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.

“Ah!” I fist his hair and shove his face farther into my neck, sort of like what I’ve seen Lainey do with Kody when he was a baby and decided to use her nipple as a chew toy. It seems to have the desired effect. Bishop releases me from his teeth. I have to pry his fingers loose from my hips.

“No, don’t!” He tries to prevent me from clambering out of his lap, but his face is contorted into a grimace of pain.

I wriggle free and scramble to the other side of the couch. As soon as I’m no longer grinding my lady parts on his junk, he cups himself, then slams his head against the couch cushions a couple of times while he continues to groan and swear. “I just want some goddamn friction! Is that too much to ask for?”

“I don’t think you’re ready for friction.” I’m all pitchy and breathless.

He rolls his head toward me, gaze moving over me in a hot, angry sweep. “I managed to whack off in the shower yesterday. It didn’t feel awesome, but at least I got a little relief.” He jabs an annoyed hand toward the obvious bulge behind his hand. “This is damn well torture.” He’s still cupping himself protectively—as if he’s worried I’m going to spontaneously hump him. He was the one who pulled me into his lap, not the other way around.

“It’s probably divine intervention or something.” I avert my gaze before I can do something even stupider than trying to make out with him, like offering him a handy or a blow job to take the edge off.

He opens his mouth to respond, but his phone buzzes on the coffee table and his brother’s name flashes across the screen. At the same time mine flashes with a new message. Thank God for poorly timed interruptions. I pick up my phone, even though the message is from Joey, which I’m not at all interested in checking. But at least now I’m not staring at Bishop’s bulge. I can feel his eyes on me as he reaches for his phone.