Page 28 of Bedding Rose
I take a deep calming breath and force my fingers to relax their death grip on my bag. They ache as they release and I switch the clutch to my other palm so I can shake my hand out as I follow my mother to our open-concept kitchen.
I stop dead when I see Quique in a suit, carrying a big cardboard box full of pamphlets. Not because I’ve never seen him in a suit, but because he’s walking straight toward the one man I don’t ever want to see again but also dream endlessly about.
Holding open the door to the garage, wearing a black suit that fits him like a glove, his neck tattoos just stretching above his starched white collar, is Angelo. He looks like a fucking mob boss with his dark hair and thick brow. But his face is relaxed and smiling as he says something to my brother that I can’t hear because the blood has suddenly fled from my head and all rushed south.
Those lips hold me entranced for a moment as I remember the way they felt, how they molded to mine so perfectly.
Fuck!
No.
I’m not ready to see him. My stomach drops out and my palms instantly grow sweaty even though they’re cold. Despite my discussion with Daisy and my massive hike to clear my head, I’m not ready to deal with him in the flesh. He’s too much. Too overwhelming.
My eyes dart to my mother as my breathing grows shallow in panic. Her gaze flicks over to mine and I think I might pass out from dread, certain that Angelo’s effect on me is as subtle as a strobe light.
How am I supposed to get through tonight fulfilling all of my mother’s expectations, smiling and making small talk, and staying focused on being prim and proper? How am I supposed to do that while staying near Angelo and keeping him away from the Garcias?
This is an impossible task. I’m doomed to failure.
I bring my eyes back to Angelo’s only to find his gaze is absolutely molten as it traces down my figure and ignites a fire between my thighs. I quickly drop my eyes and call out, “Shotgun.”
“Not happening!” Quique yells from the garage. “You know I get carsick!”
Mom chimes in to support his claim as she swishes past me, a faux fur coat in her hand. “Quique’s driving. I’ll be in the passenger seat going through my speech. You two will have to take the back.”
“Us? What about Quique’s date?” I ask desperately. I really need a buffer to sit right between the two of us, even if she’s as vapid as a balloon animal.
“Candace is meeting us there,” Quique calls out before I hear the trunk slam shut.
My nose scrunches and I glare up at Angelo as if he’s orchestrated all of this. It’s illogical, but my annoyance has to funnel somewhere so I direct all of it at him. He has the audacity to simply look amused.
He gestures toward the garage, still holding open the door under the pretense of being a gentleman. I almost snort at the fake picture he presents. There’s nothing gentlemanly about blackmail. Or the way he slammed me up against a restaurant window and grabbed my ass in public.
No. Crap. Now I’m thinking about that and it looks like he can tell, if his smirk is anything to go by.
I try to scurry past him but he’s quick and I feel his big palm sliding over my lower back. The jacket is not nearly enough barrier to stop my skin from pebbling at his touch. Panic grips me. My mom’s already in the car, and the garage door is up. I just have to dart around the back to the other side and I’ll get away from him.
But Angelo’s hand hooks onto my hip and stops me. He steps up close behind me and leans down. In a low voice, he whispers, “How are your thighs doing today?”
I stiffen. That bastard! I want to retort that what I do with my body is none of his fucking business. Actually, I want to smack him with my purse. I do neither, deciding that saying nothing is the smarter move right now if I don’t want to endure the verbal equivalent of World War III this evening.
But then, Angelo takes the conversation in a direction I don’t expect, one that dries out my throat and leaves me trembling.
He leans even closer to my ear as he whispers, “I plan to check on them later. And kiss them all better.”
ANGELO
Rose is wearing a perfume that weaves together citrus and floral scents and is driving me mad; it’s so mouthwateringly good that I want to inhale it directly from her skin. In fact, I’m noticing a million tiny details about her as we ride next to each other that I hadn’t before the kiss—before the moment I decided she was mine.
Tonight, I see it all. The delicate way the bones of her neck swoop down and form a hollow at the base of her throat that I want to lick. The thick, unruly black curls she’s tamed enough to be presentable that I want to muss with my fingers and see spread out over a pillow. The way her dress drapes over her legs but leaves her shapely calves exposed. My fingers twitch as the desire to drag my hands along her legs, to slowly lift that skirt, turns into an ache that’s hard to ignore.
Rose isn’t openly studying me the way I am her—but that’s to be expected. She’s nothing if not the good girl, as Quique always bemoans. The proper daughter. I can’t wait to unravel all that sweet innocence she covers herself in and find that naughty little hellcat I know is waiting underneath … the lusty, wild version of her that I know exists behind the facade because I saw it for the first time last night.
A secret version of her that belongs only to me.
She pretends nonchalance and disinterest, gazing out the window, edging away from me on the bench seat. But I can tell from her shallow breathing and the quick glances that keep darting in my direction that Rose is affected by our proximity—and that fills me with a smug sort of contentment. My eyes drift down to see if those nipples of hers are pebbled, but she must be wearing a bra that hides them.
I press my lips together and decide that bra will be the first thing to go. I’m going to ensure I rip it or lose it later, because I want to see how her body reacts to mine. I’m going to buy her an entire slew of lace bras that are so thin I can see everything.
