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Bish heads to a shed with a weather-worn laundry sign. He opens the door for me, but he’s too aristocrat to be mistaken as a butler.
Bishop is king.
He slams the door.
Advancing with a spine-stroking growl, he backs me up to a washing machine. “Act with me.”
I swallow pheromones and the burn in my throat. “Aren’t I already?”
“One more scene.” He steadies shaking fingers at my hips. “You take care of me like I’m yours. I’ll pretend your pain isn’t ripping me apart.”
His suppressed panic punches deeper than my fears. I lunge for his buttons. “Take off your shirt.”
“Just like that,” he croons. “Make me believe we’re real.”
Shit on a sandcastle.
What part of this is lying?
Trembling, I pop open his buttons.
His scent is so razored, the urge to soothe him slices sharper than my rogue pheromones. He vibrates as I strip off his soaked dress shirt.
Bish cooperates, letting me move his arms.
Dark hair messily plasters his forehead. Underneath Bishop’s fancy layers, his skin is translucent pale. Delicate blue veins show at his throat, drawing constellations with his freckles.
He’s the leanest Meadows.
Cut chest. Narrow waist.
When he’s still and silent, he’s a different alpha.
Almost…fragile.
“Is this how you’d take care of me?” Bish asks roughly.
I hide my rapid-breathing, reaching for a towel from the hamper of clean linens he was probably washing and precision-folding while I slept.
“Yes,” I answer, just as hoarse, patting dry his pebbled skin. “What would you do? If I were really yours?”
“If you were mine?” Bishop’s voice drags like undertow. “I’d already have you in the shower, licking that salt off your skin. Then, I’d wrap you in cashmere blankets. Drip you in diamonds. Keep you safe and so fucking satisfied in our nest, you’d never want to leave.”
I don’t need diamonds.
I want his vision to be real.
My throat sears harder. “If I were yours, I’d never try.”
Bishop pries away the towel. Careful not to brush my throat, he wraps it around my shoulders, surrounding me in peach-soaked warmth. “Tell me more.”
“I’d tie your tie every morning. Fancy Eldredge knots.” I already know how. Once upon a vision board, I dreamed of dressing Bishop Barrington in killer suits, and I taught myself until my hands cramped. “If I was in a good mood, I’d even let you dress me.”
“Queen,” he rumbles. “If you were mine, you’d never frown.”
“If only.”
“If only.”
