I don’t need to turn to feel him move. The shift registers in the air first—the subtle change in proximity, the quiet creak of the bench as he leans forward, the heat of him pressing closer before he ever touches me.
His fingertips find me first. The lightest drag along the outside of my thigh, slow enough to feel deliberate, careful enough to feel like restraint instead of hesitation. The contact is barely there, but my body reacts anyway—breath catching before I can stop it, a flicker of awareness sparking low and sharp beneath my skin.
I hate that I gave it away so easily. And I hate that he hears it.
“Is this what you do for them?” he murmurs, his breath warming the back of my thigh. “Just flash them your pretty cunt and they forgive everything?”
I keep my eyes on the mirror and tighten my grip on the porcelain. “Why do you care?” The edge in my voice comes easier now.
“I don’t.” The lie lands at the exact moment his touch shifts. Not his hands this time. Something worse.
His breath ghosts along the back of my thigh—warm, measured, barely there. Light enough that I could almost convince myself I imagined it. I don’t get the chance. It moves, slow and deliberate, tracing upward beneath the hem of my dress, and my body registers it before my mind can intervene.
My breath stutters. And I hate that it does.
Goosebumps chase the warmth, rising sharp and immediate, and I tighten my grip on the porcelain and stare at my own reflection and refuse to make a sound.
Then his nose finally makes contact—just the faintest graze along the back of my thigh, almost nothing. Then he shifts higher, closer, more deliberate. Following the bottom curve of my ass cheek like he’s getting reacquainted with an old friend.
Something catches in my throat, soft and small. My eyes close for a fraction of a second, irritation flaring hot and immediate under my skin.
No. Absolutely not.
I force my breath to even out, loosen my grip on the sink, refuse to give him anything else.
He hums a little under his breath, his palms sliding up my outer thighs as his face slips underneath my dress, his nose sliding between my cheeks, his breath warming the path it leaves behind.
“You let my brothers here, sweetheart?” It’s a whispered, guttural sort of question, like he was fighting to keep it inside.
The tension stretches tighter between us, drawn thin as wire, every movement sharpened by the fact that neither of us is backing down.
“You tell me.” I shift my weight almost unconsciously, and the movement presses me back just an inch. Right into his face.
It’s enough.
“Fuck.” His breath catches behind me, sharper this time, less controlled. “You didn’t,” he breathes out, anger or something else tightening his words.
“How?" I ask lightly. I let my weight shift again, a slow, deliberate press backward that tests the space between us, that pushes just enough to make the line blur.
His head dips closer, and I feel it again—that measured proximity, the restrained contact that somehow feels more deliberate than anything else he could do. His fingertips flex into my skin, hard enough that I’ll be wearing his bruises tomorrow.
He doesn’t answer with words, just breathes out, his lips brushing against my cunt as he exhales.
And that’s when I know I’ve got him.
But I also kind of wish there wasn’t a scrap of fabric separating his mouth from my pussy right now, so I’m not sure that I necessarily won either.
That thought shouldn’t cross my mind. But it does anyway.
The door slams open.
“What the fuck am I looking at right now?” Lola’s voice cuts through the room. It slices straight through the tension before it has time to settle into anything more dangerous.
I turn at the same moment Bishop’s fingers press once—firm, fleeting—into my thigh before disappearing entirely. By the time I look back, he’s already leaned away, already pulled himself back into something controlled and distant, like none of it happened, like he wasn’t trying to inhale?—
I don’t let myself finish that thought.
I straighten slowly, smoothing my dress down over my hips, forcing my body back into something neutral, something unaffected, even as my pulse refuses to settle.
