the tight peaks, hard and sensitive for him alone.

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