CHAPTER 23
MAGIC PEEN
Stevie
In hindsight it might not have been the best plan to pretend Bishop’s dick was an ice cream cone for twenty minutes. Especially after all those weeks of me being near his groin and him not being able to help himself out. I’m banking on the fact that he’s going to want to get in me badly enough that he won’t feel compelled to torture me for too long.
Bishop bites and sucks his way over my collarbone, groaning as he stops to tongue my nipples before he moves lower, tracing my navel.
His rough palms glide up the inside of my thighs, pushing them apart. Everything below the waist clenches as he drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “I can’t wait to tongue fuck an orgasm out of this pussy.”
I groan, because really, what can I say to that? Any kind of fuck at this point would be welcome, and I’ll gladly ride his face to orgasm land. Also, I didn’t really expect the dirty talk or for it to be as much of a turn-on as it is, especially with the way he’s looking at me.
He drops his head, eyes still on mine, lips brushing along the waistband of my panties. At the same time his fingertips follow the edge until he reaches the apex.
He slips his free arm under my thigh, opening me wider and propping himself up on his elbow. “Your panties are damp.” He pinches the material over my clit, grazing it. “Soaked, really.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve been rubbing his shaft over my clit like it was going to make a genie appear and grant me orgasm wishes. Plus, making him come with my mouth, and the knowledge that eventually he would be filling me up, has me pretty damn excited, but still . . . it’s embarrassing to be called out on how aroused I am.
Or maybe it’s a hint. I try to close my legs. “I should freshen up first.”
His hold on my thigh tightens. “Like hell.” He presses his nose against the damp fabric. “You smell like you’re ready to be fucked.”
“Jesus, Bishop. That mouth of yours is filthy.”
His eyes lift to mine in question.
“I like it.”
The crinkle at the corner of his eyes tells me he’s smiling. “I figured you would.” He inhales deeply and turns his head, biting the inside of my thigh.
I wish I’d had the foresight to take my panties off. I want to shove my hands in his hair and grind all over his face. I manage to restrain myself, because I’m highly aware that extra enthusiasm at this point is going to cause me problems. In the form of Bishop dragging this out even more.
He slips a single finger under the edge of my panties. Thank God. I shake with anticipation, like a cunnilingus junkie waiting for a hit of tongue. He moves the fabric over on either side until he’s essentially giving me a vagina wedgie—which seems counterproductive.
Bishop hooks his finger under the fabric at the crest of my pelvis and pulls up, causing the satin to tighten and rub against my clit. I suck in a gasping breath, fighting with my hips not to jerk up. And that’s before he slips a finger from his free hand under the fabric but lower, so his knuckle pushes against my opening.
I moan quietly as every single muscle in my body tightens, and I accidentally manage a Kegel. Based on his lascivious grin, I’m pretty sure he felt that.
He licks along the juncture of my thigh. Over and over, up one side and down the other. Then he sucks the soft, sensitive skin right beside my covered clit, and I think I’m going to die.
I give in, shoving my hands in his hair and trying to force his mouth to move an inch to the right.
Bishop releases the skin with a suctioned, wet pop. His lips brush against the satin right over my clit with the slow shake of his head. “You got something you want to say, bae?”
“Bishop.” I roll my hips, asking for what I want without words.
He chuckles and nuzzles into my panties, licking the wet fabric.
“Oh my God.” I turn my head into the pillow and fight a groan.
“All you have to do is ask, and I’ll give you what you want.”
“I want you to suck my goddamn clit.”
That earns me another dark, low chuckle. “I bet you do.” He bites the satin over my magic bean and pulls it away with his teeth. “But you need to ask nicely.”
“You are such an asshole,” I groan.
“I know.” His tongue sweeps along the seam of my panties, so damn close.
“Fine. Please, Bishop.”
“Please what?”
“Please just fucking eat me.”
He groans a low Yessss and with one swift jerk yanks my panties to the side, tearing the delicate fabric. “Sorry ’bout that. I’ll replace them along with the dress.” He hitches my legs over his shoulders, grabs my ass, and lifts my hips so far off the mattress only my shoulders and head still rest there.
There’s no more slow lead-up, no build, no teasing. His mouth covers me, and he sucks hard.
It doesn’t take long for the suction to have the desired effect, and I come with a violence that reminds me of summer storms. I can’t stop shaking, or screaming his name, or coming. My vision is eclipsed by a metaphorical meteor shower.
It doesn’t end there either. When my hips are returned to the mattress, he pushes two fingers inside me and flutters fast and hard until I’m trying to wriggle away from him, the sensations overwhelming after such a vicious orgasm.
“Oh fuck no.” He shifts around until he’s beside me instead of between my thighs and wraps a palm around the back of my neck, fingers still pumping furiously. “You come again. All over my fingers before I give you my cock.”
“You really are such an asshole,” I groan.
“I know, but at least you have a good reason to put up with me and my shit now.”
He uses his palm to press down on my clit with the next finger curl, and I explode. I’m a rag doll in his arms by the time I finally come down from that orgasm.
As soon as I have control over my body, I pull his mouth to mine, and he fits himself between my legs again. He fumbles with the condom, sheathing himself.
“You ready for me now?” Bishop circles sensitive skin.
“So ready.”
His elbow rests against my ribs, forearm under my shoulder, thumb stroking gently up the side of my neck, as he positions himself against me and eases inside, inch by slow inch.
Bishop is exactly on the right side of too much—too much man, too much cock, just plain too much. He hovers over me, hips slowly coming to rest against mine. He nuzzles into my neck, exhaling heavily as his lips part. The soft stroke of his tongue follows the nip of his teeth, and he makes a sound somewhere between lust and pain.
“Are you okay?” I run my hands down his back, and his muscles flex under the smooth, damp skin.
He nods against my throat and then kisses his way up my neck.
“We should stop if you think it’s going to set you back.” I say the words while digging my fingernails into his ass, so they lack some of the conviction I was hoping for.
This time he makes a noise that sounds a lot like a snort and then bites my chin. When his mouth meets mine, he deepens the kiss for a few slow strokes before he pulls back. Those gorgeous, lust-drenched hazel eyes of his meet mine, and a lazy smile tips one corner of his delicious mouth. “My balls could literally be on the verge of exploding right now, and there’s still no way in hell I would stop. Not unless you wanted me to, anyway.” He rolls his hips. “Do you want me to stop, Stevie?”
“N-no. Just go easy.”
“Don’t worry, bae, I’ll take good care of you.” He covers my mouth with his again before I can protest, since that wasn’t at all what I meant.
Bishop finds a slow, steady rhythm that hits my magic spot inside with every well-placed, gentle thrust. When I feel like I’m close to another orgasm, I push on his chest. He pulls back, eyes on fire, brow furrowed, lips thinned in a line, since he’s hovering midthrust.
“I don’t want to stop; I just want to change positions,” I assure him.
That smi
le of his that I adore so much appears. “Always on duty, aren’t you?”
“Just looking to change the view.”
“I think it has more to do with you wanting to be in control, but however you want to spin it.” He pushes up and sits back on his knees, holding on to my hips to maintain the connection.
I prop myself up on my elbows, appreciating the view of this glorious man kneeling between my thighs. He looks down, shifting his hips forward on a low hiss as he watches his erection disappear inside me. He runs his palms up the inside of my thighs, and his thumbs sweep along the juncture as he pulls back out and circles my clit on the next slow thrust.
The purposeful pressure, combined with the slow in and out, sends me over the edge. The world a wash of white and stars and bliss. Again. When I fall back down from the clouds, I find myself chest to chest with Bishop again, only this time I’m sitting in his lap. Just like the first time we almost kissed, but then he was too early into recovery and all the threads of restraint we were holding on to hadn’t snapped yet.
“God, I love making you come,” Bishop says on a guttural groan.
“You probably owe me at least another thousand orgasms for being such an insufferable ass.”
He lifts and lowers me, faster, harder, fingers sliding into my hair, lips locking, teeth clashing, as we fight to keep the kiss from breaking. I come again, limbs wrapped around him, and he follows after me, all his hard edges melting, letting me see a different, vulnerable side of him that isn’t in any way related to his injury.
Afterward he pulls me down so I’m sprawled over his chest, and we fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other.
CHAPTER 24
A SPLASH OF COLD WATER
Stevie
I wake up in the morning feeling deliciously sore. I run my hand across the sheets and scoot over in search of Bishop’s warm body, but his side of the bed is empty. I crack a lid and check the time. It’s well after ten.
The bathroom door is closed; the sound of the toilet flushing comes from the other side. I stretch out, muscles protesting. I could definitely use an epsom salts bath. That could be a fun thing to do with Bishop.
My phone buzzes from my nightstand several times in a row. It’s probably Pattie or Jules. I nab the device and frown as the screen lights up with yet another alert. I have more than a hundred unanswered messages on a variety of social media.
“What the hell?” I key in my code and scroll through my text alerts. It seems like every single human being on my contact list has decided they want to get in touch with me this morning. It makes no sense. Until it does.
A new message pops up from Pattie, so I open hers before I even consider looking at the ones from my brother.
I need details.
Where the hell are you?
Please tell me there are lots of orgasms involved and that’s why you’re not responding.
Holy shit, social media is on fire
Don’t read the comments if you look
Actually, don’t look at social media
Call me the second you see these messages
A new message pops up as I’m scrolling through.
I can see that you’ve read these. I’m calling you.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask as soon as I have the phone to my ear.
“Is Bishop still there?”
“Uh, well, yeah. He’s in the bathroom right now.”
“Did you just wake up?”
“Yeah. Like literally a minute ago.”
“Shit. Okay. I think you need to prepare yourself, because you’ve gone viral.”
“Viral how?”
“There’s a video.”
“What kind of video?” I get this horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, the kind I used to get when RJ started playing professional hockey and he was constantly on some social media site doing unspeakable things with women. No one ever needs to see their older brother, who up until that point I’d idolized, making out with two women at the same time in a hot tub.
“The kind where it looks like you’re trying to climb inside each other’s mouths.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.” My stomach is no longer sinking; it’s flip-flopping around.
“I can’t do that unless you want me to lie to you.” I can practically hear Pattie’s cringe.
“Shit.” Reality sets in, along with panic. “Shit, shit, shit. Is it really bad?”
“Like, is it a bad video?”
“Is a video of people making out in public ever good?” I roll off the bed and pace the room.
This would explain the massive number of messages I have this morning. There were a lot from my brother, so I’m taking that as an omen of the not-good variety. “What site is it on? Can we get it taken down? People can do that, right?”
I’d like to believe viral in the hockey world is a lot different from viral in the general sense of the word, but I’m not sure that would be accurate. Not with this being Seattle’s first year with a hockey team.
“The video has been shared fifty-seven thousand times and has more than four hundred thousand likes.”
“Oh my God.” I think I might actually be sick.
“If it makes you feel better, it’s a really hot video.”
I consider that for several stupid, long seconds. It shouldn’t make me feel better at all, but in the grand scheme of things I guess it’s better than looking like a wasted hag. “I wish that helped.” My phone buzzes with yet another message from my brother. Obviously he’s seen the video—it’s the only explanation for the incessant texts.
“What do I search so I can see this video?”
“I’ll put a link in your messages, but whatever you do, don’t read the comments.”
I don’t ask if it’s that bad again, because clearly it is.
I’m about to put her on speakerphone and check the link she’s sent me when the bathroom door swings open. “Wanna sixty-nine before breakfast?” Bishop stands there in all his gorgeous naked glory, his predatory expression and slight smirk dripping slowly from his face as he takes in what is likely my highly panicked expression.
“What’s going on?” He takes several steps toward me. He’s half-hard, so his peen bobs distractingly.
“I gotta let you go,” I tell Pattie.
“Call me later.”
“’Kay.” I end the call and glance at my phone.
“Stevie? Why do you look like you’re about to freak out?”
“There’s a video,” I croak, scrolling to Pattie’s most recent message, including the link to the video. It was uploaded by user J$0124 twelve hours ago and has endless tags and hashtags attached to it. Since Joey’s birthday is January 24, I’m going to go ahead and say he’s the reason for this unnecessary bullshit.
“What kind of video?”
“Of us kissing, apparently.” I hit the play button.
The video starts as I pull Bishop’s mouth to mine. His hand hovers close to my cheek for several long seconds before it settles against my skin. It’s a tentative, almost romantic kiss at first, until we really get going. Then it’s not so sweetly innocent. I’m the one gripping his hair; I angle his head to the side; I push my hips into his.
We are totally dry humping on the dance floor. In front of my colleagues, bosses, and clients. This is really, really bad.
Another message comes in from my brother.
“I can handle this,” Bishop says.
“How exactly are you going to handle this?” I wave the phone around in the air, my panic overriding any remaining thread of logic. I accidentally hit play again, and the sound of us groaning into each other’s mouths fills the room. It’s so much different when I’m seeing it secondhand through my phone. And infinitely more mortifying. “RJ is going to lose his mind.”
“I’ll explain the situation.”
“Which is what, exactly?” I start pacing, trying to find a way to calm myself down, but the more time I have to let this sink in, the
worse the panic gets. The hashtag #puckbunny is attached to the video. It’s essentially my worst nightmare come true.
“That we’re dating.”
“You can’t tell him that!”
Bishop crosses his arms, the furrow in his brow deepening along with the downturn of his lips. “Why not?”
I flail and pace some more. “Because . . . because you can’t! This looks so bad!” I’ve been made to look like a puck bunny. And now all the work we did to get Bishop back in the game means nothing because we’re eating each other’s faces. I made out with him at a work function. It makes me look anything but professional now. And any recommendation he might have given me is useless since everyone saw us playing tonsil hockey.
“Well, the easiest way for it to stop looking bad is if we tell people we’re dating.”
“But we’re not dating.”
Bishop pokes at his cheek with his tongue. “Are you still hung up on your douche ex?”
“What? No! Of course not.”
“Then why can’t we be dating? We spend all our free time together.”
“That was for PT.” I hear what he’s saying, and he’s right: it makes the most logical sense. But I can’t get out of the spiral of panic that this video incites. I’ll be right in the middle of Bishop’s limelight now that he’s back on the ice. The same limelight I’ve worked so hard to stay out of. The one that’s only ever given me grief the very few times I’ve been inadvertently caught up in it.
Until now it’s been blissfully peaceful. Sure, Bishop would pick me up in public places, but he always wore a hat and sunglasses, and I always had a hoodie to hide behind. At work no one would make a big deal of him coming to the clinic because everyone was used to athletes, and no one wanted to be the uncontrollable fan who loses their mind over someone they might one day have the honor of treating. Plus I work on a university campus, which is the last place anyone would ever expect an NHL player to hang out.
“Last night had fuck all to do with PT,” Bishop says.
“You haven’t touched a woman in how long? Emotions were running high. You’re on testosterone overload, which I totally get. You were doing me a favor, and we took it to the next level.” Stevie, stop talking! I know I’m spewing the most horrible BS and I need to stop, but I’m freaking out.
A Favor for a Favor Page 23
