Page 9 of Rose and the Grouch Next Door

After forcing down my atrocious dinner, I help Rose with the dishes, deliberately crowding her near the sink just to be near her. By the way her breath quickens and her continuous rambling, I’m pretty sure she’s as flustered by me as I am by her.

Scrambling to think of a way to keep her with me a little longer without sounding like a needy creep, I ask, “Would you like to join me for a glass of wine, Rose?’

Her eyes widen and she gulps. “Sure. I need to check on Honeybun soon or he’ll come looking for me.”

I don’t doubt he would. The dog has no boundaries.

I grab a bottle of my favorite wine and glasses, indicating the large sofa in the living room. She sits on the edge, one hand nervously playing with her long blonde hair and curls that fall almost to her waist.

Being the ass that I am, I ignore the rest of the sofa and sit next to her, so close our thighs are touching. She draws in a surprisedgasp as our hands graze when I hand her the glass of wine. Mutual attraction sparks between us.

“So, um, tell me about your work as an author. That sounds exciting, to be so famous and have millions of people reading your novels, waiting for your next work.”

“Not so much. I prefer my privacy.” I respond tersely, taking a sip of the wine, then soften my tone. “I write because I enjoy putting words to paper, not because I want to sell millions of copies. Although that’s a nice bonus.” I’m leaning back on the couch, one arm stretched out behind her, desperately wanting to sink my fingers into her soft curls and play with them.

“No offense, but I don’t read thriller novels or watch your character’s movies. I get way too anxious and worked up. I’m more of a smutty romance gal. Lots of steamy love scenes.” She winks at me as she shares that nugget of information and my pulse jumps with erotic thoughts of her reading words that turn her on. Immediately, I know I need to get my hands on those books. See for myself what she likes. What turns her on? What makes sweet Rose tempted to touch herself beneath her covers at night? The idea of Rose getting herself off is too much, and I shift as I feel my cock come to life, not wanting her to be freaked out by the creepy old guy with the hard on.

Her genuine interest and disarming smile soon thaw my standoffish attitude and have me sharing my worry over my writing slump, something I’ve not shared with my publisher or family, save my brother. She’s easy to talk to and is hanging on to every word. I’ve never had this easy back and forth with a member of the opposite sex. Most females I associate with are obvious in their intentions to bed me and get their hands on my money. No one has ever shown an interest in my actual writing.

The desire to kiss Rose, hell, to spread her out on my couch, exposing her creamy curves and claim her as mine is soon too much to bear. The longing for this sweet young girl has a pull Ican’t deny. It makes my cock thrum with each heartbeat and it’s becoming unbearable.

“And so then Honeybun decided he wanted to go into the grocery store. I think he was just really fascinated by the automatic doors opening and closing. But the manager called and said…”

I know she’s talking; I can see her plump pink lips moving, but I don’t hear a word of her Honeybun story. All I can imagine is kissing those lips and making her moan in pleasure. I shouldn’t want her. I tried to stay away, knowing I can’t be with her. She’s too young for me.

For fuck’s sake, I’mtoo oldfor her. An old, cynical antisocial writer who doesn’t deserve her light or her contagious joy. Selfishly, I’m consumed by her, and I know my resistance is crumbling the longer I’m watching her, entranced by her.

To hell with it.

In a sudden movement, I slam my glass down, sloshing wine on the coffee table in front of us, the echo ricocheting off the walls.

“The manager says his customers love my baby, but…” She jumps at the sound of my glass hitting the table and whatever she’s saying is cut off as she yelps, shocked.

My hands reach for her, placing one on the side of her face and the other behind her neck. I pull her against me, loving the feel of her softness against my hard body. Rose gasps in surprise and anticipation as I thread my fingers through her long, silken strands and take her soft lips. Lips I’ve been craving to taste in a fervent kiss that is both hot and sensual. Our tongues tangle, me dominating her mouth, tasting it with a savage intensity.

Her pert, round breasts press against my chest, stirring a raw, primal desire within me. It’s obvious Rose is innocent, but she isn’t passive. Her nails are digging into my back through myshirt, not enough to hurt, but enough to know my girl is full of wild need. Her trembling hands are clinging to me.

This isn’t about just physical attraction, it’s about the irresistible pull we’ve been feeling all evening. One that started that hot morning of Honeybun’s dip in my pool.

It may have started there, but it’s going to end with my mouth on her pussy. To hell with all my good intentions: my work, our age difference, her innocence. Tonight, she’s mine.

Chapter Seven

Rose

His palms glide along my curves like a sculptor memorizing his creation while my fingers tug at his hair, silently asking for more. I need more of Braxton. Our lust-fueled dance intensifies until it’s not just about physical contact anymore; it’s about tasting desire and hunger on each other’s breaths and drinking in the delicious agony of needing to be connected.

I’ve never felt this way. No one has ever kissed me with such possessiveness, ownership. Sure, I had first and second-base kissing in high school and with a couple of local boys at parties, but nothing has prepared me for Braxton’s kiss. His is the kiss of a man. A passionate, older man who knows what he wants.

He pulls from our kiss to graze his mouth along the tendons of my neck, hovering at the base of my throat, licking me there, then sucking softly. He can surely feel my racing heartbeat.

“Fuck, Rose,” he growls, continuing to explore and nibble at my neck, sending goosebumps all over and my inner core to clench. “You taste so sweet. I need more of you. Of your taste, your moans. You’re like a damn drug for me.”

I whimper as he gently slides the strings of my sundress down each arm, exposing my generous breasts to his heated gaze. I should be embarrassed, exposing myself like this, something I’ve never done with anyone. But I feel safe with Braxton.

Skimming both hands over the sides of my breasts to cup them, he then kisses, sucking on the tip of each with a gentle tug, rolling the tender buds in his fingers. He makes sure to shower them equally with attention, causing me to whimper again with need. I can feel how wet and desperate I am for this man.

“Shhhh, sweet girl, I’m going to make you fall apart for me.” He gives one nipple a slight pinch, making me cry out, then soothes it with his tongue. Pushing me gently to fall back on the couch, he moves above me, one hand on my thigh, just beneath the hem of my dress. His other hand is propping himself above me to look into my eyes.

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