Page 78 of Roses in Summer

“Tell me you feel it, Seraphina.”

“It’s hard not to,” she squeaks, shifting against my cock and moaning. I don’t know if it’s the feel of her or the way her voice sounds wrapped up in pleasure, but I’m two seconds away from saying “fuck it” and—

Shaking my head, I expel the lust from my mind and lower her to the ground before stepping back and holding up my hands, like if she gets too close, I can’t be responsible for what happens.

“We need to leave. Now.”

She remains silent this time, nodding her head rapidly as she flies around the basement, quickly shoving papers in boxes and turning off the machines.

“Okay,” she croaks out, breathless and slightly disheveled. “I’m all set.”

Nodding, I grab her bag and gesture for her to lead the way, following behind as she climbs the stairs to the first floor.

I could have helped her fix her hair and straighten her clothes. And I definitely could have wiped the sticky lip gloss I felt on my lips after I attacked her mouth. But I don’t.

I don’t know who the fuck comes into the library, but I want everyone to know that Seraphina Rose Gregori is mine.

I’ll wear the remnants of her makeup as a badge of honor, a sign to show other people to stay the fuck away.

29

Lincoln

Admittedly, I’m not the best sleeper; I don’t have a routine that helps me decompress or a trick to get me to fall asleep instantly. But once I’m asleep, my body transforms into the living dead. I don’t move, don’t speak or snore or make a single damn noise. It’s not fitful, nor is it light.

No, I’m a deep, heavy sleeper. And last night, after seeing Seraphina and having her lips pressed to mine, for once, I fell asleep quickly with the thoughts of her playing in my head.

And that’s why, with my arguably elicit dream staring Seraphina Rose Gregori, I don’t want to wake up at eight on a Saturday morning. I especially don’t want to wake up to the shrill sound of my ex-girlfriend as she tries to bust my apartment door open. And I don’t want to hear her throwing her body against said apartment door in an attempt to break the chain lock I recently installed. How she is even up, when she never woke early during our entire relationship, is another mystery.

“Lincoln, what’s going on? Why is there a new lock here? Let me into this goddamn apartment.”

Part of me—okay, most of me—wants to put my pillow over my head and either suffocate myself or go back to sleep in an effort to pretend this is just a nightmare. But the responsible part, who doesn’t want the super to issue me a noise complaint for Gemma’s early wake-up call, wins out. So, instead of dreaming of my little thorn bouncing on my cock and imagining how fucking good that would feel, I’m throwing on sweatpants and a T-shirt to let Gemma into the apartment we once shared.

Unhooking the chain, I yank open the door. “What are you doing here, Gemma?” My voice is tired, a testament to the fact I just fucking woke up.

“Finally. I’ve been trying to get in for twenty minutes.” Gemma shakes her head as she enters, bags hanging from her arms that she unceremoniously drops to the floor. “Did you make breakfast yet? I’m dying to go to that little café in Midtown, which I know is not a great neighborhood, but they say the vibes are incredible.”

I have no idea how I must look, my jaw slack as I hold onto the door I just opened while Gemma rambles on like the past few weeks never happened. Shaking my head to make sure I’m not hallucinating, I release the door and let it fall shut. “Gemma, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but why the fuck are you here?”

Maybe it’s my sharp tone, or perhaps it’s my words that cause Gemma to spin around, a look of annoyance plastered on her face. “What do you mean ‘why am I here?’ You’re my boyfriend, or did you forget?” She raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms like she’s begging me to challenge her.

“We broke up three weeks ago, Gemma.” I keep my voice even, not humoring her desire to fight. “I’ll get the rest of your things so you can bring them back to wherever you’re staying.”

Gemma rears her head back as though I slapped her. “I brought my things back. The rest of my bags are in the car.”

“Gemma.” I close my eyes, running a hand over my face as I call upon every ounce of patience I don’t possess. “No.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Gemma, I’m trying really fucking hard to keep it together right now. I’m going to get your things, help you put your bags back in your car, and then come back upstairs and go back to sleep.”

“Lincoln,” she growls, stomping her foot in aggravation. “It has been three weeks. Hasn’t this midlife crisis gone on long enough? You’re going to be thirty years old soon, and you’re acting like a child, playing kitchen and breaking up with the only woman who will ever put up with your shit. You should be begging me to come back, not acting likeI’mbotheringyou.” She points from her chest to me, emphasizing her point. I’m offended but also morbidly amused by her rationale.

“I’m twenty-seven, Gemma, and on the brigade of a Michelin-star restaurant. I’m not playing anything, and I’m not having a fucking midlife crisis.” Pausing, I run a hand over my face, groaning to myself as I pass over the stubble lining my jaw. Releasing a sigh, I move past Gemma and grab the bag of her things. I return to my spot by the door and hold the bag up between us and meet Gemma’s gaze. “I’ll help you with your stuff, but I need you to leave now, Gemma.”

I almost expect her to refuse again, to try to lay siege to my apartment, but to my surprise, she grits her teeth, grabs the bag from my hand, then picks up her bags and starts to stomp to the now-closed front door. “Don’t bother. I can’t believe I almost gave you a second chance, you asshole.”

“Yeah, me too,” I mumble, watching as she grabs the knob and pulls hard on the door, swinging it open so that it hits the wall next to it.

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