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“Please,” I whispered. “Please…”
The hazel eyes above me sharpened as Bishop pulled back a few inches to stare down at my face, his fingers still working my sensitive nub hard and fast. “Please what?”
God. He was going to make me say it. He was going to make me beg.
Maybe that was the punishment he’d wanted to inflict on me—making me admit that as much as I feared and despised him, I wanted him too.
“Please.” My voice was a strained whisper, hardly more than a breath. “Don’t stop.”
And finally, he gave me what I needed.
His gaze stayed trained on me as his tempo increased, and the sensations ricocheting through my body peaked. My fingernails dug into his back and I lifted my head to bury my face against his chest, letting the warm, solid muscles there absorb the sound of my cry.
I could hear him breathing harder as I finally started to come down from my release, my muscles unclenching, melting back onto the mattress. His woodsy scent filled my nostrils like a drug, and when he pulled away, his pupils were so dilated his eyes looked almost black.
For a moment, we just stared at each other, neither of us blinking.
As the intense burn of pleasure receded from inside me, I became acutely aware of the way Bishop’s weight rested against me, of the heat and strength of his body atop mine. We were touching everywhere, our bodies lined up from head to toe.
And then, suddenly, we weren’t.
Bishop yanked himself away from me, blinking rapidly, almost as if he was shaking off some kind of spell as he scrambled off the bed. The bulge in his pants strained against his zipper, and I shifted my gaze away from it quickly, looking back up to his face as my cheeks heated. He was staring at me with an almost shocked expression, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done any more than I could.
Then, without uttering another word, he strode quickly toward the window, slipped through it, and disappeared into the darkness outside.
Panting, I collapsed back onto my mattress, staring up at the ceiling. My nightgown was bunched up around my waist, my panties soaked and twisted from being shoved out of the way, and my clit was still throbbing from the aftershocks of my orgasm.
What the hell just happened?
Eleven
The next morning, my mind was a mess of confused thoughts—about Bishop, about what’d happened between us, and about something a little less ominous.
How to make oatmeal.
I occupied myself with pouring the milk, heating the pot, and letting it get warm before putti
ng in the oats. I figured if I focused entirely on that and didn’t let my mind wonder, maybe my thoughts would stop whirling. Maybe I’d realize that everything that’d happened last night had just been an insane dream brought on by my wild imagination, my intense attraction to the Lost Boys, and all the stress finally getting to me.
But I knew that wasn’t true. Last night had been real.
I didn’t just remember it—I could feel it in my body. Every single touch, every sensation Bishop had dragged out of me, every place his hands and mouth had touched my skin. I felt changed somehow, inside and out.
Marked.
Claimed.
My heart beat hard against my ribs as the entire night replayed in my head for the hundredth time, and I found myself gripping the counter, my breath coming faster. He had touched me like he owned me, like he knew my body even better than I did somehow.
He had hesitated, his fingers lightly brushing over the fabric of my panties, and his hazel eyes had burned as he’d stared at me, waiting. He’d given me a moment to say no, a moment to push him away—but I hadn’t taken it.
A flush crept up my face, and I bit my lip so hard it hurt. The things he had done with his fingers, with his lips, with his sinful tongue…
“Son of a bitch!”
The acrid, bitter scent of burnt oatmeal stung my nose. I huffed, cursing again as I pulled the pot off the stove and set it aside.
Dammit. How the hell does anyone cook anything? I was having the hardest time getting anything right, and oatmeal was about as basic as cooking could get. Bitterly, I tossed out the scorched, blackened mess. This wouldn’t be a problem if I’d been taught how to cook.
