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It was what made my whole body convulse as I came hard on his cock.
It was what made his fingers dig into the flesh of my hip, what made him turn my head to steal another bruising kiss as he came too, flooding me with his cum.
When the aftershocks finally abated, we collapsed forward on the counter, still connected, both gasping for breath.
Nothing about it was comfortable. The counter edge dug into my hip, my head was bent at an awkward angle with my cheek resting against the cool surface, and Bishop’s weight against me made it hard to move, almost hard to breathe.
But still, when he rose up to pull out of me, my body cried out in protest, and a whine escaped my lips.
He gave a low chuckle, then peeled me up off the counter, turning me back around to face him. His eyes were serious, the anger still present but faded.
“You okay? Was that too rough?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t sure how to explain to this boy that I didn’t know if there was such a thing. No matter how roughly or violently we came together, my body always craved more, as if it would never be fully satisfied until we found a way to smash our atoms together and somehow fuse our souls into one.
“I’m okay,” I whispered.
He dipped his head a little, studying me intently for a moment as if making sure I wasn’t lying or hiding anything. Then he nodded, satisfied. Scooping me up, he carried me to the bathroom, setting me down on the edge of the sink before grabbing a towel to clean me up.
He helped me rearrange my clothes, then tugged up his own pants, adjusting himself and re-zipping his fly. Silence hung between us for a moment, filled with all the emotions that’d been released by our desperate, fast fuck.
Finally, Bishop dipped his head, meeting my gaze with serious eyes.
“Coralee. We need to talk.”
Seventeen
A flicker of worry moved through me at his words.
We need to talk wasn’t usually the beginning of any kind of good conversation.
But there was something in Bishop’s expression that eased some of my worry.
The boy standing before me was controlling. Dominant. Stubborn. It bled into the way he fucked, and to be honest, I think at this point I liked fighting back. Maybe that’s why, after everything, the fighting and the fucking, it was easy to meet his gaze dead on, neither bowing to his will nor pushing back recklessly—just meeting him as an equal.
“Okay,” I said calmly. “Let’s talk.”
A grin stretched his lips for a second, there and gone so fast I almost didn’t see it. As if he liked this stronger side of me.
Then his expression grew serious again, and he shook his head with a sigh.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Coralee.”
“You could always do what you just did and forget about the rest,” I suggested, arching a brow.
He chuckled. “As nice as that sounds…” Then he trailed off, chewing on his lip as he looked down at me. “Is it really that important, figuring out shit about your father?”
The question seemed like it would have such an obvious answer, I was almost surprised he’d asked it. I had to remind myself for the dozenth time—the man I knew was not the man Bishop thought my father to be. I also knew that none of the Lost Boys had ever had a positive father figure in their life. My dad, as obsessed with work and standoffish as he might be, had at least had moments where he’d shown me that he cared about me. Where he’d made me feel wanted and loved.
The Lost Boys had never had that.
Affection, or connection, or whatever that instinctual need to keep family together was—it was something that circumstance had beaten out of them at every turn.
So I just nodded.
“Yes. It is. It’s… important to me, Bishop. I know you don’t think much of him, but I have to try. Even if I get an answer I don’t like, even if I get no answer at all, I want to at least be able to say that I tried. Especially now that my mom is apparently gallivanting all over the place with some other man, just because Dad’s in prison and can’t take care of her anymore. You know she hasn’t visited him? Not even once. She said it was because prisons made her nervous, but I’m starting to think she just doesn’t care. She’s a fair-weather wife, and my dad deserves to have someone in his corner who will stick up for him when he needs it most.”
Bishop took a step closer to me, resting his hands on my shoulders before sliding them down my arms, his touch leaving little trails of heat across my skin. His hazel eyes glittered as he narrowed them thoughtfully, like he was weighing options. He was considering it—which was a hell of a lot better than half an hour or so ago, when we were screaming in each other’s faces.
