Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Bishop?” I’m scared to say his name aloud in case he’s some fevered hallucination the sound of my voice would dispel.
But he turns, a wide smile on those full lips, and opens his arms for me. That’s the only invitation I need. I drop my purse and am across the kitchen practically before it hits the floor. His arms are the sanctuary I’ve needed. Standing here in this circle of comfort, completely enclosed by his scent and his warmth, I feel safe for the first time since he boarded that plane last week.
“You’re here.” I whisper into his neck. “I thought…you aren’t due back for another few days.”
“This is true.” The deep timbre of his voice rolls through me like a tremor. He pulls back to cup my face in his hands and search my eyes. “I wrapped things up early.”
Whatever. Couldn’t care less. He could tell me South Africa floated into the wild blue yonder and he paddled all the way to New York on a piece of driftwood. I wouldn’t ask any questions. All that matters is that he’s here. My fingers wind into his hair, pulling him down and close enough to kiss. We skip slow, sweet kisses and cannon straight to desperate, our groans and panting the only sounds in the kitchen while we devour each other. I can’t stretch my mouth wide enough. Can’t touch enough of him at one time. I need more hands, more nerve endings, to absorb this thrill, these sensations.
Trevor hoists me up, and my legs wrap around his waist. He reaches behind him to turn off the food and walks down the hall and toward my bedroom. It’s too far. I can’t wait. I’m too empty. I need him to fill me right here, right now.
“Now, Bishop,” I say against his lips. “Fuck me against the wall. I want…please. Right now.”
Wordlessly, he turns me against the wall. I lock my legs around him tighter while he undoes his belt buckle. The sound of his zipper sliding open has me dripping, has my chest heaving with anticipation. He leans in, taking my mouth captive and then sliding his tongue down my neck.
“Your breasts,” he mutters into the silk collar of my blouse. “I want to see them.”
I brace one hand against his shoulder while the other scrambles to loosen the buttons on my blouse, baring the almost transparent bra. My nipples are so swollen from the thought of him, they press painfully against the sheer cups. I tug one satiny shell down to expose my breast. His eyes eat at my naked skin, and his hands slip beneath my arms, lifting me until my breasts are right at his mouth. His lips take my nipple, suckling me, the sound wet and erotic in the silent apartment. Every pull and tug churns the want in my belly, from my core through my heart until every part of me is electrified with need.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” His words singe the delicate skin around my nipple.
I nod my head frantically, so hollow, so aching and empty waiting for him.
He pulls away to look at me, desire zip lining between our eyes.
“Check and make sure.” He glances at the space where our bodies interlock, the juncture of my thighs, and then raises his stare back up to sear me.
My eyes never leaving his, I slide my hand beneath my skirt and into my panties, rubbing my fingers into the wet flesh there.
“Show me,” he says, eyes almost black, his voice a husky rasp.
I pull my fingers out, glistening with my readiness. He takes my fingers into his mouth, dipping his tongue into the valley between my fingers, sucking me clean, groaning at the taste of me. He presses closer and reaches between us, shoving my panties aside and thrusting into me so deeply, so fiercely, my back pushes a few inches up the wall. He’s so long and thick inside me, there’s room for nothing else, not even thought, only this intense pleasure I had begun to think I dreamed.
“Ahhhhh, Bishop.”
There has never been anything like this. The way he’s in and out of me, the scrape of my blouse against the wall with every thrust, hot and fast like a piston. The erratic syncopation of our heartbeats. The intimate slip and slide of bare skin against bare skin.
“Fuck,” he says, voice graveled with desire. “I’m not wearing anything. Are we okay?”
“I promise, promise, promise I’m clean.” My breath chops up in my chest every time he pumps into me. “And I’m covered. Oh, God, please don’t stop. It’s so good, Bishop. So good. You can’t stop.”
He nods, eyes pressed tightly together, one forearm against the wall by my head while the other arm curves under my backside. His head drops beside mine against the wall, and he leaves dirty, sweet, desperate things in my ear, accompanying every word with a deeper, harder push into my body until I’m riding the shimmering line between pain and pleasure, an agony of passion that wrenches cries from my throat until it’s raw. I can’t get close enough, tangling my arms behind his neck, gripping his hips with my legs, eliminating any space separating us. Emotion and sensation quake from my core, fanning out and over every part of me.