“I like not being held hostage by murderers,” Kit said.
Bishop didn’t respond. He kept doing that—ignoring Kit’s jibes. It made Kit feel more comfortable making them, and more foolish all at once.
Silence lingered, and the stupid magazine blurred in front of Kit’s eyes. “No pepperoni. I want barbecue if they have it.”
“Noted.” Bishop tapped on his laptop. Then he continued in the same normal tone, “I’ll need to cuff and gag you when the driver shows up.”
“Whatever,” Kit muttered. “Fucking psycho.”
He caught Bishop looking away with a faint grin.
Thirty minutes later, Kit held out his left wrist. He wasn’t looking forward to the bondage, exactly. He was looking forward to the moment of entrapment. Bishop’s blunt fingertips brushing the reddened skin of his wrists. Bishop’s scent and size completely surrounding him.
Kit preferred remembering he was Bishop’s prisoner. The moments Bishop couldn’t pretend whatever the fuck he was pretending the rest of the time. Kit didn’t resist as cold metal once again encircled his left wrist.
Bishop looped the chain around one of the vertical bars of the staircase railing, then locked in his right wrist. Kit had to twist awkwardly around as Bishop procured a bandana—and the fucking duct tape again.
“Is that clean?” Kit asked.
“Open your mouth,” Bishop replied.
Kit sighed and obediently opened his mouth for Bishop to stuff the bandana in. It was clean, probably, but felt horrible in his mouth. Too dry, too large. Face twisting, Kit immediately tried to spit it out.
Bishop held his jaw in place and sealed his lips with a strip of duct tape. Then another.
Tears stinging his eyes, Kit did his best to glare.
Bishop straightened, towering over Kit. He traced the edge of the tape against Kit’s cheek, sending strange tingling sensationsthrough Kit’s bloodstream. “I don’t mind you being obedient,” Bishop said softly. “But I worry about you. Would you be this good for someone worse than me?”
What the fuck.
Indignation flared inside Kit. Where did Bishop get off saying something like that, when Kit’s mouth was sealed and he couldn’t respond?
Except, why did Kit even want to respond? He should be able to ignore this. Ignore Bishop. Ignore everything.
Kit couldn’t ignore anything when he was bound and gagged like this.
Fuck. Maybe Bishop would give him a handle of vodka to go with the pizza, if he asked sweetly enough.
Before Bishop could say anything else weird, the doorbell rang. Bishop closed the door between the living room and the foyer as he left, but Kit could still hear the conversation at the front door. He slid down to sit on the stairs, leaning his head against the railing, and listened as his captor made small talk with the delivery woman.
Bishop sounded so normal, talking to other people. A little gruff, but the woman laughed at something he said and thanked him for the tip.
The door closed, and Bishop carried the boxes to the kitchen before returning to Kit. He ripped the duct tape off first, bringing a fresh sting to Kit’s eyes. His fingers brushed Kit’s lips as he pulled the bandana from his mouth. “How are you feeling?”
Kit refused to dignify that with a response, too busy grimacing and stretching out his jaw.
Then the doorbell rang again—and on the heels of the chime, a thunderous pounding at the door.
“I don’t think that’s the pizza woman,” Bishop muttered, leaving Kit cuffed to the railing. This time, he left the door between the living room and foyer open, and when Kit craned around, he could see Bishop peering through the peephole in the front door.
Bishop swore, glanced back at Kit, then cracked the door open. “This isn’t a good time,” he snapped to whoever was outside.
Definitely not the pizza woman he was so nice to a minute ago.
A deeper male voice answered, with steely politeness. “Then make it a good time, unless you want an awkward conversation with your HOA about me bleeding out on your porch. Really ruins the property values.”
“Christ.” Bishop ran his hand through his hair, and Kit found himself enjoying the man’s consternation. “Fine, get in, but go straight to the fucking kitchen.”
