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Bish dampens a washcloth and pats my face. He eases the tears crusted around my eyes, wipes dried blood, and cools the sticky sweat. I don’t know how he knows exactly what to do, but he cleans my arms and chest without touching my bites or the slope of my belly, where the guys rubbed their scents into my skin.
Bish spends the most time on my casted hand, polishing like my finger bones are made of crystal.
So gentle.
I’d melt from the softness of his care if his rabid pheromones weren’t sawing my throat. I buck against his throbbing knot. “Bish. Enough.”
“Finish your water.” He stops my hip-thrust and hands me the bottle again.
I snatch it and chug.
Hurry.
Hurry.
“Are bad girls always so obedient?” He thumbs a stray drop from my chin and smugly licks it clean.
Gasping, I toss the empty bottle.
Bish vibrates under his skin.
I’m not obedient. I just don’t know how to reach him.
He’d rather shatter than give up his facade.
Guess that’s the answer.
We break together.
“Bish.” I grab his chin. “No more lies.”
He sucks a breath that ruins his rehearsed rhythm. His voice drops, hoarse and halfway to broken. “What else is there?”
“I don’t know.” I stroke his jaw. “Let’s find out together.”
* * *
BISHOP
If I have to hang by a thread, it better be spun from vicuna wool.
Fiber by fiber, I’m unspooling.
No buttons to stroke. No comb or cufflinks to distract from the ripping and tearing.
Only one thing slows the fray, and she’s the same reason I’m falling apart.
Marisol Meadows.
She’s too precious to mate on potato sack sheets, but here we fucking are, bonding in a medical setting instead of my finest mating suite.
In full-bloom, Sol’s pheromones coat my tongue in lemon gâteau.
Rich.
Silky.
Exquisite.
