Page 51 of Bedding Rose
He doesn’t finish his question before I’m striding over to him. Without an ounce of hesitation, I climb onto his lap and wrap my arms around him before burying my face in the crook of his neck. Slowly, gradually, his touch reaches my back. It’s feather-light until I drop one of my own hands down and wrap his grip more firmly around myself, showing him I won’t break. “I’m sorry,” I repeat, gazing at his face through glimmering eyes.
“Rose, I want to kill them, only death isn’t good enough.”
“You’re right.” I give a broken laugh. “Maybe we should use all the worst torture methods in history on them instead. Like the goat’s tongue.”
“Goat’s tongue. What’s that?” Angelo’s voice is curious as his hand finally dares to dart up and caress my cheek.
I lean into his slow touch as I explain, “Romans used to dip someone’s feet in a salt solution. Then they’d tie that person up and tie a goat nearby. The goat would lick their feet. It would initially feel like tickling, but the goat wouldn’t stop licking until the skin was all gone.”
Angelo stares up at me, his mouth dropping open, and I worry that I’ve scared him. Not everyone wants to know about the bloodthirsty horrors of the past and even though Daisy constantly indulges me, I know I can be a bit over-the-top about it.
But when he speaks, his voice is soft and awed, and the fingers gliding over my cheek stop to cup it. “History,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“You want to major in history.”
My stomach clenches and even though I’m wearing nearly nothing, Angelo’s words make me feel naked.
Vulnerable.
Seen.
“The books on your shelves. That little comment. You want to major in history don’t you?”
“It’s a useless degree—”
“No. You have a plan for it.”
I lick my lips and realize how hard it is to make my mouth shape the words of my most secret wish. It’s like slitting open an envelope that’s lain dormant inside a trunk tucked into an attic for a century, the thoughts etched on the paper inside faded until they’re more fancy than reality.
“I want to write historical fiction,” I admit softly.
“Then you will.” His umber eyes are sure, not even encouraging, just utterly confident in a way I could never hope to be. As if something will happen solely because I want it to. As if he really believes that’s how the world works.
I blink at him and somehow want to cry all over again. I’m not exactly sure why, only that he’s made something lodge in my throat precariously, and something else lodge inside my ribs. Both somethings are sharp and painful, piercing right through me.
Two deep breaths—and innumerable heartbeats because my pulse has shot sky high—later, I attack him with my lips, pulling him in for a punishing kiss. Frantically, I scratch at his back and thrash my tongue against his as soon as he allows me access to his mouth.
His fingers dig into my hips and try to keep me still, but I fight against his hold, kissing him harder and rocking against him, letting my nipples drag up and down over his chest as I rub myself against him like a cat in heat.
Finally, he engages and starts to kiss me back. Each kiss unravels a knot that was tied tightly inside of me until I’m a thousand unfurled strings stretching in a million different directions. My thoughts and feelings are all so scattered, except for one. There’s one thing I’m sure about.
I pull back and climb unceremoniously off Angelo’s lap to yank my panties off. “Get naked,” I order.
“Rose—”
“I’m going to fuck the living daylights out of you,” I threaten as I kick aside my panties but leave on the red heels he loves. I’ll probably need the leverage.
“But—”
“As long as we stay off the bed, I’ll be fine,” I promise, though I have no idea if that’s true. I’ll make it true. It has to be true. Because I’m not giving up the one fucking person in the world who actuallyseesme.
Angelo reluctantly reaches for his pants, but he’s not fast enough. “Let me help you.” Impatiently, I kneel to pull his pants off and then his boxer briefs to reveal his length. His dick is long and dark, dark hair trimmed neatly at the base, with a bulbous head that’s slightly narrower than the rest of him. It’s perfect. Leaning forward, I wrap my fingers around the base and slowly lick up his length before making eye contact.
His hands are gripping the sides of my desk chair as if he’s about ready to rip them off. Chest unmoving, I’m pretty certain he’s holding his breath in an effort to stay in control of himself. The fact that I have that sort of power over him makes me grin just before I take the head of his dick into my mouth.
I slide up and down, getting a slow rhythm going as I listen to his breathing for cues about what he likes. It’s only when he whispers, “Shit,” a little too loudly that I even remember there are other people in the house.
