by Hazel Grace
“Who said it was by accident?”
Emmy squints at me. “I do. We were drunk and—“
“And I was crushing on you for years.” I corner her literally between two walls so that she can’t excuse what I’m saying like she always has.
In Emmy Lou Rhodes’s mind, all I want to do is fuck her.
And even though that is perfectly true, I do hold very vigorous feelings for the woman I convinced to marry me.
Were we toasted, yeah, but I’d never change what we did, obviously because I won’t divorce her.
But I want fully committed and not the half-ass relationship that she wants to keep with me. It would mean that Emmy would have to be fully vulnerable to the things I can’t do with me opening up.
Something she and I just have a really hard time doing.
“What do you want me to say, Emmy? I’m a fuck up. I’m fucked up. My past is a lot of the reason why I can’t free up. I have a difficult time connecting and expressing shit. I’m not perfect, but I’d try if you’d let me.”
“You can’t even tell me how you feel right now.”
“I just did.”
“A crush, Bish, that’s high school shit.”
“Then I have active feelings for you, Rhodes, how’s that? I know what you want from me, but you won’t give either.” Her nostrils flare because Emmy has never told me she loved me either. We’re at a crossroads where both of us are still scared of the other.
“You told me to date.”
I nod. “I did.”
“And I have.”
“But you can’t fully move on without me now, can you?”
“You won’t let me.”
“Because I’m not ready to let you go.”
“That’s not fair,” she mutters. “You can’t keep me.”
“Don’t I already?”
She shoves against my chest, but I don’t move. “You’re an asshole. I’m not going to tell our closest friends that I married you when you can’t even tell me you love me.”
“Do you love me, Ems?”
“Why would—“
“See—“ I wag a finger at her. ”—you want me to say it first in case I never do. You never said it either. Why do you want to divorce me anyway? You’re not serious with anyone, and if I die, you get all my shit.”
“Seriously? You think that’s what this is about? I don’t want your shit.”
“You get my dog.”
“Fine, but what are you going to leave behind a Zippo lighter and your bow and arrow? The hell am I going to do with that?”
“Change your name to Robin Hood?”
“You are dumb. And see, we never get things situated. It lands on crap like this, and we…we just don’t work. I wanted us to, but…this is why you don’t get in relationships with your co-workers.”
“But we did. And here we are. And it’s your fortieth birthday, and I want—“
“I’m not forty!”
I smile. I can’t help it. I fucking love driving this woman absolutely insane.
Leaning forward, Emmy’s chin raises to follow my gaze.
I don’t say another word because my actions have always spoken louder anyway.
My tongue swipes against her lips before ours meet. She opens her mouth without question for me, and this is it—us.
Our feelings are like silent films that actively play out sentences in our heads as closed captions.
And I think Emmy loves me almost as much as I do her.
I also can’t blame her somewhat for not saying it either, but it doesn’t settle how I want it to in my chest. How we won’t give in. How we’re our own worse enemy, and we can’t muster the courage to break through and be the first to announce it.
Opening my door, I pull Emmy against me and step inside.
This woman is mine.
I just have to figure out what tomorrow means.
I’m in Bishop’s arms before the bedroom door even slams closed. My legs are comfortably wrapped around his body, right above his hips, as he kisses me like he can’t be another second without.
I melt into his hard chest as his tongue takes over, muddling what I’m attempting to do here.
I’m trying to find a way out of being in love with my husband. And Bishop’s lips are weapons of mass destruction against any means to do that.
My rationality stops working when we’re like this—memorized and enthralled in each other—because I crave us so badly that reality takes a seat in the trunk of my messy life.
Bishop anchors the both of us in the middle of the room where we’re each other’s lifelines and the only thing to hold on to from falling back into the rut of our relationship.
The only thing to touch, caress and breathe.
He gets me in ways that no one else has. And in others, he doesn’t.
The ones that yearn to be filled with love. To be aware that it exists in this world somewhere only for me. That it holds somewhere safe within his broody frame.
That it’s even possible.
Bishop’s meaty hand rakes through my hair and pulls, exposing my throat to the graze of his soft lips and wet tongue.
He sinks his teeth into my carotid artery just enough for me to feel the sharp edges, then lapses the marks with a soft brush of his unstable tongue.
“Fucking addicting as all shit,” he growls deeply into the crook of my neck. “I don’t know what to do with you, Emmy.”
I hum in agreement. I don’t know what he needs to do with me either.
Divorce me, don’t divorce me.
Put me out of my misery or love me like he’s going to lose me.
Bishop bends over and gently places me on the bed, never allowing our chests to break contact. His mouth moves over mine again, clamping onto my bottom lip and tugging teasingly down on it.
It’s enough for my eyes to flutter open to find him already regarding me.
The way his blue eyes glimmer into sentiments that sometimes I think get lodged in his throat.
I should accept him fully for who he is. Still, my heart yearns for absolution that he’s mine, truly and comprehensively without hesitation or a second thought.
I can’t force myself to bring my guard down because I recognize what’ll happen if he betrays me or doesn’t return the sentiment.
Our marriage is this blanket of lust and carnal itch for each other created with liquid courage, closeted emotions with excuses laced in between them.
I don’t know his reasoning on why he won’t go through with annulling our drunk night in Vegas, but I believe his pride is playing a role.
However, I can’t be that stupid to be aware of things going on from time to time between us and imagined them all.
I don’t think anyway.
Bishop’s callous palm glides down my left side and between my opened thighs. He’s not gentle when he begins yanking my panties down, needing me as much as he always does.
Finally separating our lips, he lowers himself, peppering kisses at my chin, collarbone, between my clothed breasts, and down to my stomach. My breathing becomes more haggard in anticipation and practically stops at his next words.
Almost.
“I’m a lucky bastard, and you’re so beautiful, Emmy.” His lips press to the inside of one of my legs. “Forty orgasms tonight?”
Fucking asshole.
“You’re giving away extras?” Bishop straightens his spine to remove the rest of the lace between my legs before peering down at me in all his shitheaded glory.
He’s stunningly gorgeous and divinely broken.
Always has been.
I believe I was in love with him way before his mentioned crush on me. Prior to us getting married and when sometimes I think I caught him watching me.
He’s not everything I’ve hoped for; he’s more.
He’s fearless in every aspect except love. He’s kind to those who deserve it. I’ve now seen the way he was with his niece and how he adapted to something that wasn’t B723. Bi
shop, in all his faults, tries. He makes an attempt, but for some reason, I hold him back.
And Camilla’s doings burns hot in my brain ever since I had the misfortune of meeting her. However, I understand it and him better.
“Your mind is running a mile a minute,” Bishop claims, getting me to focus on him. “It’s just me and you, Emmy.”
Me and you.
I wish it were. With all my heart, I hope Bishop and I could do it all.
“You need something to do?” He lifts a brow and runs his palms down from my knees to my calves. “I was going to make my queen come on my face.”
My fucking God, I wish he’d stopped talking to me like this.
He makes it more difficult. He creates hope in my soul. He causes my beating heart to have faith in our relationship to where it’ll blossom one day or another.
730 plus days later...still nothing.
“I’m okay,” I mutter through the thought and the fact that he said my.
I catch on to those little words. In fact, I grasp tightly and lock them away so they can never flee.
Bishop crawls back over me, our faces aligned together as he asks me, “What’s the matter? You’re freaking me out.”
I run my hands down the side of his face, wishing my love and admiration from him would seep into his veins, so I didn’t have to vocalize them. He’d just know. “Savoring the moment.”
“Silently?”
“You always said I talk too—“
“If there is a time I’d want you to let go with everything, this would be it. Unless—“ He leans in to nestle his face to the column of my neck again. “—you need me to do the talking.”
“What would you say?”
He flicks his tongue to run up my soft skin. “That every time I see you, I want to fuck you.” Another kiss to my carotid artery. “That you’re a never-ending fantasy that plays out in my head. And your ass in these dresses does nothing to help that.”
My fingers trail softly back and forth over his shoulder blades, hinting for him to go on. His talking so much is beginning to freak me out, but I encourage it more than anything.
“That I still always dream of getting you to shut up by shoving my cock in your mouth.” A scoff-chuckle sounds off my lips before I feel Bishop’s cock brush up against my hot core.
“You’ve done that before,” I claim.
“I need to do it more often. Now can I eat out my wife?”
“How about you fuck your wife.”
Bishop replies with a lick of his tongue and a strangled growl, nipping at a piece of my heated skin afterward. “You never have to ask me twice, baby.”
He reaches between us, working at his pants and boxers while kissing me breathless and brain-dead. Our past is a blur, my hurt feelings a distant memory when I’m consumed by this man who sucks the living soul out of my chest.
You know how Ariel from The Little Mermaid lost her voice to Ursula, and you could see it mindlessly floating through the air? That’s how Bishop seizes my beating heart and demands that piece of my soul that I desperately try to cling on to.
He’s ruined me.
My voice fucks up. I speak and bitch, but I submit every single damn time because I want it.
Him.
Us.
A future.
Love.
His battered heart.
The tip of his cock is suddenly at my heated entrance, and the paused suspense releases a small gasp in his mouth.
“You got maids and shit?”
My brows knit. “What?”
“I’m going to need them to bring in food and Gatorade because I’ve got you for a full day.”
“We’re in my parent’s house.”
“So?”
“Ew.” My chuckle turns into a full-on laugh as Bishop kisses the corners of my mouth to get me to shut up at his dumb ass comment before he slowly pushes inside of me.
“If I have to do it with your mommy and daddy downstairs, well then…” He adjusts himself so that all his weight isn’t on me. “You better be quiet, Ems.”
I arch my spine, wanting more of him filling me when he restricts me by placing a palm on my stomach. “Bishop.”
“Mhm?”
“Stop teasing me,” I mutter through a shaky exhale.
“Come get it then,” he replies softly, halting his movements altogether. “I’m here to make you fall apart like you do with me every time you stride around in your heels and sexy little outfits. I’m yours—“ My mouth clamors into his, punishing his words to shut the fuck up because it scares me.
I think if I ever hear him tell me that he loves me, I’ll die on the spot. My little heart won’t be able to take it. It’s held out for so long that it’s as if it’s been holding its last inhale for years, and when it finally releases itself, I’ll break. Everything will shatter like glass hitting the floor into a million pieces.
Bishop picks up his pace, capturing my lips, and I bite down on his to punish him for filling my head with dreams for years. He’s never promised me anything but forever in our generic wedding vows. I remember that specific word, but I’m not sure if he does.
I remember everything as most women do.
When I release Bishop’s lip, he opens his mouth wider for me to drive my tongue back inside. It’s a battle of will and need.
Bishop sinks in and out of me, out of rhythm and not giving a shit. We’re joined wherever we can, clinging to an idea and a fear that we’ll be the ultimate death of each other.
Our sweaty foreheads touch as do our hot breathes mingling together. Bishop pulls away from my face, locking his blue eyes with mine, sending me a silent message I can’t decipher right now. My brain can only latch on and focus on this.
Especially when his pelvis is grazing my clit as he drives unforgivingly inside me. This is desperate and a long time coming.
This is pure need.
These are the words we’re both too stubborn to let be said.
His weight on top of me is comfort and pure alpha male that makes me feel safe and not a mistake.
Not when it’s like this, it can’t be.
This feels too good.
Too right.
Too fucked up that we’d never be any more than this.
Bishop falls back to my mouth, craving more, the silence being his reassuring friend and the fervor that creates between us.
“Bishop,” I whimper through deep kisses and nips of his mouth.
“You start, baby—” He lapses his tongue against mine again, driving me absolutely fucking insane. “—I’ll finish.”
I do, crumbling underneath him and uttering his name like it’s a prayer that was finally answered, full of relief and contentment when he falls down the same hole I did.
His voice, my name, him, in general, makes me want to go again right off the bat.
“Emmy Lou Rhodes,” he pants, landing on his side and pulling me to face him.
“Mhm?” He reaches up and brushes a piece of my hair from my eyes, and shakes his head.
All the words he was about to say lost.
We look like those badass groups out of a movie—minus the slow walking—and into a perfectly decorated and elaborate party.
I feel all eyes on us as we walk inside, my second fam flanking me on all sides, with no one none the wiser.
We’re here to crash this event.
With Blue inconveniently at my right side in the beautiful off-white dress that I picked out for her, so she didn’t waltz in looking like a stripper, and the boys striding behind us, we enter William Wamkin’s North Hampton party.
AKA Willy Wonka.
William runs the Pittsburgh circuit of drug deals and dabbles in prostitution. Bubba was under his payroll and pretty high up the chain. Bishop wants to keep his family safe.
So, safe they shall be.
I pivot around to examine my guys in their part to blend in tonight. Marty is dressed in a light gray suit vest with a white dress shirt underneath a
nd dark jeans—he hates it.
Mills is always fun and open. He’s done up in a burgundy suit and tie with his own personal touch of white sneakers. Kyson is wearing a hunter-green ensemble. He’s already taken the coat off and casually has it over his shoulder. I was scared that he’d resemble a Christmas ornament with his red hair, but he looks fantastic.
And then Bishop.
Attired in all black everything, he materialized like Hades coming for the hearts and souls of anyone and everyone.
“You all look great,” I tell them before I turn my eyes into slits. “Now behave.”
“This plan is stupid,” Marty mutters, already tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Let’s take the little prick and go.”
“Sure,” Mills states. “We’ll just pick him up like a frat boy and throw him over our shoulder. I’m confident no one will ask questions on our way out.”
“Why don’t you go entertain someone with your Purple People Eater costume and leave the work to the grown-ups,” Marty shoots back.
“Enough,” I snap in a low whisper. “I swear to God you all are annoying as fuck.”
“I’ll babysit Mills. Kyson, go with Marty,” Blue chimes in, still at my side. “We’ll take the side office that I saw while walking in. See if we can find a laptop or something.”
“Be careful,” Kyson conveys as Blue grabs Mills’s forearm. “We all need a story of why we’re wandering the fuck off from the party. Make sure you have them straight.”
“You hear that, Mills?” Marty quips. “A story is where—“
“C’mon,” Kyson chides, knocking into his shoulder. “Quit being a jerkoff.”
Marty doesn’t say another word, following Ky in the crowd of waitresses with trays of appetizers and entitled assholes. Blue does the same with Mills, and then there was two. The man who scowls, barks, and growls like a starved dog.
Except for last night.
Those growls were all because he was losing his shit while fucking your brains out.
“I guess it’s just me and you, Em,” he emits, closing a step between us. “And you came dressed to kill, didn’t you?” I try to fight back a blush by thinking of something else but fall short. It only causes Bishop’s lips to tug upward.
“The dress was collecting dust,” I reply, while his eyes appreciate my red gown. It embraces every single one of my curves, especially the attribute that Bishop talks about most—my ass. “Let’s take a walk around.”