Page 23 of Bedding Rose
The problem with eating cake is I can’t ever stop myself from having a second slice even though I know I shouldn’t and will end up with a stomachache the next day. Just like with that kiss. I’m going to regret it, even though it was by far the sweetest one to ever touch my lips.
I shove aside the softer feelings that keep tripping me up and focus on the cold hard facts. He crossed a line and it’s unforgivable.
My mind shouts those words but my stomach is still so fluttery at the thought of his stare that I know they aren’t true.Whyaren’t they true though? They should be true. I should loathe the sight of him instead of feeling like this.
Even if I don’t completely hate him …
He’s my brother’s best friend. We couldn’t. My mother would kill us. We shouldn’t.
But …
Those eyes. Those gorgeous eyes surrounded by straight, soot-black lashes. That expression when he’d stared at me in the parking lot and the way his lips had pursed as he’d searched for the words to explain why he couldn’t just let me go on my merry way. Couldn’t ignore me.
Couldn’t just use me for his own purposes and then forget about me like my very own mother.
Yeah, his attention is infuriating and wrong on a level that I can’t simply absolve him from. But when he stared at me like I was the center of his entire fucking universe, all that right versus wrong seemed to dissolve.
No one’s ever looked at me that way before.
And the fact that it was him?
And that kiss? The hair on the back of my neck rises as the memory floods me once more, still just as potent as the first time I recalled it.
Coupled with the way he kneaded my ass … It’s wrong, but I wanted him to pull my cheeks apart and squeeze them tight as he forced me up and down on that massive, muscular thigh of his, making me ride him.
God.
I bite my lip, my canines needling the still-sensitive flesh as a current of giddiness darts through me. I’m so fucked.
Against my better judgment, I grab my phone and scroll into my contacts. I unblock Bastard, the nickname I gave him.
But then my fingers freeze over the screen. What do I say? How do I say it? I’m not forgiving him. Not by a long shot. He had no right to invade my life even if he thinks he had reason to. Ugh … I’m starting not to believe my own argument. What the hell do I send?
Hi, I want to use your body for my own personalpornis not going to cut it.
I start to type but pause before sending the message.
Me:Thank you for the ride.
No. Nope. Forget it. Unblocking him was stupid. I erase the message and stare at my screen in frustration. I glance over to my window and watch the curtains sway because I have the window cracked open to fill the room with fresh, frigid air while I sleep.
In the distance, a coyote calls out to the moon.
I should just block him again. Avoid him like I have been. That’s the sensible solution. I turn back to stare at my phone and when I swipe to turn it on, I’m shocked to see a new text staring me right in the face.
Bastard:Thank fuck you’ll never see this. But I’m warning you now. Some day soon I’ll come for you. And on you. And then I’m going to pin you down and come deep inside you.
Oh God.
Oh my fucking God.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard or seen anything hotter in my entire life.
Holy hell. Angelo fucking Walker wants to fuck me.
My free hand is down inside my panties before I’ve even finished gasping in surprise. All thoughts about how I should deal with him become tomorrow’s problem because right now, the only problem I can handle is the lust pouring from my skin in palpable waves.
He could pin me down right here in this bed, those massive biceps of his flexing as he hovers over me, my hands scratching down his thick, muscled chest as I stare at the tattoos I’ve only seen glimpses of while he slides inside me. Would he be rough like when he shoved me against the wall or gentle like the night he cleaned me up? Why does the need to know that feel so urgent? So important?
