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Panic rises inside me. I’m not sure if it’s the look on his face or the weight of his hand that scares me more.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
When my knees hit the floor, he shifts his hand to the top of my head. His touch is gentle. At first.
“Why did you tell me about growing up poor?”
“What?”
“Your story. Why did you tell me?”
“You asked.”
He cups the back of my head, then grips a handful of hair and tugs forcing me to look up at him. I drop my clutch to grasp his arm. “Is it so I feel sorry for you?”
“I told you because you asked. That’s all. I don’t want or expect your pity, so keep it.”
“Or is it so I don’t see you as a Bishop?” It’s as if he doesn’t hear me at all. He tightens his grip. I’m not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Answer me.”
“I think you’ll only ever see me as a Bishop.”
“Because that’s what you are.”
“Let go. I mean it.”
“Or what? What will you do, little Isabelle Bishop?”
I don’t answer his taunt. What can I say? There’s nothing I can do. If I scream no one will come. Even if they do, they’ll take one look at us and choose a side. His.
He twists a little harder. “Rumor has it the bastard Reginald Bishop put in Mary St. James’s womb was conceived here. Right in the spot you’re kneeling. A sacrilege to her and to the god you pray to.”
I wrap my other hand around his forearm but it’s useless. I can’t budge him. He crouches down so his face is inches from mine. He watches me as he twists. A tear slides from my eye. He becomes a blur as more follow and I wonder for a minute if he means to do the same to me. To hurt me like my ancestor hurt his.
“Please let go… You’re hurting me.”
He blinks, eyes becoming slits. I wonder what happened in his meeting to bring on this dark mood. He eases his grip on my hair and brings his other hand to my stomach, then lower to cup my sex.
I gasp with surprise, and he just watches me.
“Please,” I manage.
“Please what?” he taunts, fingers working, the only thing between him and me the soft cloud like material of the dress. And it feels good. I hate it, but his touch feels good.
He cups the back of my head while his fingers move over my sex. His eyes burn into mine.
“Please stop or please make you come?” he asks.
“I hate you,” I manage even as I suck in a breath when he kneads my clit.
“But you want me to make you come all the same.”
I should be repelled by his touch. But like the last time I find myself gasping for air. Find my hands not pressing him away but clinging to him, wrapping around his shoulders.
“I’m not like him,” he mutters.
