"I remember it all." Again, I tried to laugh. Again I failed. "And here, you probably thought I never listened to you."
"You shouldn't have to listen," he said. "I should've been there." He pulled away to look at my face. "But you were supposed to call. Remember?"
I looked up at him. "I was? I guess I forgot. I'm sorry."
"No, I'm the one who's sorry." His gaze travelled the length of me. "Are you alright?"
I nodded. "I could probably use a drink though." The backs of my hands were burning. I was almost afraid to look. "And maybe some bandages."
"Here's what we're gonna do," Bishop said. "We're gonna go into the back room. I'm gonna make you a margarita. And when we get settled, you're going to tell me what happened. All of it."
He led me to a sofa in the back room. "Now sit," he said.
I looked around. From what I could tell, it doubled as a small living quarters. There was a small kitchenette in the corner, a round wooden table, and a bathroom off to the side.
From the sofa, I watched him head toward the kitchenette. I closed my eyes and leaned back into the cushions, listening to the sounds of glassware clinking. Bishop returned a few minutes later with a pitcher of margaritas, a couple of empty glasses, and a first aid kit.
I studied the provisions. "I thought you were more of a beer drinker."
"Still am," he said. "But I know you're not." He filled a glass and handed it over. "Here. Now start from the beginning."
While he tended to my bloodied knuckles, I kicked off my shoes and relayed the night's events. I was halfway through my second margarita when I got to the part where Conrad forced me into the alcove. Bishop stopped working, his grip frozen on the fingers he’d been tending.
I stopped talking.
His gaze remained on my hand. The silence stretched out. Slowly, he reached for a bottle of antiseptic. "Go on," he said, his voice controlled. "And then what happened?"
And so I told him the rest. When I concluded the tale, Bishop was quiet.
I inspected my hands. Other than the bandages, they didn't look too bad. They had stopped shaking too. It might've been the margaritas. It might've been Bishop. Probably it was both.
"You gonna report this?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I've got enough trouble. Besides, who's anyone gonna believe, me or Conrad?"
"You," he said.
"I wouldn't be too sure of that."
"You got your gun?" Bishop asked.
"Not on me."
"Too bad," he said. "You could've shot him."
I tried to laugh. "Probably Riley has the better idea."
"Your roommate?"
I nodded.
"What does she carry?"
"No guns," I said. "Background checks."
"On who?"
"Every man she dates."
"Everyone?"
"Yup." I studied my empty glass. I eyed the pitcher. It was empty too. "No background check," I said, "no second date."
Bishop followed my gaze. "Need another drink?"
I nodded. He got up and returned a couple minutes later with a third margarita. I took a sip, noticing he'd gone easier on the tequila. It was just as well. Between the first two drinks, the wine at dinner, and another nasty bump on the head, my head was swimming.
"You run background checks on your dates too?" he asked.
"At first, I let Riley do a couple," I said. "But it took all the fun out of it."
"How so?"
"Here these guys would be talking about something over dinner, and I'd be thinking, 'Hey, I already knew that. And that. And that." I gave a small laugh. "Then I'd spend half the time worrying I'd slip up, maybe mention something they hadn't told me."
"Sounds like a lot of work," Bishop said.
"Yeah," I said. "And not much fun."
I studied Bishop sitting on the sofa next to me. His posture was studiously relaxed, but I knew him too well. I noted the clenched fists, the tight jaw, the hard lines around his eyes. "Heeeey," I said, squinting at him. "I know what you're up to."
"What?"
"The small talk," I said. "You're thinking it'll take my mind off things."
"Is it working?"
"That or the tequila," I said. "You want to really distract me? Tell me something."
"What?"
"What have you been doing the past few years?"
He hesitated. "Security, mostly."
"Like for Lawton?" His brother was a self-made billionaire. Sure, Lawton was tough, but he'd still benefit from someone watching his back. And I couldn’t think of anyone more qualified than Bishop.
"Is that what you think?" Bishop said. 'That I'm on Lawton's payroll?" He gave a humorless laugh. "Part of his entourage?"
"Oh c'mon," I said. "It wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I mean, you're his brother, so–"
"So, if I watch his back, it won't be for money."
"Okay," I said. "Then what do you do for money?"
"Does it matter?"
"No." I looked down at my hands. "Forget I asked."
"Selena?"
I looked up.
He reached across the sofa. "It was an honest question." He took my hands in his, careful to avoid the bandages. "How much money I have, or don't have, does it matter?"
"That's not what I was asking." I studied his face. It was a little blurry, but the strain was unmistakable. "What's the big deal?"
"Look," he said, "I make enough to live on. Isn't that enough?"
"But what about your condo?" I said. "How can you afford it? Unless–" I wasn't sure how to put this, so I just plowed ahead "–Lawton's buying it for you?"
"No."
"So it's a time share?"
Bishop looked at me. "A time share?"
"You know, where you go in with a bunch of people to use it a couple weeks a year."
"I know what a time share is."
"Is it?"
Again, he said, "Does it matter?"
"What do you mean?"
"Let's say it is a time share, does it matter?" he asked. "And let's say I live here, in the hardware store, does it matter?"
I looked around. It all seemed so strange. Who would live in an old hardware store? Then again, who was I to talk? Half the time, I lived above a fortune-telling coffee shop.
He squeezed my hand and continued. "What if I'll never be anything more than you see right here, right now, does it matter?"
I met his gaze. His eyes were dark pools of intensity, and I felt myself get lost in them. Probably, I had never been free from them. "No," I heard myself say. "It doesn't matter. Not to me."
"Listen," he said, kissing the palm of my hand. "The things I want to give you, the most important things, can't be found in a bank statement."
"The way you talk," I said, "money's more important to you than to me." Again, I studied his face. There were two of him. Both looked pretty darn good. "Wait," I said, recalling his words. "What is it you want to give me?"
"Actually, it's what I want you to give me," he said. "Another chance. The one I lost way back when."
I glanced away. More than anything, I wanted to say yes. But how could I consider it after what he'd done? It's not that I couldn't forgive him. But how could I forget? He'd lied to me for months and then blamed me when the truth finally came out.
"There's something else," he said.
"What?"
"I should've told you sooner," he said. "But I'm telling you now."
"Telling me what?"
"I am sorry for what I did. That stunt I pulled? To make you stay? I was stupid, and desperate, and I've wished a thousand times over I could take it back. All of it."
"Really?"
He gave a slow nod. "And I would have told you sooner," he said, "if you'd only stuck around."
Unsteadily, I crawled across the sofa, closing the small distance that remained between us. He wrapped his arms around me, and I rested my head against his chest. "Want to know what really went wrong with Conrad tonig
ht?" I asked.
Bishop tensed. "What?"
"When I was out with him," I said, "I kept thinking of you. I didn't think he noticed." I closed my eyes. "But I guess he did."
Bishop stroked my hair. "Guys like that aren't used to rejection," he said.
"This thing with us," I said, "I don't know where it’ll end up."
"That's okay," he said. "This time, I do."
Chapter 79
I pulled back to look at him. The longing in his gaze was impossible to deny.
"Stay with me," he said. "I don't care what we do. Or don't do. We'll keep our clothes on, hang out on the couch. I don't care." He pulled me close. "Just don't go."
Wordlessly, I nodded against him.
Something in his body eased, and when he spoke, his words were soft, almost a whisper. "Baby, I've missed you so fucking much."
I spoke into his chest. "Bishop?"
"Yeah?"
"I've missed you too. Every day. Every night. I thought I'd die." I took a deep breath. "But–"
"We'll make it work," he said.
I didn't see how that was possible, but I couldn't bring myself to dwell on it. Wrapped in his arms, soaking up the feel of him, all our differences seemed so very far away.
When I felt his lips brush my forehead, I looked up, meeting his gaze. The world was spinning, but there he was, the guy who'd captured my heart and never let it go.
"We don't have to sleep," I said.
His lips parted, and his eyes smoldered. But then, his gaze drifted to the empty margarita pitcher. "You've had a lot to drink," he said.
He was so damn beautiful. And for all the darkness inside him, he loved me, even now. I could see on his face. I could hear it in his voice. And heaven help me, I loved him too, even if I'd be a fool to say it.
I glanced at the empty pitcher. "I haven't had that much," I said.
It was a lie, and we both knew it.
Our gazes locked, and he visibly swallowed. "I can wait," he said. "I'm not gonna have you wake up tomorrow with regrets."
My head was swimming. Everything – the margaritas, the look in his eye, the tidal wave of longing I'd been trying to deny – it morphed into an unstoppable force that shattered all my misgivings.
I raised my face to his. "The only thing I'll regret," I said, "is if we only sleep."
When our lips met, he gave an audible groan. For me, that was all it took. Frantically, I yanked at his shirt. When he lifted his arms, I pulled it off him and tossed it aside.
I devoured the sight of him, trembling as the past and the present blended into the achingly real vision of him that had haunted my dreams. Way back when, I used to sleep against his chest and trail my fingers along his abs. I used to wrap my legs around his back and feel his muscles shift with every movement of his rock-hard body.
With a trembling hand, I reached out and trailed my palm along his chest. His muscles shifted in that same old way I remembered. He looked real, and he felt real. Seeking further proof that I wasn't dreaming, I ran my palm lower, feeling his ab muscles contract as I skimmed my fingers across the flat surface of his taut stomach.
When I returned my gaze to his face, I knew this had to be a dream, because somehow, the years had magically melted away, leaving nothing but us. No lies. No secrets. Only each other.
He lifted the hem of my shirt, exposing my midriff to the cool air. I trembled and arched upward, raising my arms as he pulled off the shirt and tossed it aside. When I felt his lips on my neck, I tilted my head to the side, exposing more of my skin to his tongue and lips.
The room was still spinning, and I was having a hard time keeping track of where we were or what we were doing. He reached around to unclasp my bra and down pulled the lacy straps until my breasts were exposed.
I felt his mouth on my nipples and his hands on my back. Feverishly I worked at the buttons of his jeans, finally yanking them down and then off, followed by his briefs. I wanted to kiss him all over, to taste his cock in my mouth, and to feel his hands in my hair.
When I lowered my head, he pulled away.
His voice was ragged. "Baby, you can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because I've waited so long for this, I'd never last."
I moved toward him. "I don’t care."
"I do," he said. "Because I've got to have you. I've gotta know you're real." His voice grew fierce. "You're mine," he said, "and this time, I'm not letting you go."
With one smooth motion, he undid my jeans and pushed down the zipper. He tugged them off, taking my panties with them. I was so wet, and so ready, I felt like I'd die if I didn't have him inside me this instant.
He lowered his head. I felt his teeth graze my nipple, his long finger trail against my opening. It slid inside me, and I ground against him, moaning as another finger joined the first.
Desperate for him, I pulled his face up to mine. I crushed my lips onto his, frantic for the taste of him. When his tongue darted inside my mouth, I sucked it hard and pushed him backward.
Aching with desire, I straddled his hips and positioned his massively hard cock against my slick, hot opening. Unable to wait, I lowered my hips, hearing him moan my name as his cock filled me nearly to the breaking point.
I pressed my lips to his neck and felt his strong hands cup my ass, yanking me deeper against him, just when I thought I couldn't feel any more full.
It had never been like this, frantic and desperate, but it was exactly what I needed, what I'd been wanting all along, from the first moment I'd seen him again. And Bishop gave it to me, harder and deeper, until I was a trembling, moaning mess.
I was burning for him. My body was slick and hungry, and he fed me exactly what I wanted. His hands slid from my ass and gripped my hips. He rocked along with the motions of my pelvis, lifting me, guiding me, pulling me closer and closer to sweet oblivion.
My stomach fluttered, and my core was burning. Before I knew it, words I'd never planned on saying tumbled out before I could stop them.
"I dreamed of you," I said. "There were nights, when I was alone and missing you, and I swear, I'd hear you whisper my name." My eyes grew misty, and my voice hitched. "And I'd lie in the darkness and wonder if I'd ever hear your voice again. But here you are. With me now."
His hands gripped me tighter. "Baby, I did whisper your name." He made a strangled sound. "Night after night. Missing you. Wanting you. It didn't matter who I was with, or what we were doing. You were the one I wanted. The only one I wanted."
At this, all kinds of crazy images filled my mind. Bishop naked with another girl. And another girl after that. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. I saw hungry eyes and predatory smiles.
Real or not, I wanted to wipe those images from my memory, and his too. I ground against his, claiming him, and letting him claim me.
I trembled against him. I moaned his name, and felt a surge of satisfaction every time my name fell from his lips, sometimes a moan, sometimes a whisper. I was trembling against him, relishing every thrust, every caress, every sound.
He felt so hard and solid, just like I remembered, but with a new intensity that should have scared me. It should have scared both of us. But as our bodies rocked and ground together, I felt no fear. Only bliss.
In spite of his earlier words, he lasted long enough, and then some. When we finally collapsed in a sweaty, trembling heap, I felt sated and happy, lost in the sensations I'd been craving for who-knows-how-long.
I barely knew what had just happened. But I did know one thing. He wasn't lying all those years ago. I was his. And I'd been denying it too damn long. When I drifted into sleep, naked in his arms, that was all I knew, and all I wanted to know.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to find Bishop gone, and a thick, fleece blanket covering my nakedness. I sat up on the sofa, confused as I gazed around the dimly lit area. Wrapping the blanket around me, I stood and stumbled to the bathroom.
When I finished, I returned to the sofa and snuggled u
p on the end, leaning my elbow against the armrest. My head was still foggy, but I wondered if I should go looking for him. The back room was kind of cozy, but the building itself was two stories of abandoned retail space.
Without Bishop, it felt borderline spooky, with shadowed corners and unfamiliar shapes. Yawning, I leaned back into the sofa and closed my eyes for just a second.
The next time I woke, pale light was streaming through a thin panel of high windows, and Bishop's naked body was curled around mine. When I gave a contented sigh, he squeezed me tighter and whispered, "Sorry, but I'm not letting you go."
"Good," I murmured. "But where'd you go, earlier?'
"Hmm?"
"I woke up, and you were gone."
"Breakfast," he said. "See?"
I opened my eyes the barest crack and saw a brown paper bag sitting near the sofa. "Oh," I said as sleep crept up on me once more. "That's nice." And before I knew it, I'd drifted off yet again, feeling warm and blissful, regardless of the weather outside.
When we finally woke for good, we spent the morning naked in each other's arms, and then devoured the contents of the paper bag – a few pastries, hot chocolate mix, and vanilla-flavored coffee, which I made in an old-fashioned percolator he found in a top cupboard.
That afternoon, I walked with him along the frozen riverfront, sipping hot chocolate from a heated ceramic mug, and watching the ice skaters in Memorial Park.
Before venturing out, he'd surprised me with thick wool socks and the cutest pair of double-insulated boots, magically in my size, along with a bright red scarf of the softest material I'd ever felt against my skin.
Whatever it was, it felt exotic and expensive. I should've asked what it was, but honestly, I was a little afraid to. If he had bought it specifically for me, he'd definitely spent too much. And if he'd bought it for someone else, well, I didn't want to think about that either.
A little voice whispered in my ear that this was more than a coincidence. Wherever these things had come from, they'd obviously been purchased in advance. It should've felt way too premeditated, and more than a little strange, but somehow, I couldn't make myself care.
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