“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 kissing 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.

“I left it in my locker. It’s fine there until Monday.” Stevie produces a set of keys with shaking fingers.

I snatch them from her hand and drape my suit jacket over her shoulders. I consider going in for another kiss, but the rain is picking up and it’s chilly out here, so I usher her around to the passenger side and help her in.

Once I’m behind the wheel, I turn the engine over and crank up the heat before I slide my arm across her seat and curl my fingers around the back of her slender neck. We move toward each other like magnets. Our lips meet, and lust crackles around us like static.