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“You want less polite,” he growls, making my clit throb in response. “I’ll give you just that.”
It’s a threat, one that should scare me instead of opening an ache low in my belly. I lean into the wild kiss, gripping his shoulders, trying to match him and failing. He kisses me like a man who’s been starved for touch.
But I want more. Tonight, I want more.
I shouldn’t.
But I do. “Less polite,” I whimper, rocking forward, chasing the hard press of his cock, tilting my head to the side when he angles his mouth right, running his lips heatedly over my neck, nipping at my sensitive skin before pushing up for another searing kiss. I moan when his tongue tangles with mine, tasting whiskey, getting drunk off it.
I ache. Everywhere. For him.
I move to touch him—I want to feel that muscled skin under my fingers—and he catches both my wrists in one hand and pins them behind my back. Then he uses the other to rip my blouse open. He tugs my bra down hard enough that I hear it tear, freeing my aching breasts.
I gasp, eyes wide with shock as I stare at the man, but I don’t get a word out before he leans down, mouth clamping around a nipple, making my back arch off the desk with a sob. I struggle to free my hands, but he keeps them imprisoned. “Oh, God, Bishop,” I sob, writhing.
“You’re ready,” he rasps, nipping at the aching bud and making me jolt as electricity shoots through my body. “I’m going to show you less polite and fuck you, Margot. Here. In this office. I’m going to make you mine.”
He’s not asking which is good, because I don’t have a response. My throat is tight, and my head foggy. Whatever thoughts I have left get wiped clean when he releases me suddenly and steps back. I watch, slack-jawed, when he whips his shirt off to reveal the most stunning body I have ever seen. He is a wall of muscle, his chest forested with dark hair with a string of tattoos that scale his arms and most of his chest.
He’s a god.
And when his blue eyes lock on mine again, I know there’s no stopping this. God, I don’t want to.
“Your turn,” he says darkly, reaching for what’s left of my torn blouse and yanking it off my body. He undoes my bra and tosses it right next to the blouse, both of which have clearly outlived their usefulness. I help him with the skirt, biting my lower lip when I find myself stripped bare and sitting naked on my office desk.
I go suddenly. acutely conscious of my body, crossing my arms over my chest, wondering whether there’s any way we could kill the lights. Christ, why is it so bright in here?
“Let me see you.” Bishop nudges my hands aside and the way his eyes move over me is pure heat. “Fuck, you’re so goddamned sexy. Fuck me, sugar, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I am?”
“Damn right you are, and I want you,” he growls, using his knees to shove my thighs open until he’s settled between them. Then he’s kissing me again, one hand at my nape and the other running up my side. “I’m going to be less polite with you tonight, and you’re going to let me.”
“Yes,” I whisper, arching into him, waiting for the part where he puts it in. I’ve heard it hurts the first time, but I want him so badly that I don’t care. “Do it, please.”
“Since you asked so nicely,” he says against my lips—and then, to my complete confusion, he drops to his knees.
“W-what are you doing?” I ask, horrified. This puts him eye level with my pussy, and every attempt to close my legs is countered by his hands. “Bishop, w-what are you—”
“Not even this?” he mutters, eyes lighting up. He grips my hips and drags me to the edge of the desk, close enough that I feel his breath on my inner thighs. “Goddamned baby, I’m going to have a time with you.”
“Bishop, what… oh, God.” My hip rises off the desk when his tongue tunnels between my damp folds. I’m gasping, fighting to get air into my lungs as he licks into me, groaning as he does. I slap a hand on the desk and grip his hair with the other as his tongue works my clit in fast strokes that leave me gulping.
It’s too much. Too freaking much.
The muscles on his back ripple with the effort as he drives me toward the edge, alternating fast and slow until I’m shaking—so far gone I barely register the finger until it’s pushing into me. I whimper at the mix of discomfort and pleasure, hiding it, unwilling to show him how new to this I am.
Except he stops. Not for lone—just long enough that I feel him take the measure of me again, the way he did in the kitchen.
“I know,” he says against my thigh. Two words, low, not a question. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Something moves through him at that. He goes back to work, and he’s gentler now, and I hate that I can feel the difference and love it at the same time.
He sucks lightly at my clit as he works a finger into me, slowly, until I’m barely paying attention to anything but his mouth.
“Bishop,” I cry out, close to exploding, rocking to meet his lips and the finger he’s thrusting shallowly into me. Then he adds a second finger just as his mouth clamps hard around my clit.
