“Jesus,” comes from my left.
Bishop nuzzles into that hypersensitive space at the edge of my jaw, just under my earlobe. He hums against my skin and then ruins the entire, drawn-out reunion when he says, “How jealous of me is that stupid fuckwad right now?”
It’s like being doused with a bucket of ice water. Of course that’s what this is all about. He’s putting on a show to piss off Joey. How naive of me to assume it could be for any other reason. Sure he gets hard over me, but I wander around in tiny shorts and a sports bra, and he hasn’t been able to whack off like a regular human male in more than a month.
I put my hands on his chest and step back. I actually have to use force to make it happen, and his facial expression makes me question a lot of things. Like why does he look so damn irritated and confused right now, and do I actually have the right to be angry when he’s explicitly told me he’s doing me a favor tonight? Why does he have to be so damn convincing in the facade?
Before he has a chance to speak, or ask a question, or make a statement, the thing I expected to happen tonight does. “Holy shit! Bishop Winslow? Man, that game was kick ass last night! You killed it!” Some twenty-year-old who can’t grow facial hair thrusts his hand out, forcing Bishop to take it, unless he wants to look like an asshole.
And that’s how the next hour goes. Until we sit down for dinner. And even then, the PT team has been broken up, so we’re all seated with aspiring professional athletes who command Bishop’s attention. And I sit there, like I would if I were with my brother—not that I look at Bishop like I do RJ—quiet and smiling. I offer to take photos so I don’t end up in them. I don’t introduce him as my date, because the last thing I need is people suddenly becoming interested in me for something other than my PT skills.
Bishop seems to have different ideas, though. The guy to my right plays football, and based on the size of him, he’s defense. He peppers me with questions, and his eyes keep dropping to my cleavage. I guess it’s not really his fault; it’s there and inviting his eyeballs to have a peek.
Every time he leans in to ask me something, Bishop puts his arm across the back of my chair, and I keep elbowing him in the side. When he tries to whisper something in my ear, I jab him in the IT band.
He mutters profanities under his breath and pulls out his phone. Ten seconds later mine buzzes in my purse, but I avoid looking at the message because I’m already halfway to an emotional breakdown, and I’m afraid his text is going to push me over the edge.
I don’t know why I’m being such an idiot about this whole thing. I knew he was doing me a favor. I shouldn’t be all butt hurt about it, but I want him to be doing this because he wants to be here with me, not because he feels obligated or to make Joey jealous.
They clear the dessert plates, and the DJ cues up the first song. It’s like a bad wedding and a high school semiformal mash-up. I excuse myself to the bathroom as Bishop gets mobbed by yet another group of aspiring athletes—both male and female.
On my way out of the room, at least three people stop me to ask how I know Bishop. Agreeing to have him as my date was a bad idea for so many reasons, not the least of which is the attention he draws. I lock myself in a stall for a full five minutes, trying desperately to get my head and emotions under control.
He’s close to not needing me anymore for rehab, and that should make me happy on a lot of levels, but it doesn’t. Even without the overt sexual advances, it’s started to feel like a relationship of sorts. Obviously it was me projecting. He’s back on the ice, where he wants to be, and the less he needs my help, the less time he’s going to spend taking up space on my couch. This is him repaying the favor.
When I come out of the bathroom, Pattie and Jules are leaning against the sink, waiting for me. “What’s going on?” Pattie asks.
I give her a look like I don’t know what she’s talking about, and really I don’t. I have feelings for Bishop, and tonight I realize how big they’ve become. “I knew bringing Bishop was a bad idea. He’s been mobbed the entire evening.”
“So you’re hiding out in the bathroom?” Jules asks.
I rub my temples. “I’m not hiding. I’m just . . . gathering my thoughts.”
“On the toilet.” Pattie goes to lean against the wall but thinks better of it. It’s a nice bathroom, but still.
“It’s a good place to think.”
“You should be out there, saving Bishop from the fangirls.”
“But then people will know he’s my date, and it’ll put me in the limelight.” I do everything I can to avoid being caught in the social media firestorm that is my brother’s life. Bishop isn’t quite as high profile, but now that he’s back on the ice, that could change. Add a roomful of athletes who know who he is, and he’s in high demand.
“He’s taking one for the team for you. Don’t you think you should take one for him too?” Jules arches a brow.
I blow out a breath and look up at the ceiling. She has a point. He’s here to save me from Joey, and I’ve pretty much left him to the wolves because I can’t handle how I feel about him or all the attention he’s getting, which makes me a pretty damn bad date. I guess I should return the favor and save him from the fangirls and boys by acting like his actual date.
The second I step back into the event room, I regret it. The DJ has slowed the music from the upbeat, clichéd dance tunes to something slow. The first person I run into is Joey. He takes my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor before I can protest. Or kick him in the balls.
When I don’t make a move to put my hands on any part of him, he leans in, lips at my ear. “Our bosses are watching, so let’s at least pretend we get along for five minutes. Besides, it looks like your date is preoccupied.” Joey moves my hands to his shoulders and tips his head to the right.
I follow his gaze and find Bishop still sitting in the chair at the table. A brunette who is obviously an athlete, based on her muscle tone, and wearing a very revealing, skimpy dress is practically sitting in his lap. If she could hump his leg, I’m sure she would. As it is, her hand is resting on his shoulder, and if I had to guess, by the way she’s leaning in, her boob is probably propped up on his forearm.
“Seriously?” I’m gone five minutes, and some woman is trying to publicly hump him.
“Listen, baby, I know it’s been a rough start here. I know it’s taking you some time to get over it, but I really think you and me can work this out.”
I return my attention to Joey. “Have you started smoking crack?”
“What?” His toothy grin falters, and his gaze moves from my rack to my face.
“Or maybe it’s meth.”
His brow twists into a furrow. “What are you talking about, Stevie?”
“What are you talking about, Joey?”
He looks puzzled. I’m pretty sure he’s been drinking. I don’t know why I’m even entertaining this, or letting him put his hands on me, other than I’m completely shocked by the fact that the guy I’d like to be my boyfriend is currently snuggling with some fangirl puck bunny.
God, I’m confused.
And my brain is even more muddled when all of a sudden Bishop cuts in. One second I’m trying to impale Joey with my nails through layers of suit jacket and shirt, and the next Bishop’s elbowing him out of the way.
“That’s my date, not yours, but thanks for warming up the floor for me. Now fuck off.” Bishop glares at Joey, who looks like he wants to argue for all of half a second before he steps back.
Bishop grips my waist and pulls me against him. I automatically lace my fingers behind his neck. I don’t even think about it, or of the intimacy of having the entire front of my body pressed right up against his for the second time tonight.
Bishop’s wide, warm palm rests against my lower back. The skin-to-skin contact should be something I’m used to, but normally it’s my hand on his bare skin, not the other way around. The electric feeling is back, zinging through me in little pulses of lightning that end up in my vagina.
It would be great if I were less attracted to this man.
Bishop drops his head so his mouth is at my ear. “What the hell is going on?”
His lips brush the shell as he speaks, making my knees weak. It takes me several seconds to realize he sounds pissed and that he’s not asking me to take off my clothes on the dance floor. I have to tip my chin up to reach his ear, causing his stubbly cheek to rub against mine. For whatever reason, I imagine how that might feel on the inside of my thigh, so my response comes out all low and breathy. “What do you mean?”
God, he smells good. Like cologne and laundry detergent and that bodywash he uses. It’s not fancy. He uses Old Spice, something I can get from any CVS or grocery store. I bet he even stocks up when it’s on sale, because he usually has three or four reserve bottles in his linen closet at any given time. Whatever the smell is, combined with the other, less powerful scents and what makes him uniquely him, it’s ridiculously appealing.
“You’re being weird. And not like pineapples-and-olives-on-pizza weird. Why were you dancing with the douche ex? Why am I here with you if you’re going to pretend I don’t even exist?”
“That’s not . . . I’m not . . .” He’s right. I am being weird. I have no idea what’s going on—if he’s really here out of obligation, or if I’ve read more into this than I should—so I splutter and fumble for an excuse that makes sense. “He caught me off guard, and you were busy with your puck bunny.”
Bishop pulls back, brow furrowed. It’s a sexy look on his gorgeous face. “You mean that chick that couldn’t take a hint? I told her seven times I had a date. I’m trying out this new thing where I’m not an asshole all the time to everyone. Especially since I’m here with you, and I don’t want to leave a shit impression with all of these people.” He lifts one hand from my back and flails in the general direction of the people on the dance floor. “You were taking forever in the bathroom, and then I see you with your douche ex all fucking cozy. I’m done dancing around this shit, Stevie.”
“Dancing around what shit?” My stomach sinks, flips, and does a couple of roundoffs, finishing with a cartwheel.
“This.” His hand leaves my back again and motions between our faces. “You and me.”
“You and me?” My head is so muddled.
“Yeah. You and me. Us.”
Anxiety makes my mouth dry. I lick my lips and swallow thickly. “I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean you don’t understand?” He seems so incredulous, which increases my confusion.
“You said you were doing me a favor by being my date. Isn’t this a thank-you for the rehab?”
He arches a brow. “Do I seem like the kind of person who’d attend this kind of event as a favor?”
I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “You’re back on the ice a week early.”
“So you think this is me being a nice guy, even though I’ve proven time and time again that I’m generally an asshole?”
“Are you telling me that this isn’t you being nice?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not telling me, or no you’re not being nice?” We keep moving, shifting in a slow circle as we talk, and I get a glimpse of a very angry-looking Joey, glaring while I dance-argue with Bishop.
“Jesus Christ,” Bishop grumbles. “I’m not being nice.”
“Well, if this isn’t you being nice or doing me a favor, what exactly are you doing here?”
Joey appears again as we make another tight, stiff circle. I’ve never been big on slow dancing, and I don’t think Bishop is either. A couple of shuffle steps later, Joey disappears, and Bishop’s brow furrows deeper. His gaze shifts over my shoulder and back to me. “I’m making sure your ex knows you’re off limits for good.”
“Isn’t that the same as doing me a favor?” I try to put some space between us, because it’s hard to think with my breasts pressed against his chest and the feel of his belt buckle hard against my stomach.
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not doing it for you, Stevie. I’m doing it for me.”
“Why?” My stomach is full of fluttery things.
Instead of answering, he cups my cheek in his palm and drops his head until his mouth is only a breath away from mine. “Why?”
I nod once, and our lips almost brush with the movement.
“Because if anyone should be your boyfriend, it’s me, not that shit-for-brains ass clown.”
“Oh.” I breathe in as he exhales, tasting mint even though his mouth isn’t on mine. “Well, that seems like a pretty good reason.”
“I thought so.” The hand on my lower back slides up, and his fingers wrap around the back of my neck. “Tell me no if you don’t want this to happen.”
The chemistry between us swells and fills the air, making it crackle with lust.
For weeks now, I’ve been imagining what it would feel like to kiss him. Like no is even an option. I don’t answer with words. Instead I tip my chin up and lick my lips in anticipation. Bishop’s gaze bounces from my mouth to my eyes.
He inclines his head, and his lips touch mine. The moment we connect, it feels like a whole bucketful of lust has been poured over my head. I’m submerged in pent-up desire, and the sensation spreads, running through my veins, heating me up. Having Bishop’s mouth on mine after all these weeks of touching without the intent of sexual exploration makes me feel like I’ve been shot up with some kind of drug.
Bishop is a lot of things: sarcastic, assholey, determined, hotheaded, and a mammoth of a man. But his kiss is all the other parts of him I’ve gotten glimpses of over the past several weeks: sweet, gentle, soft. At first, anyway.
It begins as an easy, warm press. His lips part, and I breathe in his minty exhale on a whimper. The palm resting against the back of my neck flexes, and his thumb smooths up the side of my throat, stopping at the edge of my jaw. “I want in, Stevie.”
I part my lips without any further encouragement, because it’s been weeks and weeks of underwear battles and rehab sessions and that one almost-kiss and clothed grind. I want more.
We both groan when our tongues slide against each other, wet, warm, and satin soft. Bishop’s hand moves from my cheek, palm easing down my back until he reaches the dip in my spine again. A single fingertip slips under the fabric and follows the waistband of my panties. I’m wearing a thong, because this dress is form fitting and I wanted to avoid panty lines. He pulls me tighter against him, and I anchor my fingers in his hair, a silent but screaming request not to stop kissing me.
Thankfully, Bishop is good at reading my nonverbal cues, and he deepens the kiss. Unlike our conversations, it’s not a battle: it’s a dance of tongues, searching, seeking, retreating, and coming back for more. With each slow, wet caress, the softness of the kiss shifts and becomes more desperate.
I forget that we’re in the middle of a dance floor. I forget that we’re in a roomful of people, including my bosses, colleagues, and a number of clients: current, potential, and future. At least until the music stops. I catch a murmur of excitement rustle through the room in the two quick beats of silence before a fast, upbeat tune blasts through the speakers.
I uncurl my fingers from his hair and push on his solid chest. It’s weak on conviction, since I bite his bottom lip and suck it before I break the kiss. A low sound, something like a growl, rumbles through his chest. He fuses our mouths back together, and I indulge him for a few more seconds before I truly, and grudgingly, disconnect our mouths.
“We’re not alone,” I whisper.
We’re both breathing hard as we lock gazes.
Bishop drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “We should get out of here before I do something embarrassing, then.”
CHAPTER 22
BEST BAD DECISION
Bishop
The week of Stevie deprivation combined with her looking too edible for words and all the pent-up sexual frustration seems to have finally come to a head. So my reaction to kissin
g Stevie, which is to keep kissing her until the world ends or one of us catches on fire from all the friction, seems entirely logical.
“Okay.” It’s more of a moan than a word.
I’m hella surprised she doesn’t put up more of a fight. It’s not like Stevie to give in easily. Not for me, anyway. She spins on her heel, lavender hair fanning out in a wave and settling around her shoulders. Before the night is over I’m going to have my nose buried in that hair. It’ll be a knotted mess because my hands are going to be in it, and I’ll most definitely have it wrapped around my fist at some point.
Jesus, I’m so hard I could dent a car with my dick. Her hips sway mesmerizingly as she glides across the floor, me trailing behind her like some sort of horndog bodyguard and glaring at any guy who dares to look at her as she passes, which incidentally is every guy in the whole damn room.
Stevie stops to say something to Pattie and Jules on the way out of the hall. I step up beside her and place a protective hand at the small of her back. The dress comes down so low I can see those sweet dimples just above her ass. All I want is to get her out of here so we can pick up that kiss where we left off.
Pattie’s gaze shifts briefly to me, eyes narrowing and her smile growing conspiratorially with whatever Stevie says to her.
“See you on Monday.”
“I’ll be in for takedown tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Pattie hugs her and drops her voice, whispering something I don’t catch. Whatever it is, it makes Stevie blush. I spot Joey on the other side of the room, looking like he wants to either murder me or be me.
I nod to Stevie’s friends and thread my fingers through hers, keeping her close as we navigate our way through the crowd. Recognition flares in several sets of eyes as we pass, but I must be wearing a pretty nasty expression because no one approaches me. As we get to my SUV, Stevie rummages around in her bag for the keys, shoulders curled in as she shivers against the biting wind. A light drizzle coats her hair and her skin.
“Didn’t you bring a coat?” I unbutton my suit jacket and shrug out of it.
A Favor for a Favor Page 21
