Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 133180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“You make me crazy,” Bishop whispered.
Edison pressed his hands flat against Bishop’s chest. When he finally found his voice, it sounded husky as he said, “You’re right. We need to slow…” Edison breathed through the pleasure as Bishop nipped his earlobe. “S-slow down.”
“Okay,” Bishop said, still holding on.
“Are you hungry?” Edison asked.
“Fuckin’ starved,” Bishop rumbled.
Edison trembled and Bishop reacted by squeezing his back. “Damn, baby.”
“Unnh,” Edison moaned. Bishop’s bad mouth turned him on just as much as his touch did.
Bishop kissed him once more, then used his firm grip to hold Edison still while he pulled away. “I’m gonna do the weeds against the house while you…”
“Cook,” Edison finished breathily. “I was gonna cook.”
Bishop nodded as he kept putting some much-needed air between them. The room was sparking with their energy, and if Bishop hadn’t stopped when he did, then they would’ve ended up starting a fire that neither of them could extinguish. “What are you making?”
Edison pried himself off the glass door when Bishop was at a safe distance. He went into his kitchen, eyeing Bishop playfully. “I’m not telling. You’ll see when I put it on your plate.”
Bishop laughed, and Edison realized how much he liked the sound. It wasn’t loud or rambunctious. It was simply a rumbling of his deep tenor. Even Bishop seemed a bit startled by it as he watched Edison with curiosity before he flicked on the patio lights, and left through the door.
~
Bishop
Bishop had somehow let Edison Scala work his way into his soul, touching him in a place no one had before. He wasn’t used to laughing and teasing. It wasn’t even how he’d been raised. He’d been taught to be tough, street smart, and show no fears or weaknesses. Anytime he’d shown emotion it had been used against him or beat out of him. But Edison made him feel so special, cherished, made him feel as if he’d missed out on the important things in life, like smiling, eating well, and having healthy relationships. He may have never experienced such wholesome goodness before, but he could recognize it, and Edison had it in abundance. Bishop wanted to be deserving of it. Which meant he couldn’t make this a physical thing. He’d tried that way all his life and obviously it didn’t work because he’d been attracting the wrong kind of men.
Bishop lost himself in the rhythm of his work. He’d pull some weeds, drop some granules into the soil, turn it over, then move a few feet down the row. He was almost to the end of the row when the scent of herbs and garlic made his stomach growl. He found himself grinning again, his jaws feeling strange as he put away his few tools. He was at Edison’s back door with his duffle bag hooked on his shoulder as he stopped and watched him move around in his neat kitchen.
Everything had its own place. While there were a couple pots steaming on the stovetop, there wasn’t a drop of sauce or smeared butter on any of the marble surfaces. Anytime he or Mike tried to cook, there was usually a disaster to clean up afterward. Edison had his back to him, as he mixed a light-colored dressing into a large salad bowl. Every now and then Edison would wipe his fingertips on the dark blue dishtowel resting on his shoulder like the professionals did. He had an amazing view of Edison’s plump ass when he bent over to check whatever was baking in the oven.
“Smells good,” Bishop said when he’d looked his fill.
Edison spun around, surprised to see Bishop standing there. “Hey. I was just about to come get you. Dinner’s ready.”
“Smells like spaghetti.” Bishop smirked. “And garlic bread.”
“Wrong and correct,” Edison teased. “I made stuffed shells with garlic bread. It’s my Aunt Carlotta’s recipe. I hope you like Italian. Probably would’ve been smarter to ask you that before I made it.”
“I love Italian, but never had stuffed shells,” Bishop admitted. “But if you made it… I’m sure I’ll love it.”
Edison started placing the dishes on the table. “The bathroom is at the end of the hall, if you’re ready to get cleaned up. There’s towels and washcloths on the shelves to the right of the sink.”
“Thanks.” Bishop was already moving in that direction. It was dark out, which meant he didn’t have long to enjoy Edison’s company before he needed to leave. They both had jobs to get to in the morning.
He was mindful not to make a mess in Edison’s nice guest bathroom as he scrubbed the dirt from his body. The walls were a sea-foam green and decorated with dark gray and silver framed photos of the beach. He stepped out of the hot shower onto the plush bathmat and quickly dried himself off. The smells of dinner had made their way down the hall, and his stomach was caving in on itself he was so hungry. He hadn’t eaten since the couple of thin sandwiches he’d had for lunch. Bishop used his towel to wipe away any damp spots then placed his used towels in the hamper. He added deodorant, but no cologne as he planned to sit beside Edison this time, instead of across from him.