Page 61 of Bedding Rose
Thank fuck!
As soon as the footsteps have faded, I grab Rose’s ass and turn, shoving her against the wall and pound into her until my balls are boiling, my spine is quivering, and pleasure shoots through us both. I feel her clench down on me a second before a star explodes behind my eyes as I come deep inside my girl.
My one.
My only.
The girl who’s accepted the softer side of me, one I’ve never offered up to anyone before. But the question remains, can she handle the darker side as well?
ROSE
Another week of near bliss passes—well, near bliss if you don’t count my mother’s rampages about the volunteer shifts I’ve been late for. I didn’t even miss them, I just arrived a little bit later than expected after Angelo and I … took a little longer than expected.
But, for the first time in my life, her anger doesn’t cow me. I’m not scraping my eyes across the floor each time her nostrils flare in disapproval.
Quique teases me about it one afternoon while we stuff envelopes asking for campaign contributions in a poorly lit basement room that’s giving off serial killer lair vibes. “Looks like Rosie finally found her big girl finger.” And then he raises his middle finger. Of course he does, because my brother doesn’t take anything seriously. “Fuck off, Mom!” he mouths. “I was wondering when those rebellious years would hit. Welcome to puberty.”
I throw a flurry of pre-stamped envelopes at him but he just guffaws, thinking he’s the cleverest man alive.
We’ll see if he’s still laughing when Angelo and I go public. We’ve talked about telling my family but he really wants to keep our perfect little honeymoon bubble a little bit longer. I can’t say I blame him.
A long time ago, Quique made a public declaration to his friends that I was off-limits. I’m not certain he remembers, but I do. I’d been fifteen, and desperately nervous—so much so that I probably constantly reeked of sweat when his friends were over—which was always, because my brother was a king in high school. He has the kind of honeyed personality that draws everyone in with his sweetness. And then his humor makes him sticky. He’s actually a great guy. I glance over at him, stuffing envelopes, wondering why he’s here. Why his job consists of night shifts at a warehouse instead of something more substantial. He notices.
“What?” Quique asks.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
His brows shoot up because we never ever talk about real things.
He grabs a pamphlet and slides it smoothly into an envelope as he considers his answer. “You sound like Mom.”
“I’m sorry.” Immediately, I apologize and drop my eyes because that is probably one of the worst insults Quique and I could lob at each other. The only one worse would be if he compared me to Dad. I take a careful breath as I focus on my envelopes, trying not to let my hands shake or my thoughts spiral down at that comparison. While my mom has good qualities Quique is most definitely referring to her snobbery which has gotten far worse with this campaign.
Quique sighs. “I didn’t mean that. Sorry. She’s always asking and I get defensive. You know? I care less about what I do and more about who I get to be all day. An office? Stuffy-ass quiet computer shit? That sounds like hell. At the warehouse, the guys and I joke and cut-up all night long. It’s fun. I don’t love it but I don’t dread it. You know?”
I stare at my brother with a little bit of awe as I press my lips together. What he says makes so much sense. So, so much sense.
“What do you want to do?” He throws my question back at me and immediately, my stomach curdles like cottage cheese and his defensive answer makes sense.
I glance around, neck prickling, ensuring Mom is not in the room before I turn back to him. I open my mouth to say it aloud, but unlike with Angelo, where my deepest secrets just seem to unwrap themselves and lay me bare at his feet, the words don’t come spilling out. Instead, I find myself saying, “Well, I don’t want to be a doctor.”
Quique’s eyes flash with some sort of emotion—I’m not sure whether his expression is full of pride or surprise. But he nods after a second as if it makes sense. He -seals another envelope before he says, “You know her love is supposed to be unconditional, right?”
I snort. “Yeah, if only that were true.” I mean for the words to come out lighter than they do, but the bitterness about always being rigidly perfect—always jumping through her hoops, even when it feels like I’m in the middle of a circus and the hoop is on fire—seeps through.
His gaze cuts right through me as he tilts his head, like he’s noticing the real me, the person underneath Mom’s required happy facade for the first time. “Well, mine is. You do you, Rosie Dosie.”
There, in one of the creepiest rooms I could ever dream up, surrounded by some of the most boring work I can imagine doing, my brother gives me a gift I didn’t know I needed. As soon as he says those words, my chest clenches and releases—as if I’ve been holding my breath for years and can only now let it out. I swallow hard and turn back to my envelopes, slightly overwhelmed.
Does he really mean that?
In the context of work and careers, sure …
But what about if I tell him that I’m falling for his best friend? What if I tell him that we’ve been dating behind his back? What about if I tell him it’s already so serious that if Angelo breaks up with me … I’m not sure I’ll recover?
People like to throw around the term unconditional love a lot—but they very rarely mean it.
I’m not even sure unconditional love is possible.
