Page 75 of Bedding Rose
“We’d like to feel out the space ourselves first,” he declares, gaze not on the space, but burning into me, running down my skin like lava.
Oh, yes.
I like this idea.
As she pulls open the front door, he leans down and whispers to me, “I’m going to give you to the count of three—”
I’m off like a shot, giggling as I race haphazardly into the first room. It’s a dining room with a Mission-style table and chair set. I could try to hold him off here, racing in circles around the table but he’s leaped the dining table to get to me before. That’s how we scandalized and lost our last agent. So I keep running. I go past a kitchen that has a stove with coil burners that I don’t think anyone’s used since the Cold War.
Angelo’s heavy stomps sound behind me. He never starts off running. He likes to build up the anticipation. And, oh, does he. This is our third house tour. The third space we’ve violated by fucking hard and quick up against a wall, over someone else’s dining table … this new game is quickly becoming a new obsession for both of us.
Where should I let him catch me today?
A quick flash and I’m past a lime green bathroom. I bypass a bedroom and hurry down the hall. But when I come to the master bedroom, I stop short. The room is absolutely gorgeous. One wall has old adobe bricks along it while the other walls are smooth plaster. The bed faces a set of French doors that look out onto a patio where a small fountain with fluttering birds carved in it sits. The bed itself is an old-fashioned four-poster bed, a colorful quilt carefully laid on top. It’s beautiful and something about it just tugs at my heart. I can instantly imagine a cushy chair on one side of the French doors, myself curled up on it, a book in my hand, listening to that fountain as I read.
Angelo nearly bowls me over, grabbing onto my shoulders as he stops himself. Once his feet are planted, he turns me to face him.
I’ve never stopped running before.
“Rose … ?” he trails off as his umber eyes study me, trying to interpret the tears filling my gaze.
I’m still trying to interpret them myself … until I realize, this is it.
Our home.
Our room.
Our bed.
The start of our life together.
Overwhelmed by a billowing sense of rightness, I reach up and slide my fingers around the back of his neck. And then I kiss him. Slow and soft, with all the hero worship and gratitude I have for him pouring out through my lips.
When I pull away, his expression is so soft and adoring that something inside of me unlocks. Some part of me that I didn’t even realize was closed off unfurls, opens like a bloom.
I stare up at him for a second before lowering my arms from his neck and taking a step back. Releasing a breath, I slowly pull down the straps of my flower-print maxi dress. I let the top slide down to my waist before I push it down the rest of the way and kick it aside. I’m not wearing a bra today, just the way he likes.
His eyes immediately dilate, but he doesn’t move toward me. Always, always so conscious of my needs. Instead, I step toward him and brush my pebbled nipples over his shirt as I reach up and steal another soft kiss.
“I want to try,” I tell him. “But can I be on top?”
“Anything you want. Always,” he intones.
Slowly, I drag his shirt up over his washboard abs, his pecs, his head. I pull it off and give myself a moment to trace his tattoos as I mentally check to ensure that I’m okay. But I don’t feel panic corkscrewing through my belly. There’s only a needy anticipation and a gentle sort of peace.
I’ve got my person. And now I’ve found my place.
I undo his pants and slide them down, letting my lips ghost over his hardness as I undress him.
When I straighten and point to the pillows, he instantly goes, laying in the middle of the comforter. I let myself study him then, from the bottoms of his feet to the top of his head, where his hair has started to grow out a bit, getting shaggy and easier to tug on. The perfect, sculpted body is beautiful, but these days—I see so much more than that.
And today, for a split-second, I glimpse something when I stare at him ringed in afternoon light.
Not something real. Something ephemeral and fantastic.
Maybe heaven doesn’t exist and Angelo’s right about that.
But that doesn’t mean angels don’t walk among us.
