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“I see you, Bishop.” Marisol hugs me in raw softness. “Can you see me?”
“I see you,” I sigh, my last thread snapping.
I’ll fucking admit it.
I broke first.
* * *
SOL
Bish wavers like the sheet of ice left behind after rolling down the window on a wintertime Rolls-Royce. Held up by nothing but air and stubbornness, he quavers between my thighs.
I see through him.
Feel him shake.
But he doesn’t collapse.
Not Bishop Barrington-Meadows.
Bishop has a thousand ways to smirk, but I’ve never seen him grin so dark that shadows lace between his teeth.
He cracks beautifully.
Madness bleeding from his eyes, Bishop finally lets go.
Not just unbuttoning his tie.
Unzipping his ribs.
Unleashing a snarl like the demon who drinks champagne while he heralds the apocalypse.
Please.
End it all.
I’m dying.
Boiling.
I’m so cock-hungry my pussy’s going to cannibalize him into a cocktail wiener if he doesn’t feed me that fucking knot. “Give. Me. Everything.”
“Yes, my queen.”
I almost murder him when drags out his cock.
Then he plunges deep.
No more teasing, dragging, crazy-making strokes.
He drives my ass into the counter. The surface groans, Bishop growls, and I scream in tongues as his knot hits the spot.
And keeps hitting it.
He pump, pump, pumps, hammering until my eyes bulge.
Oh—
