Within moments, I was rocking against him of my own accord as his moans sent vibrations through every nerve ending.

It might have been the fastest orgasm in the history of orgasms. Maybe that was the magic of the beard?

I’d certainly never look at it the same again.

“Bishop!” I screamed his name, my fingers going numb as I squeezed the top of the headboard.

He didn’t stop until I’d come a second time. My head fell forward, hanging between my limp arms.

Bishop shifted me off his face. “We’re definitely adding that to the regular menu. The way you rode my face, so fucking sexy.”

I flopped to the side and heaved in a breath and released it, hoping more oxygen would slow my rapid heartbeat.

“You okay?”

I tilted my head sideways just far enough to see his face. “I’ll let you know in a few minutes.”

His chuckle filled the room.

After several long minutes, my heart rate and breathing approached normal, and Bishop rolled out of bed and stood.

“I’m going to clean up, and then it’s time to feed you.”

“I could be on board with that,” I replied just as my stomach growled.

When he returned from the bathroom, he came around the bed and lifted me into his arms. Once in the kitchen, he deposited me on a stool.

“You sit. I’ll cook.”

“I was that terrible of a kitchen assistant, huh?”

“You weren’t terrible at all. But I’ve got it from here.” Bishop turned to the stove and fired up the burner before pouring oil into the pan.

“How did you learn to cook?” I asked, mostly because it stopped me from asking the question I really wanted to voice. How did you get so good at whatever the hell you just did to me?

Bishop shrugged as he let the oil coat the surface. “Probably like anyone. I need to eat, so I cook.”

I couldn’t imagine that there weren’t a lot of women who’d happily cook for him. “I bet you could’ve gotten all the girls throwing themselves at you in the tattoo shop to do it for you. Like a casserole schedule when someone’s sick? Everyone could have had their allotted day and they’d show up with food.”

Bishop turned and held up a spatula. “Oh, so now you’re a comedian? I’ll turn that tight little ass of yours red with this if you even think about suggesting that again.”

The heat that raged through my body at his response shocked me. Maybe I wouldn’t mind that kind of thing? One of Bishop’s eyebrows went up, and I knew he didn’t miss my reaction. Curiosity and a hint of daring invaded his grin.

When he moved back to the pan and tossed the veggies in, I couldn’t help but continue. Maybe it was my insecurity that I’d never be enough for a guy like Bishop? I’d seen the girls who threw themselves at him, and I didn’t exactly have a whole lot in common with them. Basically, my boobs were real, my ass wasn’t perky, and I covered a lot more skin when I went out in public.

“They’d probably put all sorts of voodoo in those dishes, anyway. Love potions so you’d succumb to them.”

Bishop grunted as he stirred the vegetables in the pan. “More likely aphrodisiacs over love potions. They don’t want love. They just want a ride.”

I begged to differ, although he had to be right about wanting a ride. Just the thought of him giving some other woman a ride made my stomach twist into knots. But before I skipped off down the green jealousy brick road, I considered his words. They said a lot more than he probably intended. How could this man—this kind, sweet, and thoughtful man—think that’s all he was good for? He was wrong.

“I’m sure they’d rather keep you.”

Bishop fit the lid onto the pan before turning around to face me. “You want anything to drink? Water? Beer? Liquor? I don’t have any wine or shit like that.”

“Water would be great. I’m thinking I’ll give it a few more days before I go back to drinking. My tolerance isn’t exactly the greatest, anyway. I rarely drank at home. Maybe a glass of wine when I took a bath, but nothing extreme.”

He snagged a bottle of water from the fridge and set it on the counter in front of me.

See? Thoughtful.

“There’s nothing wrong with laying off the alcohol, especially if you’re alone.”

“You getting sick of rescuing me, Bishop?” I tried for flirty, but his face lost all traces of humor.

“Never.”

The word hung between us as I met his green gaze.

I wished it could be true, but there was definitely a time limit on whatever was happening here.

I had to keep reminding myself of that while I watched Bishop cook and tried to figure him out. He didn’t fit into any of the boxes I stuck him in. He was the epitome of tatted-up badass, and yet he was making us food and it sounded like he thought the women who were after him only wanted him for sex.

Was he insane? The man—whose hair was still tied up in a knot on the back of his head while I was dying to get my hands in it—didn’t understand his appeal went far beyond the physical. Given his ripped body, drool-worthy hair and beard, and epic cool factor, I would have expected him to be cocky and convinced that he was God’s gift to women. But that wasn’t it at all. Bottom line, he was a good man who didn’t seem to be aware of his worth.

I opened my mouth to ask him a question about his background, but he beat me to it.

“Have you made a list of all the things you want to do in New Orleans? You seem like a list kind of girl.”

If he only knew how many lists of things I’d left hanging on my bulletin board in New York, he’d laugh. But I couldn’t tell him about that.

Instead, I thought about what was typed on the paper folded up in my purse.

Eat crawfish

Learn to say something in Cajun

Drink a hurricane at Pat O’Brien’s

Catch beads on Bourbon Street (without showing my boobs)

Play a hand of blackjack at Harrah’s

Watch a Mardi Gras parade

See Lafayette Cemetery

Eat beignets at Café du Monde

At least I’d crossed off a couple things on the list. Every time I’d been on Bourbon Street, I’d been more worried about getting where I was going, or following Bishop, so I’d forgotten to try to get beads.

I wondered what he’d say if I told him that . . .