A Favor for a Favor

by Hunting, Helena

  “It’s certainly not adventurous.”

  “Fruit on a pizza is not adventurous, Stevie. It’s gross and wrong.”

  “Tomatoes are technically a fruit, and they’re slathered all over pizza,” I point out.

  “Yeah, but they’re not sweet, they’re savory, and they live in the vegetable area of the grocery store, so it’s not the same. Would you put peach slices on your pizza? No. You wouldn’t, so you shouldn’t put things like pineapple on it either. Especially with something as repulsive as green olives.”

  “Let it all out, Shippy. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “Call you what, Shippy?”

  He pokes at the corner of his mouth and gives me a dirty look. “Stop.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll smear that pizza all over your face.”

  “Do that and I’ll make sure you regret it tomorrow during our rehab session.”

  “What’re you gonna do, wear a thong and tassels and use my leg for pole dancing?”

  “That sounds a lot like a fantasy, Shippy.”

  He makes a grab for my pizza slice, but I’m not the injured one. I roll off the couch and spring to my feet. “So slow, Shippy. You need to work on your reaction time.”

  “I hate that nickname so much, you don’t even know.”

  “Fine, I’ll stop . . . if you try my gross pizza.”

  “No.”

  I lift a shoulder in a careless shrug. “Have it your way, Shippy.” Every time I use it, it grows on me a little more. It’s really kind of horrible, and it doesn’t seem to fit him at all, which is maybe why I like it so much. Also, his irritation is entertaining.

  I drop down on the far side of the couch and take another bite of my pizza, making enjoyment noises.

  “Seriously?” Bishop arches a brow.

  “What’s wrong, Shippy?”

  “Aside from you calling me Shippy five hundred times in the last two minutes, you sound like you’re getting off on your pizza.”

  “It’s really good. Just take one bite, and I’ll never use that nickname again.” I edge closer.

  “Fucking fine. One bite. Then no more of this Shippy shit.”

  “I bet you’ll love it and order it in secret all the time.” He’s stretched out on the couch, legs spread wide, bruises on display. I move closer until my knees touch the side of his thigh and hold the slice in front of his face.

  He purses his lips and turns his head, like a kid who doesn’t like his dinner. “If I don’t like it, I’m spitting it out.”

  “Nope. You’re not a toddler. You have to swallow.” I get right into his personal space, kind of like he did with me when he was making Joey uncomfortable.

  “I don’t even like the way it smells. I’m definitely not going to like the way it tastes.”

  “If women can stomach jizz, you can swallow a bite of this pizza.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Does that mean you’re a swallower?”

  “No point in tasting it twice. Besides, all the salty taste buds are at the front. If I’m already in the middle of a deep throat, it makes more sense to swallow rather than swish all that nasty gelatinous crap over all of my taste buds so I get the bitter, the sour, and the salty.”

  Bishop’s mouth drops open for a second and snaps shut just as quickly. His jaw tics and his eyes darken. “Your ex really is an idiot. Who cheats on a woman who willingly swallows?”

  “I’m the idiot for staying with him for as long as I did.” I poke him in the lip with the end of the pizza slice. “Take a nice big bite so you get an olive and some pineapple.”

  “If I barf on you, I’m not apologizing.”

  “Stop being such a baby and take a bite.”

  “Fine.” He takes a robust bite and almost gets one of my fingers.

  His expression is priceless, and if my phone were closer, I would totally snap a pic and add it to his personal contact. He does that thing that reminds me of a cat before it throws up, like he’s gagging.

  “Swallow it, Shippy.”

  He narrows his eyes and chews faster, his throat bobs, and he reaches around me for his beer, guzzling what’s left in the bottle. “Nasty.”

  “It’s better when it’s hot.”

  “I would rather eat a dirty, sweaty pussy than take another bite of that disgusting combination of toppings.” He shoves half his slice of all-meat-and-cheese pizza into his mouth, presumably to cover the olive-pineapple taste he’s not so fond of.

  “I haven’t showered since yesterday, so I have one of those if you feel like dessert.” I slap a palm over my mouth. “Oh my God. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

  A slow smirk spreads across Bishop’s face. “First you tell me you’re a swallower, and then you offer me up your pussy for dessert? When I’m ninety years old and senile, I’ll still remember this conversation.”

  I roll my eyes to hide my embarrassment and the fact that I’m now thinking about what it would be like to have Bishop’s face between my thighs. “I was being sarcastic about my filthy lady bits, obviously. The lack of showering was for Joey’s benefit and meant as a deterrent.” I motion to my messy bun. “It looks like I styled my hair with bacon grease.”

  Bishop takes me off guard when he wraps his wide, warm palm around the back of my neck and pulls me closer. He drops his head, and I feel his lips at my temple and his nose above my ear.

  He inhales deeply. “Smells fruity to me.” His rough stubble scrapes against my cheek, and I’m pretty sure it’s his lips skimming my throat as he tips my head to the side.

  “What’re you—” I suck in a breath when I feel the warm wet swipe of his tongue along the underside of my jaw.

  “Taste pretty fucking good to me too,” he murmurs.

  I don’t know what’s happening here. I can’t breathe, or move, or think beyond the feel of Bishop’s palm wrapped around the back of my neck and his warm breath on my skin.

  This is a bad idea for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that we both have to keep our relationship professional. It’s a layer of complication that didn’t exist before.

  I put a palm on the closest part of his body to steady myself. It happens to be his thigh: his very muscular, thick thigh.

  “Bishop.” The breathy half moan tells us both more than I mean for it to. Despite knowing how much trouble this could cause, my unshowered lady bits are hella excited.

  He bites the edge of my jaw and groans. I adjust my palm on his thigh so I don’t fall forward, and my fingertips graze the hem of his ridiculously short running shorts. His lips keep moving, teeth nipping as he closes in on my chin.

  He mumbles something against my skin, and suddenly his hands are on my hips. A second later I’m straddling his thighs. I am so glad I lost the sweats when we started the rehab session, post-Joey defecting. I grab his shoulders to steady myself and to prevent him from taking the brunt of my weight, but Bishop seems to have other ideas.

  He pulls me down so my ass rests on his thighs, despite my protest. He makes a sound that seems a lot like a growl mixed with a grunt and raises his hips at the same time as he pulls me forward.

  And I feel him, all of him, hard and thick and right damn well there. The natural reaction is to roll my hips, because I want to create glorious friction that isn’t a result of me and my hands and my trusty vibrator. I have a huge, well-built, incredibly hot, and obviously horny man between my legs. Every thought I had about this being a seriously bad idea evaporates with the first slow, purposeful grind.

  Bishop makes a choked sound and bites the edge of my jaw, a lot harder than I anticipate.

  I gasp, then groan as I roll my hips again. “God, that feels so good.” I run my fingers through his hair, enjoying the satiny slide of the strands as I grip them. My intention is to tip his head back so I can find out what his mouth feels like on mine while we dry fuck each other.

  Bishop’s fingers flex on my waist, and his next groan is fo
llowed by a string of profanities.

  I freeze and he drops his head, face pressed against the side of my neck. He growls a low Fuck against my skin. As much as I want to indulge in another hip roll—because I am thoroughly enjoying the feel of his cock rubbing on me, even through the layers of cotton and Lycra—I am once again reminded this isn’t a great idea.

  Bishop lifts his hips a couple of inches, and this time the noise that comes out of him is familiar. If there’s one sound I recognize, it’s him in pain. “Goddamn mother-humping shit!” His lips part, and I feel the wet swipe of his tongue and the sharp press of his teeth before he sucks my skin, hard.

  “Ah!” I fist his hair and shove his face farther into my neck, sort of like what I’ve seen Lainey do with Kody when he was a baby and decided to use her nipple as a chew toy. It seems to have the desired effect. Bishop releases me from his teeth. I have to pry his fingers loose from my hips.

  “No, don’t!” He tries to prevent me from clambering out of his lap, but his face is contorted into a grimace of pain.

  I wriggle free and scramble to the other side of the couch. As soon as I’m no longer grinding my lady parts on his junk, he cups himself, then slams his head against the couch cushions a couple of times while he continues to groan and swear. “I just want some goddamn friction! Is that too much to ask for?”

  “I don’t think you’re ready for friction.” I’m all pitchy and breathless.

  He rolls his head toward me, gaze moving over me in a hot, angry sweep. “I managed to whack off in the shower yesterday. It didn’t feel awesome, but at least I got a little relief.” He jabs an annoyed hand toward the obvious bulge behind his hand. “This is damn well torture.” He’s still cupping himself protectively—as if he’s worried I’m going to spontaneously hump him. He was the one who pulled me into his lap, not the other way around.

  “It’s probably divine intervention or something.” I avert my gaze before I can do something even stupider than trying to make out with him, like offering him a handy or a blow job to take the edge off.

  He opens his mouth to respond, but his phone buzzes on the coffee table and his brother’s name flashes across the screen. At the same time mine flashes with a new message. Thank God for poorly timed interruptions. I pick up my phone, even though the message is from Joey, which I’m not at all interested in checking. But at least now I’m not staring at Bishop’s bulge. I can feel his eyes on me as he reaches for his phone.

  “Ah shit,” he grumbles.

  “Is everything okay?” I side-eye him so I don’t have to look directly at him.

  “My brother can’t find his freaking insulin.”

  “Is he at home?”

  “Yeah.” He hits the call button and brings his phone to his ear. I can hear Nolan’s muffled voice. “You check the coffee table . . . the fridge . . . the linen closet? Fuck. If I tell you where I keep it, then I’m going to have to find another place to put it so you don’t lose it. You what? Jesus, Nolan. How the hell did you find it?” He runs an aggravated hand through his hair. “I’ll be right there. We’ll be talking about this shit, though. I was in the middle of something.” He ends the call. “I gotta go. He found my spare earlier today and now he can’t find either kit, and he’s been looking for an hour already.”

  “Oh God, that’s not good.” I follow him to the door.

  “No. It’s really not. I wish he’d take this more seriously. One day I’m not going to be here to save his ass.”

  “You know, you can keep a couple doses here if you need to, just in case.”

  “That might be a good idea.” He steps out into the hall, crutch braced under one arm. “Oh, and this discussion isn’t over.” He motions between our crotches.

  I roll my eyes. “I think it would be better if we chalked that up to hormones and pretend it never happened.”

  Nolan opens the door before Bishop can argue. He looks from Bishop to me without making eye contact and grimaces. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  “You should be, asshole. You ruined my night.”

  “Let me know if you need any help,” I offer.

  Bishop waves me off, and they disappear into his apartment. I close the door and lean against it, running my fingers along the edge of my jaw where Bishop bit me and down to my neck where he sucked the skin. I rush to the bathroom and flip on the light. The spot is flushed pink, and there are tiny crescents from where his teeth were.

  The near kiss is the only thing I can think about when I get into bed. And it follows me into my dreams. I don’t need the complications that come with getting involved with Bishop, but I don’t know that I’m going to be able to keep my crotch from gravitating to his if I find myself in a situation like that again.

  CHAPTER 18

  RESISTANCE IS FUTILE

  Stevie

  Joey corners me the next morning at work and tries to ask me all kind of questions about Bishop and what’s going on between us.

  “I’m helping him rehab, and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your big yap shut about that.”

  Joey crosses his arms and leans against the locker beside mine. A tuft of hair peeks out from under his arm, and I imagine his armpit troll suffocating. “It looks like a hell of a lot more than rehab going on. Does he know we used to date? I get it, Stevie, you need a rebound, but this really isn’t a good way to get back at me. Who’s going to get hurt in the end?”

  It frustrates the hell out of me that he automatically assumes I’m hooking up with Bishop as a means to get over his idiotic ass. “What are you trying to do here, Joey? Give me relationship advice?”

  “I don’t want you to do something you end up regretting.”

  I slam my locker shut, wishing his fingers would get caught in it. I remind myself that I’m at work and that his goal is to rile me up and get a reaction. There is no damn way I’m going to give him the satisfaction. “I’ve already done something I regret. I dated you for a year. I think that’s going to stay at the top of my list for a while.”

  Joey steps to the right when I do, blocking my way out. I want to punch him in the groin. He puts his hands up in mock surrender, or like he’s trying to corral me. “Look, I know you can hold a grudge like nobody’s business, Stevie, but do you know his reputation? Have you seen the kind of women he dates?”

  “I don’t hold grudges.”

  “You’re still mad at me for making one little mistake.”

  “Boning someone who wasn’t me on my birthday is not a little mistake.”

  He ignores that and shoves his phone in my face. Apparently he’s been busy stalking Bishop on social media. The hashtag #BishopWinslowSighting is typed into the search bar. “Look at this.”

  “Why are you checking out Bishop in his underwear?”

  “I’m not checking him out!” Joey looks over his shoulder to make sure we’re still alone. Unfortunately we are. “There are tons of these pictures, and lots of them are recent. Like within the last couple of months there are at least half a dozen. Do you really want to get involved with a guy like this?”

  To a normal person, what Joey is showing me would imply that Bishop is a ladies’ man. But I happen to be privy to information regarding the women who are in and out of Bishop’s apartment, and I know they’re his brother’s friends. I even recognize one of the pics as Nolan’s most recent sleepover friend from last week. All the photos have been taken in Bishop’s apartment, and half of them are blurry, as if they were snapped on the sly. In some Bishop doesn’t seem to realize he’s being caught on camera, although in a few he’s covertly flipping the bird by scratching his chin or his temple with his middle finger.

  I can easily explain this, but it’s almost better that Joey thinks he’s some womanizing douchebag. There’s even gratification in his believing it’s true. “It’s really none of your business, is it?”

  “Fine. I’ll drop it.”

  “Look at you, finally getting it after all this time.” Once again I try to step around
him, but he blocks my way.

  “Hold on. We still need to get together to talk about the decorations for the fundraising event. Why don’t you come to my place tonight?”

  Seriously. There is no way he can be this clueless. “I’m busy.”

  “You can get your suitcase. I’ll even drive you back to your place after. We have to get this done. They’re expecting us to know what we’re doing and submit a budget proposal by the end of the week.”

  I sigh, annoyed and defeated. Once this stupid project is over, I’m definitely telling him to fuck himself. “Fine. I’ll come over, but only because I want my damn suitcase back and so we can get this planning bullshit out of the way. I have a client in fifteen. I need to go.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you in the lobby at five.” His grin is so smug I want to punch it off his face.

  “I have clients until six. I’ll meet you at your place.”

  “It’s okay. I can wait.”

  “Awesome.” I leave him in the staff lounge. And grumble my irritation that I’m still stuck dealing with him.

  Bishop messages me early in the afternoon to verify that he’s coming to my place around seven. I let him know that I might be late because I have to take care of a couple of things. I’m nervous about seeing him after last night and what almost sort of happened. Less than a minute later I get another message from him with a bunch of annoyed-looking emojis, as if I’m doing him some kind of disservice by not being available whenever he wants me.

  I send him a slew of GIFs basically telling him to shove his crown up his ass. I figure there is zero point in keeping it from him that I’ll be late because I have to get some stuff from Joey’s and we still have to deal with the freaking decorations for the gala. Also, he should be warned that I’ll likely be in a seriously bad mood, so if he thinks we’re going to rehash what happened last night, he is sorely mistaken. I firmly believe denial is the best plan. I leave my phone in my backpack for the remainder of the afternoon, not interested in dealing with Bishop’s entitlement, or his thoughts on friction, or Joey and his douchery.

  My final appointment of the day ends up canceling, which means I’m done earlier than expected.