Page 57 of Bedding Rose
One blowjob for him equals three or four orgasms for me. Plus whatever I get during sex. It’s a win-win-win again proposition that’s made me absolutely love taking him between my lips.
I kneel down on the cheap carpet and edge forward on my knees as I reach for his zipper. He lifts his hips and I slide down his pants and boxers just enough to reveal his hardness. The drive over must have really been hard for him because I can see a tiny drop of precum already there. I lean forward and drag my tongue over it, savoring his moan.
“Yes. Rose. Fuck.” It only takes a few minutes of deep-throating before Angelo’s grabbing my hair and whispering naughty Spanish words as I drink him down. I sit back on my heels, trying to swallow some of my smugness and continue living out his fantasy.
“Was that okay, sir?” I try to weave a tremble into my voice.
“Passing,” he murmurs, really getting into his role as a bastard boss. “You’ll have to hope your pussy is more satisfying than your mouth.” He stands, yanking up his pants. “Get on the desk—”
“But, sir,” I bat my eyes before flashing a look at the door.
His hand is on my wrist. “You’re testing my patience.”
Why do I find it so fucking hot when he growls angrily? Why is it such a turn-on? I never want anyone to be angry with me, but with him—I step right up, pressing my chest against his, eyes flashing. “You’re a monster.”
We stare at one another, the air between us as wild and energized as a hurricane. He breaks character first. “God, Rose. Fuck.”
He grabs my ass roughly and picks me up, setting me down on his desk. His kiss is hard and eager as he changes his grip, sliding his hands around my body and underneath the hem of my dress. “So perfect,” he mutters in between punishing nips at my lower lip. “Fucking hot.”
Instead of going straight for my pussy, this time his fingers slip back further. I yelp into his mouth as he traces around my back entrance through the fabric of my panties. But he doesn’t stop. He just keeps teasing, circling slowly as his lips and tongue maul my mouth, until the sensation moves from alarming to delightful, until I’m begging him for more.
“Angelo. Angelo,” I murmur.
“Say you’re mine,” he growls against my lips.
“I’m yours,” I whimper.
His hand slides up my slit to pinch my swollen clit through the silk. He tugs at it quickly.
I writhe against him, small whimpers of “Yes, yes, yes,” spilling from my lips.
His grin is merciless as he sends me over the edge with these words, “That’s right. I own you. I’m going to conquer all of you, Rose. Tonight, your body. Tomorrow, your soul. I’m taking it all.”
He always says just the right things. He’s got the perfect phrases down pat. But as he puts on a condom and pulls my panties aside, I worry that they’re only words.
ANGELO
Alot of families have family dinners. But my mother has always been more of a breakfast person, so Sunday brunch is her thing. She always cooks up a lavish feast and insists we talk about our lives, even when one week is just the same as the last. Of course, this past week—this past two weeks—hasn't been exactly the same for me. And she knows why. That doesn't stop her from harassing me about Rose.
This morning, I’m the first one to sit down at the round table in my parents’ eat-in kitchen. My mom bustles over, wearing a broom skirt and a patterned blouse, shushing her parakeet as it squawks at its mirror from its cage in the corner. Her new tennis bracelet glitters on her wrist as she places a plate with a huge steaming burrito leaking red chili from its folds in front of me before wrapping me in a tight hug. It smells like heaven rolled into a tortilla.
Of course, she offsets the delicious food with a nagging little question after she kisses my cheek. "Mijo, when do I get to meet this girl of yours?"
“You’ve already met her.” I try this tactic again, even though it didn’t work last week.
“Not since you’ve been dating,“ my mother clicks her tongue. “Are you ashamed of us?” She goes right for the guilt barb.
I roll my eyes even as I drag her plump form in for a hug to thank her for the food. “Mom, I’ve already told you she’s shy—”
“He’s also too chickenshit to fight her brother over it.” Tatiana wanders in, her hair still a giant fuzzball from sleep, a fuzzy blue robe tied over her pajamas, her big cheekbones stretching in a yawn. She takes after Dad more than I do, in her coloring at least. She could pass for white instead of mixed with those freckles and her brown hair.
“Fuck off,“ I tell Tati, ignoring my mother’s smack across the back of my head.
“Language!“ Mom scolds, as if that ever does any good. I simply glare and my sister and she reflects the same stubborn contempt right back.
“She’s not ready for that.” I turn back to my burrito, annoyed that I have to defend myself.
“What is she ready for? When will she be ready for that?”
