A Favor for a Favor (All In 2)

“Swallow it, Shippy.”

He narrows his eyes and chews faster, his throat bobs, and he reaches around me for his beer, guzzling what’s left in the bottle. “Nasty.”

“It’s better when it’s hot.”

“I would rather eat a dirty, sweaty pussy than take another bite of that disgusting combination of toppings.” He shoves half his slice of all-meat-and-cheese pizza into his mouth, presumably to cover the olive-pineapple taste he’s not so fond of.

“I haven’t showered since yesterday, so I have one of those if you feel like dessert.” I slap a palm over my mouth. “Oh my God. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

A slow smirk spreads across Bishop’s face. “First you tell me you’re a swallower, and then you offer me up your pussy for dessert? When I’m ninety years old and senile, I’ll still remember this conversation.”

I roll my eyes to hide my embarrassment and the fact that I’m now thinking about what it would be like to have Bishop’s face between my thighs. “I was being sarcastic about my filthy lady bits, obviously. The lack of showering was for Joey’s benefit and meant as a deterrent.” I motion to my messy bun. “It looks like I styled my hair with bacon grease.”

Bishop takes me off guard when he wraps his wide, warm palm around the back of my neck and pulls me closer. He drops his head, and I feel his lips at my temple and his nose above my ear.

He inhales deeply. “Smells fruity to me.” His rough stubble scrapes against my cheek, and I’m pretty sure it’s his lips skimming my throat as he tips my head to the side.

“What’re you—” I suck in a breath when I feel the warm wet swipe of his tongue along the underside of my jaw.

“Taste pretty fucking good to me too,” he murmurs.

I don’t know what’s happening here. I can’t breathe, or move, or think beyond the feel of Bishop’s palm wrapped around the back of my neck and his warm breath on my skin.

This is a bad idea for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that we both have to keep our relationship professional. It’s a layer of complication that didn’t exist before.

I put a palm on the closest part of his body to steady myself. It happens to be his thigh: his very muscular, thick thigh.

“Bishop.” The breathy half moan tells us both more than I mean for it to. Despite knowing how much trouble this could cause, my unshowered lady bits are hella excited.

He bites the edge of my jaw and groans. I adjust my palm on his thigh so I don’t fall forward, and my fingertips graze the hem of his ridiculously short running shorts. His lips keep moving, teeth nipping as he closes in on my chin.

He mumbles something against my skin, and suddenly his hands are on my hips. A second later I’m straddling his thighs. I am so glad I lost the sweats when we started the rehab session, post-Joey defecting. I grab his shoulders to steady myself and to prevent him from taking the brunt of my weight, but Bishop seems to have other ideas.

He pulls me down so my ass rests on his thighs, despite my protest. He makes a sound that seems a lot like a growl mixed with a grunt and raises his hips at the same time as he pulls me forward.

And I feel him, all of him, hard and thick and right damn well there. The natural reaction is to roll my hips, because I want to create glorious friction that isn’t a result of me and my hands and my trusty vibrator. I have a huge, well-built, incredibly hot, and obviously horny man between my legs. Every thought I had about this being a seriously bad idea evaporates with the first slow, purposeful grind.

Bishop makes a choked sound and bites the edge of my jaw, a lot harder than I anticipate.

I gasp, then groan as I roll my hips again. “God, that feels so good.” I run my fingers through his hair, enjoying the satiny slide of the strands as I grip them. My intention is to tip his head back so I can find out what his mouth feels like on mine while we dry fuck each other.

Bishop’s fingers flex on my waist, and his next groan is followed by a string of profanities.

I freeze and he drops his head, face pressed against the side of my neck. He growls a low Fuck against my skin. As much as I want to indulge in another hip roll—because I am thoroughly enjoying the feel of his cock rubbing on me, even through the layers of cotton and Lycra—I am once again reminded this isn’t a great idea.

Bishop lifts his hips a couple of inches, and this time the noise that comes out of him is familiar. If there’s one sound I recognize, it’s him in pain. “Goddamn mother-humping shit!” His lips part, and I feel the wet swipe of his tongue and the sharp press of his teeth before he sucks my skin, hard.