Page 171 of Playing With Fire

That’s the first problem. The second is that I’m wearing his T-shirt. The third is the slow, brutal return of everything I did last night—a lovely little montage of humiliation, set to the sound of my heartbeat in my aching brain.

I keep my eyes closed and breathe through the pounding behind them.

His SUV.

My knees on either side of his thighs.

His hands gripping my hips.

You have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me.

Then show me.

My mouth almost touching his. A few times.

And—

No. Please no.

I got myself off on his lap, then threw up while he held my hair.

New level of embarrassment unlocked. I groan and bury my face in his pillow.

Bad idea, because it smells like him. Clean soap and cedar surround me, embedded in the sheets and pillowcase and stupidly soft comforter. His shirt carries it too, warmed now by my skin.

Nothing happened.

I know nothing happened. My panties are still on, Bishop isn’t beside me, and other than my headache and the lingering taste of toothpaste in my mouth, my body feels exactly the way it did yesterday.

Which should be reassuring. Instead, lying in his bed wearing his shirt, I’m embarrassingly disappointed.

Thankfully the floor to ceiling windows are covered in dark shades blocking out any light trying to blind me in my current state.

I force myself upright, and my stomach stays where it belongs. Progress.

Cold hardwood meets my bare feet when I venture down the stairs. Darcy is nowhere in sight. The penthouse is silent except for rhythmic sounds coming from somewhere downstairs.

A mechanical rush. Pause, followed by another rush. The sound gets louder as I pass the kitchen. It’s coming from the room at the end of the hall.

I’ve peeked into Bishop’s home gym before, but never actually seen him working out. Thank freak for that. Because things would have escalated way sooner than last night.

He’s on the rowing machine with his back to me, ear buds in, shirtless, pulling the handle toward his abdomen in smooth, powerful strokes.

Sweat gleams across his broad shoulders. Muscles tighten beneath his skin with every punishing pull. Forget abs, his back is a work of art.

His blond hair is damp, and the black athletic shorts riding low on his hips are doing absolutely nothing helpful for my current situation.

I need to get laid.

Not by Bishop, obviously, because a girl can only take so much rejection. Preferably someone who doesn’t have twenty years of history with my family and a pathological commitment to doing the right thing.

Unfortunately, my body appears to have developed very specific hiring criteria.

Bishop glances toward the doorway: the handle jerks and his rhythm breaks.

Well that’s interesting.

He pulls one earbud free. “Morning.”