Page 76 of Renegade Ruin

Anxiety takes up permanent residence inside my chest. This must be bad.

I lace my fingers in his and pull him out of the alcove toward the elevator at the end of the hall. In the most un-Bishop-like fashion, he complies wordlessly.

In the safety of the elevator, we ride up to my floor in silence. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Eyes glued to the door in front of us, Bishop’s hands never leave my body, one wrapped tightly in mine while the other takes purchase on my hip, digging in almost as if letting go would have him losing whatever minuscule control he has left.

I glance up at him over my shoulder, anxiety coiling low in my belly at the same time my heart seizes in my chest. He’s lost, but he chose to come here. This isn’t like the nights he showedup at the beach house because sex made the next day easier. Those nights were a distraction. But this—this is something more. Like it was in the equipment room. He could have found the nearest bar, but instead he drove three hours to find me.

When the elevator doors open, Bishop lets me lead him to my suite. I quickly key open the door and guide him inside. The moment the door clicks shut, he turns to face me, and I watch as a flip switches and his eyes narrow, going from lost to pure carnal need.

“Bish—” I mutter, but I’m cut off when he pulls me forward, tangling his hand in the curls at the base of my neck, and his lips crash against mine. There might be more to why he showed up, but in that one moment, he’s conveyed exactly what he needs. And I’m all too willing to give it to him.

He’s not gentle, not like he’d been when he’d passionately made me come on my kitchen island. No, this is bruising, scraping, and biting—taking what he needs. He grips my jaw tightly, and I let out a tiny squeak, allowing him access to my mouth. I’m desperate to moan his name, but he refuses to relinquish control enough for my lips to part from his even for a second.

I wrap my arms around his neck and run my fingers through his hair as he spins me and pushes me back to the bed, tipping me so he falls on top of me. We’re a mess of tangled limbs—him desperate to find an imaginary foothold while I’m left helpless trying to provide it.

Biting down on his lower lip, I savor the delicious moan Bishop lets slip and reward him with one of my own as he forces my skirt up to settle at my hips. He digs his fingers into my thigh and wraps my legs around his waist, grinding his lengthening cock against my lace covered pussy.

He finally breaks our kiss, panting unintelligible words under his breath. I let out a needy gasp and crane my neck toreconnect us, but he’s not having any of it. His eyes are nothing but a thin line of brown around blown pupils, as wild and feral as his hands that he uses to pin me against the mattress.

“I need this,” he rasps. “I’m sorry. I’m?—”

Given the far-off look in his eye, I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or lost in his head, but I’m not about to question it.

“It’s okay, Bishop,” I reassure him. “Take what you need.”

My hands drift south to the waistband of his track pants, but he smacks them away, keeping control firmly in his grasp as he pulls them down on his own and frees his cock. With zero warning or preparation, he deftly slides my panties to the side and pistons himself forward, forcing me to stretch for him until he’s fully seated inside me.

I cry out his name at the same time he curses.

“Fuck, Kitten. This pussy is—fuck.” He buries his nose in the crook of my neck and thrusts his hips forward. Each one accented with words of ecstasy—tight, wet, deep, magic.

It’s primal and fueled by the rage and pain that consumes him, and I’m here for it. Not because I want him to hurt, but because I’m the masochist of my own heart and relish the fact he shares this with only me.

My lower belly tightens, and I feel the familiar tingle where the base of his shaft beats against my clit. As if he can read my mind, or maybe because he’s more in tune with my body than anyone else, Bishop slides his hand from my hip and thumbs the tiny bundle of nerves between my thighs, sending me over the edge.

Two more thrusts and he’s there, too, grunting into my neck as his whole body tenses and gives into his release.

Our breaths come out in ragged spurts as we both cling to each other and bask in the endorphins of our post orgasm high. But what goes up must come down, and I pinpoint the moment Bishop crashes. He tenses in my arms and pulls back, his gazelocking with mine. Only instead of feral heat, there is nothing but fear and trepidation in his eyes.

“Bishop?” I whisper and worry when he shifts his gaze away from mine to where his cock is still embedded in me.

His lips twist into a grimace, and he fists the sheets on either side of my head.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to make a move or give any indication as to what he’s thinking. What I don’t expect is to hear an audible sob, followed by the heave of his shoulders.

“Bishop?” I ask again.

When his eyes finally track up to meet mine, they are wide and brimmed with tears. And I swear, for the first time, I’m seeing the soul of this broken man.

My heart aches as I reach and cup his stubbled jaw, guiding him back to my face so I can place a soft kiss on his tearstained lips. Then another on his cheeks—first the left, then the right.

“Tell me,” I whisper, praying he can feel the sincerity in my words as I silently beg him to remember he's safe with me.

“I—” Bishop rolls off me, shaking his head free of my hand as he falls onto his back. He swallows hard, his bare chest shuddering as he fights against emotion. A choked inhale is the only indication I get before the dam breaks and a sob wracks his body. “She wants me to—fuck—Jolene asked me to make plans to get to know the team better and I…I know I need to do right by them, but I can’t.” He cranes his neck to look at me—fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “Willow, I can’t. Every time I think about viewing them as my team, the knife in my chest twists deeper. They aren’t my team.”

Nodding in understanding, I pull him toward me until his head rests on my chest. My fingers immediately tangle in soft brown strands, tugging them slightly the way Bishop does when he’s stressed.

He releases an audible sigh and sinks into me. Naked and vulnerable, there should be nothing attractive about this moment, but the fact that he is allowing me to hold him and be more than just a distraction is everything.

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