Chapter Seventeen: Willow

I should have told him to leave.

The last thing I needed was Bishop overhearing my argument with the board about having the crash victims’ children present at the gala. I already know his thoughts on the matter, and I agree with him. I’m doing everything I can to fix it. That doesn’t mean Bishop will see it that way. If there’s one thing I have come to count on since the crash, it’s when presented with the option of seeing me as the enemy, Bishop Lawson will.

My shoulders slump and I drop my head, a piece of hair falling in my face. Even if we did share a moment of clarity in that equipment room, he’s not someone I can count on to stay rational. Not yet, at least. But I still have hope someday he’ll get there.

Pulling back my shoulders, I find the last bit of resolve I have, tie my hair up, and eye the bar cart in the corner. There’s a part of me that debates downing half a bottle before venturing out to find him, but I decide against it. One of us needs to have a level head.

I push away from the desk I’ve come to hate and drag myself toward the door. Might as well get this over with. I had hoped tonight would be a release—no strings attached sex with a man who knows how to please a woman—but given the circumstances an all-out brawl is more likely.

The moment I step into the kitchen, I’m hit with a heavenly aroma and my stomach lets out a hopeful growl.

When was the last time I ate a home-cooked meal? Leigh came over with Zach a few weeks before the draft and made me enchiladas. Has it been that long? I can tell you for certain I haven’t had anything homemade since I arrived at the beach house.And today I’m running on empty. I think I opened a granola bar around lunchtime—ah, yes. I did. But it was interrupted by Vaughn demanding I get my shit together and stop insisting I review every single one of his requests to let players go or officially add them to our roster.

He’s not going to like the notes I left in the margins or the veto stamp I bought just for the outrageous suggestions he makes. Not to mention he’s absolutely going to hate the player I’ve got my eye on adding to the roster. Where he’s focused on building a team, I’ve got dreams ofbuilding a legacy.

Bishop’s back is to me when I pad into the kitchen, and I’m struck stupid by the sight of him swinging his hips to what sounds like the melody of Avril Lavine’s “Sk8ter Boi” pumping through his headphones.I slide onto the stool at the island, my eyes locked on the way the hem of his Henley hugs the curves of his trim hips and gives way to the rounded ass and thick thighs made possible by the position he plays. He might be the reason I’ll go gray before I turn thirty, but never let it be said that Bishop is anything but a delicious snack of a man.

“Like what you see?” He chuckles, not bothering to turn around.

I’m not sure how he does it, but he always catches me while I’m staring. And every time, the cocky bastard makes sure I’m aware he knows by asking that same question.

I lean forward onto my elbows and rest my head in my hands as I continue to drink in the sight of the man in my kitchen. “That depends. Are you going to rip me a new one as soon as this song is over?”

His dancing halts and Bishop looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“No, you came here to fuck me, but it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve jumped down my throat when we’re supposed to be civil.”

Bishop grunts something under his breath, too low for me to hear, as he turns back toward the stove. Flicking off the gas, he makes a show of transferring a perfectly crafted omelet onto a plate. My mouth waters as he grabs a fork from the drawer in the island and slides both in front of me.

“Eat.” It’s more command than a statement and only serves to spark something low in my belly. It”s the same tone he uses when he demands I come for him.

And I do. Every. Single. Time.

Flavor explodes on my tongue with the first bite, and an involuntary moan slips from me. “This is delicious.”

“I told you I could cook,” he says and his lips curve into an unguarded smile that I haven’t seen in some time.

I take another bite, savoring just as much as the first. “It’s impressive, considering there was hardly anything to work with.”

Bishop shrugs. “It’s a gift. Just wait until you taste my kung pao chicken.”

My heart stutters and it takes everything for me to focus on taking another bite instead of gaping at him like a fish out of water.

Who is this and what did he do with the man I had the pleasure of dealing with the last few weeks? I’m well acquainted with the prickly version of him that believes I’m the villain. And I’ve met the broken man who wants to forget. Arguably, my favorite is the man who needs a distraction and doesn’t mind using my body to extract it. Or at least that was my favorite. Until now.

This playful, almost pleasant version is the closest I’ve seen him to the man I remember, and I can’t decide if I want to kiss him, fuck him, or beg him to stay.

All of which are problematic for the exact same reason.

While I eat, Bishop cleans the pan and puts away leftover ingredients. I’m mesmerized by the way he moves with such ease through the kitchen. He’s only been here once, and we spent the majority of that time hiding from the guests of my father’s party and testing the structural integrity of the furniture in my room.

This feels different, almost domestic. There isn’t a hint of the awkwardness I expected when he told me he’d be coming over. It’s easy being around him when he’s like this, so much so that I can almost forget the arrangement and the fact he’s here so we can both ease the pain and forget the bullshit of the day.

Shit. Guilt floods me as I remember why he was coming here in the first place.

I’m not the only one who had a rough go today. Bishop was supposed to have his therapy session. Caught up after the argument in my meeting, I didn’t even think to ask him how it went.

I finish the last bite of my omelet and round the island to put my dish in the sink so that I can make sure he’s okay.

The plate barely touches the bottom when I feel the heat of Bishop’s body pressing against my back. His large frame makes me feel small, but more than that, it makes me feel safe. He traces the tips of his fingers down my forearms until he reaches the counter, gripping the lip on either side of me. His breath on my neck sends shivers down my spine, and I clench my thighs in anticipation.

“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.

“Do it again,” I beg breathlessly.

He does so, this time rolling them between his fingers before pinching them.

“You like that?” he asks, though he doesn’t need my response. If there’s any man who could get me off from a little nipple play, it’d be him.

I nod, and he smiles wickedly before leaning down and swiping his tongue over the tip of my pinched nipple.

“Yes,” I whimper, arching my back to give him better access. The movement causes my hips to slide further to the edge, my panty-covered pussy grinding against his hardened length.

Bishop swallows a gravelly groan of satisfaction. “Goddamn,” he exhales, pulling away for only a second.

I’m so wet, so close, and my pussy pulses as it searches for the friction only he can provide.

He lowers one hand, cupping my ass to keep me in place as he ruts against me, his cock brushing against my clit with every roll.

“Bishop,” I mewl, my hand dropping to the lip of the counter and gripping tight. I wish it was sheets I could twist and fist in desperation, but I’m also completely enamored by the fact I will never be able to be in this kitchen again without blushing.

He continues to slide against me, teasing my nipples with his fingers and mouth until I’m wound tightly and ready to come.

“Right there,” I pant. “I’m so close.”

Usually, I would be embarrassed by coming from a bit of dry-humping and nipple play, but with Bishop, I feel none of it. When it comes to sex, he’s always pushed me to the edge of the things I never thought I’d enjoy, without reservation or judgment. With him, I can just let go. Which is what I need. What we both need.

Cool air pulls me from my thoughts, like a splash of water dousing the heat between us, and I realize Bishop has taken a step back.

I’m unable to swallow the involuntary whine. When I look up, I immediately want to smack the smirk off his face. “Why did you stop?”

Chest heaving, his eyes trail down my body, lingering on the wet spot between my legs. “If you’re going to come, it’s going to be on my face where I can taste what I’ve done to you.”

I open my shaky legs a little wider, giving him a better view of his prize and savoring the way he catches his lower lip between his teeth and groans.

“Yes, please,” I say, with a wink.

“So fucking polite when you get what you want.” He runs his fingers up my thighs and hooks them in the lacy waistband of my thong. I’m about to protest that he better not rip them as they are one of my favorites. He must sense that because he lowers them, painstakingly slowly, setting off every sensitive nerve in my body until I’m bared before him.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this pretty little cunt.”

“It’s been twenty-four hours,” I mock.

“Not since I’ve tasted you.” He growls, but I get the feeling he wants to say more.

With expert fluidity, Bishop drops to his knees, his mouth reaching the top of the counter only because of his height. He rests my knees over his shoulders and runs his tongue up my inner thigh, his scruff the perfect scratchy sensation on my skin.

Nestling his nose into my sensitive flesh, he inhales and gives a sharp nip with his teeth. “To be clear, there is no time that could pass that would make me want this pussy less.”

Even though I know he’s just saying them because he’s as lost in this moment as I am, his words register and tug at my heart. As if he knows I’m moments from spiraling into those thoughts, he wraps his arms around my thighs and gently strokes his thumb over my clit.

His name tears from my throat as I buck off the counter, but he’s there to catch me, pinning me down with his arms as he uses his thumb to expose my clit. He flicks his tongue over it just once, but it’s enough to shoot a bolt of pleasure straight through me.

My mouth opens to protest that I’m too sensitive, knowing damn well it will fall on deaf ears. When Bishop Lawson gets between my legs, his only goal is to please.

He licks again, this time covering me with his mouth and making long languid strokes, flicking my clit each time he reaches the top.

I fall back onto my elbows, feeling all control leave my body. My hips take on a life of their own, rolling in tandem with his tongue, chasing my orgasm on his lips.

He concentrates once again on my clit, relinquishing his hold on my hips so he can sink two fingers inside me, curling forward.

And that’s all it takes.

I’m done.

Free falling off the edge as my release rips through me so hard I’m a quivering mess on the counter. Every muscle tightens, and I press my thighs against his head, simultaneously wanting to keep him there and push him off my sensitive bits.

Bishop hums his approval against my core, his tongue procuring every last shutter my body has to offer.

Somehow, I manage to make my arms work and push up so I can see him. “Fuck.” I suck in a breath, but it comes out more of a moan. He looks so damn good down there, and I can’t stifle the need to touch him, fist his hair as I ride his face to another Earth-shattering orgasm.

So, I do. And Bishop lets me use him until every last shake and shiver has left me a puddle on the countertop. I lower myself onto my back, my fingers still entwined in his hair, twirling the strands like they’re a lifeline.

A sexy chuckle echoes free from his chest, and I take it as my sign we are moving on.

But apparently, Bishop has other plans.

The fingers still inside me pick up speed, hitting the spot deep inside me he’s never had a problem finding.

“One more, Kitten,” he growls. “Give me one more.”

His tongue lashes against my clit, and I cry out. “No—fuck, I?—”

His hands slip from around my hip and flatten on my stomach, holding me in place. “Don’t you dare say you can’t. You’re thinking too much. Give in, let go.”

The flutters in my stomach travel south and settle in my clit as he ramps me up faster than before, and in seconds I give in to his demands and let go for a third time, falling over the edge again, his name the only coherent cry from my lips.

My body goes limp, the cool countertop warring with the heat radiating from my body as I float in post-orgasmic bliss.

Bishop nips my thigh, and I barely jerk in response. He stands, giving me a lackadaisical smirk covered in my release. It’s a good look on him.

Moving to the fridge, he pulls out a water bottle and grabs a towel off the freezer drawer. He cleans me up before wrapping his arms under me and pulling me against his chest.

My head feels heavy, nestling into the fabric of his shirt. The sound of his pounding heart grounds me, reminding me I’m not alone. We’re forgetting together. And somehow that is both comforting and terrifying.

Bishop’s fingers tip my head up, and he places a gentle kiss on my lips, his tongue piercing through so I can taste myself on him.

“Fuck,” he rasps like it was him that just ran an orgasm marathon and not me. “It’s such a joy to taste every part of you at once.”

A shiver wracks my body, and he chuckles.

“Here, drink.”

My gaze darts from his face to the water bottle and back. I open my mouth to argue that I’m fine, since this feels like more than just forgetting. There isn’t a rule against letting him take care of me, but there should be.

I’m about to tell him as much, but I’m stopped by the harsh glare that forms on his face. I take the damn bottle.

Bishop nods, clearly satisfied as I down half the bottle. He steps back, and the moment I no longer feel his skin, the spell wears off and I get the distinct feeling we’re back to being owner and player. Lawson and Willow.

He grabs his keys from beside the stove and starts toward the door.

My eyes go bug wide as I stammer, “Where are you going?”

“Back to the hotel.”

“Why?”

“Because you need your beauty sleep and if I stay, I’m going to fuck you on every surface imaginable.”

My head tilts to the side and I force a playful smirk. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

His lips fall into a frown for a split second before he matches my grin. “I changed my mind.”

Panic grips my spine and I search his face for clarity, finding absolutely none. “Why?”

“You needed this,” he says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And trust me, getting you off does wonders for setting my mind straight.”

Relief fills me. Well, mostly. He isn’t saying he changed his mind about the arrangement, just about fucking me senseless. But the truth is, I want him to. I want to make him feel good too. For both of us.

“Bishop,” I protest, the need to make sure he is okay setting off alarms in my head.

“I’m good. I promise. Demons at bay.” He turns and pads toward the front door.

It takes me a moment to get my ass in gear and slide from the counter, haphazardly pulling my clothes back into place. I hurry after him, catching up as he opens the door.

He hesitates, and glances over his shoulder, looking too incredible for words with his finger-tousled hair and a satisfied grin. “I still hate the idea of using the kids, but I understand this partnership with the league could mean incredible things for Renegade Hearts. Instead of having them attend, have them record something that can be played throughout. Have the donors each sponsor one kid. Make them their own player”s cards.”

“I—” I’m speechless. Not only did he make me forget the problems plaguing my mind with his tongue, but he’s managed to come up with a solution. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“I know,” he replies smugly. Giving me a stern look, he raises his hand in a mock two-finger salute. “I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.”

I groan. “Nope. You can’t call me that with my come still painting your lips.”

The last thing I need is a reminder we could both lose our jobs if anyone found out about this fucked up little arrangement we have going on.

“No promises.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me standing dumbstruck in my foyer trying to piece together a single coherent thought about what just happened.

I retreat to my father’s office and immediately draft a memo to the board, incorporating Bishop’s plan for the gala. The more I think about it, the more I believe it could actually work.

The doorbell rings thirty minutes later and my heart jumps, hoping Bishop came back to finish what he started.

Instead, I open the door and find three giant reusable grocery bags filled with food and a note taped to one.

You need to take care of yourself, Kitten. Think of it as taking care of what’s mine.

Next time I’ll make you breakfast in bed after having you as mine.

-B

Butterflies take flight in my chest and my thighs clench.

I’m so royally screwed.