Bishop stands in the doorway, one hand still braced against the frame, his presence filling the space in a way that feels different from Rafe’s. It’s harder and sharper, like something that doesn’t bother softening its edges.
“Or don’t,” he adds, voice edged just enough to bite. “I’m sure she’d love to walk in on you trying to fuck our brother’s girl.”
Rafe’s chest expands against mine, a slow inhale that never fully releases. His fingers dig slightly deeper into my waist—not enough to hurt, just enough to mark. His eyes stay locked on mine, pupils blown wide, the blue barely visible around the edges.
“Stay,” he murmurs, the word warm against my lips. “I’ll be back.”
His hands slide to my hips, lifting me off his lap with a deliberate drag that leaves heat in their wake. My dress catches beneath his fingers, riding up another inch before he sets me on the couch.
He rises in one fluid motion, crossing to the door. Bishop doesn’t move. Their shoulders connect with a dull thud as Rafe passes.
The door clicks shut. The air smells like sandalwood and smoke and something electric.
I tip my head back against the couch, the concrete ceiling swimming above me, willing my pulse to slow down, my body to forget the imprint of his hands on my skin.
… and counting down the minutes until he’s back and touching me again.
The joint sits abandoned on the armrest. I reach for it without looking, pinch it between my lips, and fumble with the lighter.
Bishop materializes in front of me, all six-foot-something of coiled tension. His fingers close around my chin, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath my bottom lip. He plucks the joint from my mouth without a word.
“Can I help you?” I drawl, refusing to flinch. His eyes lock onto mine—same stormy blue as Rafe’s, but where Rafe’s gazeinvites drowning, Bishop’s calculates the precise moment the lightning will strike.
He leans over me, his shadow falling across my face like a curtain. My eyes trace the crooked ridge where his nose broke—once? twice?— and catch on the three-day stubble darkening his jaw. The harsh garage light cuts across his cheekbones, making him look like some kind of hot, broody specter.
“You didn’t shave,” I say, the words slipping out before I can catch them.
One corner of his mouth lifts, all contempt, no warmth. “So observant.”
I exhale through my teeth. “Whatever. I’m busy, Bishop. Give me the joint back.”
“Yeah.” He slides the joint between his lips, the paper sticking slightly to the fullness of his bottom lip. “I saw how busy you were.” The lighter clicks once, twice before catching. Orange flame illuminates the hollows of his cheeks as he inhales, his eyes never leaving mine. When he exhales, the smoke hits my face in a deliberate stream, carrying his next words. “With Rafe.”
I lift my head off the back of the couch. The leather squeaks beneath me. Bishop’s fingers find my sternum, pressing—two points of heat through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Since you clearly can’t be trusted...” His fingertips dig deeper, not enough to hurt but enough that my spine reconnects with the couch cushion.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The words scrape my throat. My cheeks burn.
His fingertips remain, two anchors keeping me in place. “Open up.” His eyes flick to my mouth, then back up, pupils contracting to pinpoints in the blue. His other palm lands beside my head with a soft thud against the leather.
My lips part just enough to let a breath escape. Not obedience—just the body’s betrayal.
“Wider.” Another drag from the joint, the cherry glowing orange-red. He leans in until I can count his eyelashes, until the heat from his skin radiates against mine.
My pulse hammers in my throat. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t part my lips any further. Just watch him watching me.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat—something between a growl and a sigh—as his lips hover a breath away from mine. His eyes lock onto mine as smoke pours from his parted lips, filling my mouth with heat and haze. The burn spreads down my throat, sharp and sweet.
“Hold it,” he commands, his voice rough velvet.
My chest tightens. The garage walls seem to pulse inward with each heartbeat. His face blurs at the edges, too close, all sharp angles and shadow.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, the words ghosting across my cheek as he pulls back just enough for me to see his pupils dilate.
The same words he whispered that night in Reno. Different context. Same effect.
My lungs scream. I exhale in a rush, smoke curling between us like a question.
