Page 18 of Bottle Rocket
“Sorry. I don’t … get this wet very often. It’s unusual. I’m having trouble talking.”
God, he wanted to bury his face in that wetness. He wanted to paint her smile. He wanted to lick the sweat out of the hollow of her thighs, the notch in her throat. He wanted to trace the arch of her foot. He wanted to taste the sour cherry on her lips and kneel at her feet until she ordered him to stop.
“You’re in charge here, Rosie,” he said at last.
A tremble was starting in her thighs. He wished he knew how to convey that on the page in a way that would do it justice.
He drew the plush of her parted lips and the hooded heaviness in her eyes as she got closer to orgasm.
“Tell me—talk dirty to me,” she said, her voice a gasp. “Tell me what you want me to do to you. Give me some good shit to jill off to.”
He laughed, and a smile flashed across her face. This was fun.
It also wasn’t lost on him the way she’d phrased that. She wanted to know what she could doto him, rather than the other way around.
“I’d love for you to order me to jerk off, but not let me come,” he said. She writhed, which caused a lock of hair to fall over her cheek. He added it quickly to his sketch before she blew it out of her face. “How would you feel about slapping me?” he asked. “Open palm. Not hard, but on my cheek. You can slap me anytime during sex. Free pass, right here.”
“Oh God.” She dropped her other hand to her nipple, losing the pose, but Leo didn’t give a flying fuck. She was dynamite, and he was lucky to be witnessing this slow-mo explosion.
“What about fucking me, Rosie Posey?” he said sweetly. Her toes curled. Her toenails were painted red and blue, alternating, which was a touch of quirkiness that thrilled him. “I’ve got a boot box full of dildos, honey. We could sixty-nine. You fuck me with one of those babies, and I lick you until you cream on my face.”
“Oh no. Keep going … I’m close.”
He set his sketchpad aside.
“You could ride me. A hand on my throat, holding me down. Use me like a fuck toy. I’ll service you like it’s my calling. Like it’s what I was made for. Like my pleasure doesn’t matter, only yours does.”
She stared straight at him. Her mouth dropped open. The muscles in her legs and stomach clenched and held. Then she moaned in relief, a shudder running the length of her gorgeous body.
He was on his knees at her side before he’d even thought about it. He ripped open the fly of his jeans and delved his hand into his briefs, grabbing his prick. It was so hard it ached.
He pressed his forehead to her hip and whispered, “Please, please.”
He felt her shift as she removed her hand from her panties. She used her wet fingers to tip his chin up so she could look at him. She didn’t say anything but pressed the same fingers to his lips, and he sucked them down like her slickness was the only sustenance he would ever receive. They were soaked. Her taste triggered a detonation inside him. He whimpered, because it was sudden, too sudden, and he wasn’t sure she wanted him to come yet, but he couldn’t help it. He shot into his palm, coating the inside of his underwear.
“Good boy,” she said gently, her other hand coming up to stroke his hair.
One thing was for certain—she was not a cold fucking fish.
Chapter Four
Rosie rolledher head against Leo’s thigh, reveling in the shift of his muscles and the scritch of his body hair against the back of her neck. He’d cleaned up and changed into new boxer briefs before settling onto the bench seat with her. The blinds were open behind them, and sunrays snuck through, striping their skin with heat.
“Gardening?” Leo asked.
She shook her head. “My brother-in-law has tried. He keeps buying me plants for birthdays and Christmas. He even got me a potted herb garden for Valentine’s Day. I keep forgetting to water it.” The only plants she’d never accidentally killed were succulents that Perry—Sasha’s new husband—had gifted her. Those hen and chicks seemed to be fine with no water at all. She was proud of them. She had rolls of photos of them on her phone.
“Video games.”
Rosie paused and thought about that one. It wasn’t a bad idea, except … “Lots of screen time gives me migraines, but that could work.”
“Oh. When did those start?”
“College.”
Leo ran his fingers through her hair. He’d been French braiding sections before methodically brushing out the braids with his fingertips. Her hair was going to be greasy as fuck by the end of the afternoon, but it felt too nice to stop him.
“You need a fandom,” he suggested. “One with books, TV shows, hot fanfiction, and active argument forums.”
