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My useless body remembers this boy.
This man in a fitted suit, with a dolphin-smooth shave, and tastefully expensive pheromones that leave me drunk on fizzy liquor.
I have to remind myself. “I’m not yours.”
And you’re not mine.
“Liiiiiiiiie,” he drags out the word in a dangerous drawl.
“I—”
“I know a con. I know a hustle. Run all the games you want. Just don’t act like I can’t see you playing.” Bishop slips a champagne shudder. “You smell so delicious. Lemon sorbet and cream. Want to taste you melted, Queen. All over my tongue.”
Something flutters.
A strange, lost feeling.
I want to taste you back.
See if your lips fizz.
But Bishop wants to taste her.
My voice comes out small. “I taste like ashes.”
Bishop tenses for the kill. “Let me taste for myself. One lick. Yes? Say yes or tell me to fuck off. There’s no halfway.”
I should run, not hand him my heart and a knife.
But my body doesn’t take orders from me.
It takes orders from him. “Yes.”
A hard, hot mouth knocks me into the wall, and a boom ricochets between my ears.
His body covers mine.
Peachy, but not soft.
Hard all over.
Bishop’s firm chest. His iron grip. His knockout moan when he presses into my mouth.
Blood rushes to my head, my heart confused.
“Let me in,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
Liquid, I open for his kiss.
Bishop Barrington—worse, Bishop Meadows—looses a billion-dollar purr that plants a row of hotels, claiming real estate in my throat.
His hard-gentle tongue drags between my lips.
I let go of the wheel and everything else but a last pinky finger on the emergency brake, just in case I have to bail.
Strong, soft, peachy-sweet.
Bish is everything I need.
