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“I like your eyes, Isabelle.”
I blink, unsure how to respond and look away.
“They’re beautiful. I like beautiful things.”
I force myself to look at him. To glare.
He grins. “And they’re very expressive. They make reading you very easy. Too easy.”
He’s right. I’ve never been very good at hiding my emotions. My thoughts. He touches his free hand to the collar of my shirt and pushes it over sightly.
“What I mean is,” he says, his touch feather light as he brushes my hair back from my shoulder to expose the scar. He leans closer, hovering so near I can feel his body heat as he lowers his mouth to that scar. I gasp when he traces the length of it with his tongue. That’s when his grip on my wrists tightens and I watch as he licks that line before closing his mouth over the thundering pulse at my neck, leaving my skin wet. He draws away to stand at his full height just inches from me. “I can tell from the look in your eyes that your pussy is wet.”
I swallow hard, fisting my hands although he can’t see them since they’re behind my back.
“Should I…” he trails off, his free hand moving to undo my jeans like earlier that day.
“Stop.”
He doesn’t but he brings his face closer, inhales deeply like he’s some animal and can scent me. And then he does it. Like earlier. He slides his hand into my panties. Unlike earlier, I feel myself moving toward him, my legs not closing, my body responding, again, to him. To his presence. His closeness. His touch.
He makes a sound as his thumb flicks my clit. I whimper and his eyes never leave mine. I want to tell him to stop. I want to scream it. I should. God. I need to! But all I do is stand there while his fingers play with me, while they dip inside me and turn circles around the hard nub of my clit, my legs trembling, his touch feeling good.
He leans close, his mouth brushing mine. “Say my name,” he says, his breath warm against my lips.
“I…”
“Say it and I’ll make you come.”
I shake my head, but my mouth opens and when it does, he kisses me. It’s light, just a brushing of lips on lips, the flick of a tongue, not deep. He stops, draws back to watch me.
“Please… I… Stop.”
I gasp when he pushes his fingers inside me and I rise on tiptoe. He pauses just for a second and his expression changes. He exhales, eyebrows coming together.
“Isabelle,” he starts, a knowing smile forming on his lips, thumb circling my clit. He lets go of my wrists and I set my hands on his shoulders and lean my forehead against his chest because it’s too much. Too hard. I want to come. I want him to make me come. When what I should want is for him to go. What I should feel is repulsion at his touch. But this is insanity. He is my enemy. He is a devil, a monster. A cruel jailor. I know this.
I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to stop feeling. To think.
“Isabelle,” he repeats my name then brings his mouth to my ear. “Are you a virgin?” he whispers, and I hear the taunt in his tone, his words.
My head snaps up and I see how his eyes have gone dark, one ringed with silver, the other wholly black.
I don’t answer.
He clucks his tongue. “Are you?”
“Will you take it from me? Hold me down, force my legs open and take it?”
His fingers stop moving. “I’m not forcing you now, am I?” he asks, but his tone isn’t light anymore. And he’s right. He’s not holding me down. I’m holding on to him.
“Will you do that and say it’s because I’m a Bishop?” I press on because I have to.
He slips his hand out from inside my jeans and his eyes grow dark. It’s not arousal I see in them, though. It’s something else. Anger. Rage. He grips my upper arms painfully.
“You should learn the true history of your family rather than believe your own lies, Isabelle Bishop,” he says, my name like something terrible on his lips. Like something rotten.
“Will the fact that I’m a Bishop make it somehow better for you? Easier? Is that the point of this?”
