Chapter 4
BISHOP
Iknew it the first time I saw her.
One look at her—those careful eyes, the way she held her shoulders like the world might ask her to prove something—and I was done. Finished. The rest of my life clicked into place around her like a compass needle settling on true north.
I didn't say it then. I just let the certainty settle into my bones. Some things you don't announce. You just live them.
And now she was here with me in the raft, fireflies rising all around us like the river itself was exhaling light, and she was saying she'd never been with anyone. Never.
The words should have changed things. Instead, they only made the ache in my chest sharper, sweeter. She trusted me with that. With her.
She leaned in first.
Our mouths met…soft, then not soft at all—heat and hunger and twenty-four hours of wanting compressed into one kiss. She tasted like river air and coffee and something underneath both that was just her.
I cupped the back of her neck, thumb brushing the fine hair at her nape, and she made this little sound that went straight through me. I wanted to swallow every sound she'd ever make.
Her hands moved to the hem of her shirt. She broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over her head and toss it toward the bank. It landed in the grasses with a soft rustle. Then she reached behind her back, unhooked her bra, and let that fall too.
The fireflies drifted around her bare skin, painting her in tiny pulses of gold. I couldn't breathe.
She started to stand.
I caught her hips. "Not yet," I said, voice rough. "Not safe."
I slipped over the side into the shallows first, the cool water rising to my calves. The bottom was firm, sandy. I pulled the raft snug against the bank, tying the bow line to a half-submerged root so it wouldn't drift. Then I reached for her.
She took my hand and stepped out. Her water shoes found the soft ground—river oats bending under us, bee balm brushing her legs, its faint spicy scent rising with every step.
I kept one arm around her waist as we climbed the steep little bank to the flatter shelf where the hemlocks used to stand.
The earth was warm from the day, cushioned with grass and wildflowers.
Private. Ours.
I turned her to me and kissed her again, deeper this time, my hands sliding down the smooth line of her back.
She tugged at my shirt. I helped her, yanking it off one-handed and dropping it beside us.
Her fingers traced my chest like she was memorizing me.
I lowered her gently to the ground, settling her on her back in the soft grass.
I worked my way down her body, kissing her ribs, her stomach, the inside of her hip.
When I reached the edge of her shorts, I slid them down her legs, taking my time.
Then I hooked my fingers under the crotch of her panties, eased them aside, and touched her first—slow, careful—before slipping one finger inside her.
She gasped, hips lifting.
I leaned in and flicked my tongue over her clit, gentle at first, then firmer when her fingers threaded into my hair. She was wet, warm, perfect. I licked and sucked until her thighs started to tremble. Only then did I ease her panties all the way off so I could taste all of her.
I worked her with my mouth until she came apart under me—gasping, moaning my name like a prayer, fireflies flickering above us in the dark.
I moved up her body, kissing as I went. When I hovered over her, she pressed a hand to my chest.
"Wait," she whispered.
I stopped instantly, holding myself above her. "I'm clean," I said, voice low. "We can go back to my place right now if you want. I've got condoms. Whatever you need."
She shook her head, eyes shining in the firefly light. "I'm on birth control."
Something broke open in my chest—not breaking apart, breaking through. For the first time in my life, the thought of getting a woman pregnant didn't scare me—it filled me with a wild, certain joy.
I wanted to fill her. I wanted to watch her belly grow with our child. I wanted every tomorrow with her.
That was how I knew she was the one I'd spend the rest of my life loving.
I tugged my shorts and underwear down. I was aching, hard, ready. I positioned myself at her entrance, the head of me just kissing her slick heat, and the first brush of her wetness against me made my breath catch.
She was a virgin. The knowledge made me careful, reverent. I moved slowly, so slowly, circling my thumb over her clit as I eased inside her inch by inch.
God, she was tight—gripping me in a way that made it hard to think.
She was so wet her clit was slippery under my thumb, swollen and slick, and every little circle I made drew another broken sound from her throat.
Her eyes closed and she sighed, the sound turning into a soft, shaky moan as her body opened around me.
"Look at you," I whispered against her mouth. "God, Breanna. Look at you."
She whimpered, hips shifting, and her hands slid up my back, nails digging in just enough to make me groan. Then her legs wrapped around my waist, heels pressing into the small of my back, pulling me deeper.
She writhed beneath me, back arching, flushed and glowing in the pulsing gold light. The sight of her like that nearly undid me right there.
I kept that steady rhythm, thumb working her slippery clit in tight, slick circles while I sank a little deeper each time. She was taking me so well, her body drawing me in. For us.
Her moans grew louder, breathier—little gasps turning into desperate cries that mixed with the river's murmur and the soft rustle of the grasses. "Bishop—oh God—"
"There you go," I murmured against her throat. "Don't hold back. I've got you."
She did. Her whole body tightened, legs locking harder around me, pulling me all the way in as she came—pulsing in long, rhythmic waves around me, so tight and wet and perfect it stole my breath.
Her body shuddered against mine, and the sounds she made—raw, needy, mine—pushed me right over the edge with her.
I buried myself deep and came hard, spilling inside her with a groan that I felt in every part of me, every pulse of my release matched by the way her body milked me. The fireflies kept drifting overhead, and for one perfect moment, the whole world narrowed to nothing but her.
We were still tangled together, breathing hard, when we heard voices downstream—low, laughing, someone paddling in the dark.
Her eyes flew open in panic. "My shirt—my bra—they're right by the raft. Anyone who comes around the bend will see them."
I kissed her once, hard and fast, because I couldn't help it. Then I rolled off her, yanked on my shorts, and stood.
"I've got them," I said, already moving down the bank toward the water and her scattered clothes. "Stay right there, Breanna. I'm coming back for you."
And I would. Always.