Page 39 of Bedding Rose
But he doesn’t step backward like I expect him to. Those sparking brown eyes locked on mine, Angelo starts to slowly hike up my skirt.
“We can’t!” Urgent fear clamps down on my vocal cords and my voice comes out as a squeak as my head turns frantically toward the window, where the curtains are wide open.
“I told you I was going to check onmy thighs.”
“Later!” I urge, not even disputing his claim to my thighs. Fuck, at this moment, I want them to be his. But my mother or one of her cronies could walk in at any moment. Or someone could turn and see us in the window. My hand moves down to cover his, which currently holds my skirt bunched in place. “We’ll get caught.”
Angelo doesn’t respond, at least not vocally. But his hand slowly slides to the middle of my dress so that his warm palm is right in front of my panties. The heat of his body sinks through the fabric and banishes all other thoughts. My breath catches and my back arches involuntarily as my body seeks out his. Based on his smirk, he knows exactly what he’s done. That cheater.
I should argue. I should. But as he stands there, staring down at me possessively—outshining every starry-eyed fantasy I’ve had about him—I can hardly seem to remember why this is a bad idea. Instead, I find my mouth opening and offering an alternative. “Against the wall, so no one can see.”
He rewards me with a smile and a swift kiss before crowding me and walking me backward until my shoulder blades bump up against smooth, white plaster. The cold wall makes goose bumps rise on my exposed back but I hardly notice considering the fact that the rest of my body has become a tightly braided knot of lust, longing, and recklessness.
We exchange a loaded glance before Angelo yanks my dress above my ass. My hand flies up in time with his because my palm is still resting on the back of his fingers. He bunches up the skirt near my belly button, wrinkling it beyond repair. I should care. I should. It’s going to be horribly obvious something happened. But when he slides his hand over and pushes the cluster of fabric to me, ordering, “Keep this up,” I don’t argue. I just take the bunched-up skirt. How I’m going to explain it later … is a problem for later.
“I don’t care if you stay quiet or not. But if you don’t want to get caught, you should probably bite your other hand or something.” He slides down the front of my body as he says this, making his words lose all meaning and just become a jumble of sounds.Angelo Walker is going down on me.
Angelo Walker.
Angelo. Walker.
I have to swallow down the most godawful ‘twelve-year-old girl at a boy band concert’ squeal. He’s on his knees, in a suit, godlike in his perfection. I want to remember this moment forever. I tell my brain to brand it in, to sear it to memory so that no matter what, I can always say I touched the dream. And he touched me back.
Fuck. His fingers are feather-light as he caresses my knee and stares at each of my thighs. Each tiny sensation is both tantalizing and not enough. Tension locks me up. Expectation cuffs me. I’m left completely at his mercy after just those few caresses. All that's left is for Angelo to have his way with me.
But he doesn't dive right in. His eyes scan me and I start to grow self-conscious, worried about the lines striping my thighs, the cellulite creeping around the edges. Wait. Did I misunderstand earlier? Does he really just want to check on my thighs? He’s the only guy who’s ever looked at them. Stared at them. Known my secret. Most guys only look long enough to spread me open and fuck me.
Horrified embarrassment and humiliated vulnerability start to drip like slime down my cheeks as I realize I might have misinterpreted what he said.
But then Angelo leans in and plants a soft kiss on one of my earliest scars, a deeper one on the front, from an era where I didn’t know what I was doing. That kiss frays all the worries but then his words eviscerate them. He releases his kiss and his teeth graze over my inner thigh. He bites down lightly before licking that same spot as if to heal the wound he made. "So fucking hot."
God. Yes. I ratchet back down from embarrassment, switching over to primed and prepared for him in two point five milliseconds, giving myself emotional whiplash. All it takes is one deep breath and I’m ready for his lips on my skin again.
But he leans back, staring up at me. “Say you want it.”
My eyes widen. I absolutely love dirty talk but doing it myself?
“Say you want me to suck on that cunt. Tell me you want me to lick inside you. Ask me to kiss your clit.”
Oh God, those words and what they do to me. I want all of that. Every single thing he’s mentioned. But saying it aloud is another thing. “Please?” I whisper, seeing if he’ll let me off with begging. “Please, yes?”
His eyes harden as he stares up at me. “I’m going to need more consent than that from you, Rose. Consent to let me own your body. To throw your legs over my shoulders and use my tongue to fuck you while I finger your ass.”
My pussy clenches just at his words, every one of them piling up a series of vivid mental pictures. “Yes. Please. Yes.” I can already feel tingling, the slight edge of mindlessness present from his words alone. I can only imagine what it will feel like once he actually touches me. At this point, I don’t care that we’re in a hotel near hundreds of other people. My mother could walk in and scream at me right now. The fricking pope could come in and I wouldn’t give a damn. I’m almost to the point of grabbing Angelo’s face and shoving it in between my thighs.
“Say you’re mine.” Angelo drags a finger across the top ridge of one thigh, down to my pussy. He caresses near, but not over it.
“I’m yours.” I don’t even know how I spit out the words because every sense in my body has shut down in favor of touch, in favor of those sparkling nerve endings bundled together in one small spot.
Angelo’s finger glides over it slowly, circling.
Yesss. I’m so elated that I don't hear his next words because he’s finally there, stroking me and turning my body into an elated jumble.
But my lack of response must annoy him a bit. He must really want me to listen because he ends up tapping my thigh with his hand and growling as he repeats himself, "I said spread."
Swallowing hard, I slide my legs further apart, as far as I feel comfortable in these red heels. My face turns into a pleading pout as Angelo scoots forward slowly, trying to wedge his big shoulders close so he’s in the perfect position. It’s so lewd, the way my naked thighs press against his suit jacket, the feel of the fabric rubbing against my bare skin with every movement he makes. I squeeze my legs a tiny bit, just to test how he fills out the jacket and I’m rewarded with the hardness of his body just underneath. The sight alone would make me ready for more, not to mention the sensation on top of it, so I’m disappointed when he doesn’t lean forward and put his mouth on me immediately.
"I could spread out more without the shoes,” I blatantly offer, the shyness from a few minutes ago trickling away as desperation makes a wanton out of me.
