Page 106 of The Ruthless Rivalry

Bishop watches me, his gaze steady—but there’s something different in it now. It’s not the usual cocky gleam. There’s no teasing edge. Instead, there’s a quiet calm, like he’s waiting for me to trust him.

With a deep breath, I push my hesitation aside. I shift slightly, inching back closer than we already were. His legs were already surrounding mine, but this time, there’s no rough tug like when we first got in. Before, it felt possessive, almost like a claim. But now? This feels different—protective, even. As I settle back into him, the boat shifts under our combined weight, rocking just slightly. The sound of the waves grows louder in my ears, the cold water sloshing against the sides, making my stomach flip.

“Relax,” Bishop says, his voice low and calm, soothing even. But there’s no mockery in it. “We’re fine. I won’t let us tip, alright? Just breathe.”

I don’t know why his words make my heart slow, but they do. There’s something in his voice—something genuine that I didn’t expect. For a second, the waves don’t feel as threatening, theboat doesn’t feel as unstable. But then the boat shifts again, and I realize just how far out we are.

I look back, half expecting to see the shore getting close. But there’s nothing but water.

Fresh panic surges through me. My pulse quickens as the thought of being so far from land hits me all at once. I feel my chest tighten, my breaths coming too quickly, too shallow. This is ridiculous. Why am I freaking out like this? But I can’t stop it.

“Hey,” Bishop says again, his tone still calm but a little firmer this time. “Trust me.”

I whip my head around to look at him, my breath catching in my throat. “Trust you?” I repeat, incredulous. “Are you serious right now?”

His expression doesn’t change, that slightest shift still in his eyes. His hand flattens to my stomach, steadying me as the boat rocks again from my outburst. I freeze, my heart stuttering as his fingers slowly start to graze the fabric at the top of my skirt, making my pulse spike for all the wrong reasons. I should be terrified, should pull away, but I don’t. His touch is warm, steady, almost… comforting. Despite the panic still clawing at my chest, something about the way he’s holding me, so deliberately gentle, starts to quiet the storm inside me.

“We’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring, like he’s trying to carve a space of calm between us. His hand moves, sliding lower down my thigh, and my breath catches—not from the fear of falling into the water anymore, but from something else. I feel it pull at me, tugging me away from the chaos in my mind, though I don’t fully realize what he’s doing. I’m too focused on trying to steady my breath, to stop the racing of my heart. The panic’s still there, but it’s beginning to feel distant, muffled somehow, like his touch is blocking it out.

His hand moves beneath my skirt, his fingers tracing a smooth line against my skin. The sensation is electric, but it’s not enoughto distract me from the sheer panic rising in my chest. My back is still pressed firmly to his front, and every shift of the boat seems to make my anxiety worse.

“Bishop…” My voice falters, a soft tremor slipping through the words. The fear feels overwhelming, suffocating even, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it together.

His hand shifts higher beneath my skirt and I shudder, the panic and proximity colliding into a tangled mess of adrenaline. The boat gives a sudden lurch, and instead of tipping, I feel myself sinking—sinking back into him as his other hand circles my waist again, anchoring me.

“Prescott,” he murmurs, and there’s an edge of urgency in his voice now. He tightens his hold. “Focus on me, okay? We’re not going to tip.”

I close my eyes, trying to push the panic down, trying to focus on his words instead of the water. It doesn’t work completely, but it helps enough that I can breathe without feeling like I’m going to pass out. Maybe it’s his touch, or maybe it’s just the desperation clawing at me for something solid, something still. But I feel myself giving in, sinking into the heat of him like it might hold me together.

His arms tighten around me, one across my waist, the other still beneath my skirt. He’s not rough—he’s steady. Contained. A barrier between me and everything else. He holds me so close it’s like there’s no space left between us, nothing but the sound of the waves and the frantic beating of my heart.

Then his hand moves—just slightly, just enough—and everything inside me flares. His fingers trail higher, slow and deliberate, brushing over skin that feels impossibly hypersensitive. My breath stutters, my whole body reacting before my mind can catch up. I should be panicking again—but all I can feel is the warmth of his palm, the pressure of his touch,and the strange, overwhelming sense that I’m anchored. Not drowning. Not lost. Just... held.

And then his finger finds that perfect spot—one that makes my spine arch and my thoughts scatter like windblown leaves.

The panic that had clawed its way up my throat recedes, replaced by something deeper, more primal. I gasp as his thumb circles faster, each stroke sending sparks through me, erasing thoughts of the water below.

He adjusts me on his lap, and the shift presses him harder against my core; I bite down on my lip to stifle a moan. His fingers move with an unrelenting rhythm, coaxing me toward an edge I’m suddenly desperate to fall over.

I tilt my head back against his shoulder, exhaling as electric sensations crash through me in torrid waves. The firm line of his body is solid, grounding me, pulling me under; I clutch at him, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

The heat building inside me unfurls, a heady mix of desire and relief that blurs the world to a haze. His breath is steady, controlled, right against my ear, and it thrills me—the way he seems to revel in my unraveling.

I shudder with the force of it, the chaos he’s woken in me. Colors dance behind my eyelids, bright and untamed.

My cries escape in broken pieces as I come undone, trembling and gasping. Beneath it all is his low laugh, warm and satisfied.

Then, without a word, he shifts, his body pulling away from me enough to reach for the forgotten oars. His hands are steady, and the rhythmic sound of the boat gliding through the water fills the space between us. His movements are effortless, powerful. The boat seems to respond just to him, cutting through the water with ease.

For a moment, I just sit there, trying to collect myself, trying to catch my breath as I stay squeezed between his thighs. The last of the tension leaves my body, but my mind is still spinning.

Bishop doesn’t look at me as he works. His focus is entirely on the task at hand. His arms move in a steady, practiced rhythm, guiding us forward, his presence like a steady anchor in the chaos of my thoughts.

We reach the second and then third buoy, Bishop moves sharply, each motion quick and precise. He snatches the objects without hesitation, his movements so fluid it takes me a second to register what he’s done. His arm cuts through the water with practiced control, every flex of muscle purposeful—efficient.

I glance at our boat, spotting all three items, surprised to see them already there. I didn’t even notice him grab the second one.

I blink, a little stunned. When did he get so fast?

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