Page 49 of Bedding Rose
Quickly, I cross the room, needing to touch him, to soothe him, to smooth this over. Trepidation vibrates the tone of my voice as I half-whisper, “She doesn’t mean it. She’s stressed. Trying to blame you for the fact that her fundraiser did awful. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I clutch his arms, running my fingers over his sleeves in soothing circles as I try to distinguish what the look on his face means. His lips are pressed together and his eyes are distant for a moment before he focuses back on me.
Something in his face looks desperate. Longing. It draws me in like a moth to the flame and I step even closer, planting my feet between his thighs as I gently pluck my copy ofOutlanderfrom his grip and toss it onto the desk next to my bookshelf.
It looks like he needs me to show him just how much I don’t believe those wild, hare-brained lies.
“I’m sorry. She’s crazy,” I say, leaning up on tiptoe and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, then another to his dream-worthy lips. “I don’t believe her.” I let the words ghost across his mouth before kissing him harder, and when he hesitates—as if he’s unsure that I actually mean what I say, I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and pull him in closer, deepening the kiss.
I remain the aggressor for a moment, rubbing my hands along the back of his neck and shoulders, nipping at his lips, delving my tongue into his mouth.
But finally, a switch flips and he starts to trust me and my words over the spiteful acid my mother spewed. His hands come up to knead my ass and I spread my legs wider, hopeful that his fingers will knead me everywhere. I rub against him, loving the press of our chests, appreciating the bulge inside his suit pants, and feeling a heady sense of naughty pride that I turn him on. I bring my hands from around his neck down to his shirt collar, popping the first button.
He breaks the kiss to stare at me but doesn’t stop me as I undo every single button on his shirt. He’s still as a statue while I remove his cuff links. Meanwhile, I’m amazed at the fact that I even find his wrists attractive. There isn’t an inch of this man I don’t adore and I plan to show him just that.
He moans in delight when I glide my hands up over his undershirt and circle the dark shapes of his nipples through the fabric before bringing my hands back out and shoving the collared shirt down over his arms, pulling it off one arm and then the other.
“Shh,” I grin at the fact I have to remind him to be quiet. He’s already forgotten that my brother and Mom are still in the house. I haven’t. If anything, I feel far more aware of everything because of it. Normally, I’d never even dream of doing something like this—or I’d dream about it but never actually do it. But something about tonight, about the way he stood up for me, about the way Mom is showing her true colors, something’s making me wild and reckless. I’m throwing caution to the wind.
Mom can hate him all she wants, but she’s wrong about him. Quique knows it and so do I. The fact that I’m going to do unspeakable things to him under her roof is nothing less than the disrespect she deserves.
My senses heighten with every touch Angelo and I share. My skin is not only aware of his fingertips but of the cool air drifting in from my window and wasting all the heat billowing up from the vent near my bed. The contrasting temperatures mix around our bodies and make goosebumps rise on my skin.
My hearing is also enhanced—the piercing chirps of every cricket outside and every tiny groan of pleasure Angelo makes coursing through my nervous system. My family’s shouting ended a while ago, and the front door slams at one point—which means Quique’s going back out. Mom has most likely retreated to her home office—it’s where she spends the majority of her time—so she’s on the other side of the house. Near but not near enough to hear, so long as we remember to stay quiet.
Angelo doesn’t look like he’s going to be any use remembering things right now, however. His jaw is clenched as his eyes rake down my body.
“Get naked before I rip that dress off of you,” he growls.
God, he’s such a bossy bastard. But I kind of love it. I grow wet at his order, biting my lip as I lift my black skirt and yank it up over my head. The dress is relatively easy to shed, and once it’s off, Angelo immediately steps forward, his hands coming to cup my breasts.
“Fuck. You are never allowed to wear these again,” he murmurs, thumbs gliding over the pasties that hide my nipples and sending a delicious sensation spiraling through me. “I want to see those nipples hard for me at all times, you hear?”
“Mmm,” is the best response I can give him because I’m not thinking about later. I just want him to keep touching me. I love his big, calloused hands and the way they contrast my soft skin. I love how my breasts almost fit in his palms.
His fingers grip one side of a pastie and start to pull. The sticky tape stings like a yanking off a Bandaid, only one that’s stuck to some of the most sensitive skin on my body, and I hiss, involuntarily shoving his hand away. “Ow!” I whisper-shout, batting him away and folding my arms protectively across my breasts.
“Think about how I feel,” he retorts. “I can’t get to those pretty tits. That hurts worse.”
Bastard.
I smack him but he just laughs and pulls me across the room toward my desk chair, which has his suit coat hung carefully over the back of it. He turns the chair so it faces me before he sits down. “Straddle me,” he orders. “I’m going to lick and suck you until those damned things fall off.”
Oh. God. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” I scold.
“I can and will.”
“Then I want you shirtless,” I counter, simply because his giving orders riles me up, even if I like them.
His undershirt is off and on the ground in a millisecond leaving me to gape at his washboard abs. All of his delicious tattoos—a crow, a cross, and a rose, all jump out at me as my eyes travel over his body, which is unreal. I’m hypnotized as I climb up on him, half tempted to tell him to lose his pants. But I’m not naked yet either, and I don’t want tonight to be quick. I want our first time to be a slow pleasure that I can brand into my brain and remember forever. So I straddle him, still wearing my red panties and matching heels.
When I settle down on his bulge, I can’t help but grind against him, fingers digging into the hard-earned muscles of his shoulders.
God, he feels so good.
His hands wrap around my lower back and pull me up as he dips his head. Then Angelo’s lips wrap around my nipple, through the pastie.
Fuck, I’ve always fantasized about this boy’s lips and now I know exactly why. They aren’t just a work of art, they are scientific perfection. These are the lips that every lip in history has aspired to be. The pinnacle of evolution.
He sucks on my right breast, even with a barrier, lapping, nipping, laving me—and I’m driven completely out of my mind.
