Page 59 of Bedding Rose
“Maybe it depends on the stalker,” I cut in, deciding that’s my cue. They were about to dive into some heavy territory and it didn’t feel right to listen in.
Both girls turn and look surprised to see me, Violet in a shocked way but Rose … her face glows with a warmth that lights me up.
“Hey.” Her tone is soft and shy, far too reminiscent of the people-pleasing Rose that other people get to see.
That’s not going to work for me. My girlfriend is going to give me a far more enthusiastic greeting than that.
I take a step forward, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and curling her into me. Then I lean down and place a chaste but very firm kiss on her lips so that she—and everyone else in this fucking place—knows who she belongs to. When I release her from the kiss, I smile down at her, loving the quick rise and fall of her breasts as she pants. “What’s your opinion on stalkers?” I ask.
Those green eyes of hers immediately flash fire in my direction. “My experience has varied. Some days he’s annoying. Others—he’s irresistible.” There’s her fire. My little Rosie is showing her thorns and I love them.
“Hope today’s an irresistible day then,” I say, holding out the flower.
Rose freezes as she stares down at it.
I’m vaguely aware of Violet muttering something and excusing herself. But whatever she actually says fades into the chatter around us because suddenly, my heart is thumping hard and quick, and my pulse feels as loud as a compressor in my ears.
Why doesn’t she look happy? Why’s the blood draining from her face?
“You don’t date,” she whispers, still staring. “This morning, at breakfast, Quique was saying—”
“I love your brother but he’s an idiot. Don’t listen to anything he says.” He’s lucky he’s not here right now, or so help me, I’d clock him in the jaw without a second thought or an ounce of regret.
Why the fuck is this going so badly?
God. Did I already mess this up?
I drop my hand from Rose’s shoulder to grab her arm and lift it. I physically wrap her palm around the flower and force it into her hand.
Tears fill her eyes and her voice cracks. “But you’re not a flower guy.”
“That’s right. Now take the damn flower.” I close her fingers around the stem and lean down to whisper in her ear, “I’m not a flower guy. But if you’re a flower girl, then I am. I’m not a poet. But if that’s what you want, then I’ll fucking write a sonnet. I’m not into candlelit dinners but I’ll fill a whole damn room with candles, Rose. For you—I’ll do those things.”
Her lips press together in a hard line and her eyes brim with unshed tears. My entire body vibrates with adrenaline, sweat pouring down my spine as I stare down and fucking wish that she was inside my head. That she could see what I see and feel how I feel. Then she’d understand that I’m all in. Then she’d have to believe me.
Rose reaches out with her free hand (the one not clutching my flower) and wraps her fingers around my wrist. I almost shout in relief. But when she turns and tugs me out of the pretzel line, confusion furrows my brow. When she starts to run, pulling me along as she zigs and zags through the crowd and I have to quicken my steps to keep up with her, I start to wonder what she’s thinking.
She darts into the nearest department store, past a perfume counter that has me scraping the dense scent off my tongue with my teeth, and weaves through the racks of women’s clothing so quickly that some of the items smack my arms as I try to keep up. I open my mouth to ask what she’s doing when she abruptly drops my wrist and grabs a hideous leftover ugly Christmas sweater—one of those printed with a man’s beer gut and Christmas lights strung over his chest.
She then looks back and jerks her head for me to follow her as she turns right.
That’s when I spot the changing rooms. And my confusion morphs into anticipation when she casts one more sultry glance over her shoulder.
Oh, fuck yes.
The rooms are unattended, thank God, and I follow her adorable ass down the hall to the largest one at the end. She slides inside and I’m there a second later, banging the door closed behind me and sliding the measly little bolt shut.
The Christmas sweater falls to the ground as Rose leaps onto me, her arms wrapping around my neck, legs encircling my waist. I ignore the fact that she nearly knocks the breath from my lungs as I slide my hands underneath her ass to keep her from falling. Her eagerness has me twice as excited as usual. Apparently, this romance crap pays dividends. Well, then, I can officially say I’m a fan. I walk her to the wall, pressing her back up against it as I kiss her. Claim her.
A random thorn from the flower clutched in my girl’s hand pokes into the back of my neck, scratching my skin. I don’t bother telling her about that minor irritation. I’m too busy with all the other sensations she’s giving me. With the feel of her supple body against mine, the frantic bite of her kisses, the softness of her skin as I peel that pink sweater up and over her head.
I toss it on top of the ugly sweater, before ridding Rose of the flimsy bra she’s wearing today. Her skin is so silky smooth beneath my touch. Freeing those gorgeous tits from their lace prison, I lean down to suck one of her nipples into my mouth. God, I love every inch of her body.
But she has to know, it’s not just her body. I let her nipple slide out of my mouth and straighten back up. “Just to be clear, you know this means something big to me. That it’s not just sex?”
“Just to be clear, you know I’m expecting a sonnet, now, right?” she chirps back before assaulting my lower lip with her teeth. Little minx.
Keeping one hand on her ass, I reach up and play with her breasts as she bruises my lips in a way I will definitely not regret tomorrow.
