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“Dancing around what shit?” My stomach sinks, flips, and does a couple of roundoffs, finishing with a cartwheel.
“This.” His hand leaves my back again and motions between our faces. “You and me.”
“You and me?” My head is so muddled.
“Yeah. You and me. Us.”
Anxiety makes my mouth dry. I lick my lips and swallow thickly. “I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean you don’t understand?” He seems so incredulous, which increases my confusion.
“You said you were doing me a favor by being my date. Isn’t this a thank-you for the rehab?”
He arches a brow. “Do I seem like the kind of person who’d attend this kind of event as a favor?”
I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “You’re back on the ice a week early.”
“So you think this is me being a nice guy, even though I’ve proven time and time again that I’m generally an asshole?”
“Are you telling me that this isn’t you being nice?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not telling me, or no you’re not being nice?” We keep moving, shifting in a slow circle as we talk, and I get a glimpse of a very angry-looking Joey, glaring while I dance-argue with Bishop.
“Jesus Christ,” Bishop grumbles. “I’m not being nice.”
“Well, if this isn’t you being nice or doing me a favor, what exactly are you doing here?”
Joey appears again as we make another tight, stiff circle. I’ve never been big on slow dancing, and I don’t think Bishop is either. A couple of shuffle steps later, Joey disappears, and Bishop’s brow furrows deeper. His gaze shifts over my shoulder and back to me. “I’m making sure your ex knows you’re off limits for good.”
“Isn’t that the same as doing me a favor?” I try to put some space between us, because it’s hard to think with my breasts pressed against his chest and the feel of his belt buckle hard against my stomach.
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not doing it for you, Stevie. I’m doing it for me.”
“Why?” My stomach is full of fluttery things.
Instead of answering, he cups my cheek in his palm and drops his head until his mouth is only a breath away from mine. “Why?”
I nod once, and our lips almost brush with the movement.
“Because if anyone should be your boyfriend, it’s me, not that shit-for-brains ass clown.”
“Oh.” I breathe in as he exhales, tasting mint even though his mouth isn’t on mine. “Well, that seems like a pretty good reason.”
“I thought so.” The hand on my lower back slides up, and his fingers wrap around the back of my neck. “Tell me no if you don’t want this to happen.”
The chemistry between us swells and fills the air, making it crackle with lust.
For weeks now, I’ve been imagining what it would feel like to kiss him. Like no is even an option. I don’t answer with words. Instead I tip my chin up and lick my lips in anticipation. Bishop’s gaze bounces from my mouth to my eyes.
He inclines his head, and his lips touch mine. The moment we connect, it feels like a whole bucketful of lust has been poured over my head. I’m submerged in pent-up desire, and the sensation spreads, running through my veins, heating me up. Having Bishop’s mouth on mine after all these weeks of touching without the intent of sexual exploration makes me feel like I’ve been shot up with some kind of drug.
Bishop is a lot of things: sarcastic, assholey, determined, hotheaded, and a mammoth of a man. But his kiss is all the other parts of him I’ve gotten glimpses of over the past several weeks: sweet, gentle, soft. At first, anyway.
It begins as an easy, warm press. His lips part, and I breathe in his minty exhale on a whimper. The palm resting against the back of my neck flexes, and his thumb smooths up the side of my throat, stopping at the edge of my jaw. “I want in, Stevie.”
I part my lips without any further encouragement, because it’s been weeks and weeks of underwear battles and rehab sessions and that one almost-kiss and clothed grind. I want more.
We both groan when our tongues slide against each other, wet, warm, and satin soft. Bishop’s hand moves from my cheek, palm easing down my back until he reaches the dip in my spine again. A single fingertip slips under the fabric and follows the waistband of my panties. I’m wearing a thong, because this dress is form fitting and I wanted to avoid panty lines. He pulls me tighter against him, and I anchor my fingers in his hair, a silent but screaming request not to stop kissing me.
Thankfully, Bishop is good at reading my nonverbal cues, and he deepens the kiss. Unlike our conversations, it’s not a battle: it’s a dance of tongues, searching, seeking, retreating, and coming back for more. With each slow, wet caress, the softness of the kiss shifts and becomes more desperate.
