Page 76 of Bedding Rose
I know I’ve found mine.
And he’s not some sweet, harp-stringing golden-haired romantic.
He’s a warrior.
He’s my guardian.
My everything.
Emotion drags thankful tears from my eyes as I slide down my panties and climb onto the bed. Straddling Angelo, who reaches to brush away my tears, I smile.
“You’re crying. We can—”
“Happy tears,” I correct him, smiling while I try to internally reconcile this revelation with everything else I’m feeling, every shade of adoration, every color of lust. It’s too much to process, too much to feel all at once. I can’t think through it. I just have to release it. And so I pour all of my desire into each kiss and touch I give him. I focus on that and nothing else.
Brushing over his body with my own, I tease his lips with mine until he’s moaning against my mouth. Then I sit back and reach behind me to stroke his hardness as his lips follow me up and he latches onto my breast.
The sensation makes me pant until greed takes over and I use my free hand to direct him to the other side while I grind against his stomach. He gladly switches, flicking his tongue with a motion he knows drives me mad as his fingers come up between my spread thighs and trace over my opening.
I end up grinding sideways to get to his finger, squeezing his length hard to punish him when he tries to slide those hands away. He relents and I rock against him until sparkles start to form behind my eyes.
Right as I’m about to combust, I wrench back from his hand and guide him into me. The hard heat of his length makes me shudder and I writhe against him, grinding down and getting him deeper as I use his body to shamelessly plunge over that edge into bliss.
I fall forward onto him, panting, my cheek just below his neck, listening to his racing heart.
A minute later, when the limpness has left my limbs, I push up onto his chest and stare down at him. “I did it,” I find my throat tight as I say the words aloud. “We’re in a bed.”
A tear slips from one of his own eyes as he nods silently.
I lean forward and swipe it away with one of my fingers, hating that my pain is his pain but loving that my triumph is also his triumph. “Hey. No crying. It’s your turn now.”
He shakes his head. “No. No. Fuck that.” He quickly slides out from under me and stands up, glancing around for his clothes.
Confusion furrows my brow as I stare up at him. “Did you seriously just say no to an orgasm?”
“I’m not doing anything that’s going to ruin your progress. We can go fuck in the bathroom or outside with you bent over that fountain,” he replies as he quickly tosses everything back on at warp speed. “You stay there and see if you can make yourself come,” he orders, pointing at me. “I’m going to go tell the realtor that we’re making a cash offer, no inspection, fifty grand over asking, but they have to give us that ugly-ass goddamned abuela bed.”
And as my soulmate walks out the door of our new bedroom, I burst into full-fledged happy sobs.
* * *
One week later
Moving in together was deceivingly,blissfully easy, though the kitchen renovations have been annoying as hell. Who wants to wash dishes in a bathtub because there is no sink? First-world problems.
Other than bending over the tub and having dishwashing turn into a doggie-style session that makes my knees ache because my boyfriend can’t stand seeing me bent over without getting naughty, my life has no real complaints.
I’m going to work as Angelo’s secretary over the summer and save up some money for tuition. So long as I keep my grades up, I’ll be able to qualify for the in-state scholarship and I should be able to keep going to school and majoring in what I want.
Quique just got our massive, obnoxious, penis-shaped apology balloon arch delivered yesterday. We’d had the delivery people set it up over the front door so he’d see it first thing when he got home. He’d texted us tons of photos of himself posing in front of it as my mother hurried around in the background, wielding a pair of scissors and popping all the phallic balloons before the neighbors saw.
Needless to say, the prank means we’ve been forgiven.
Mom will probably take a few more decades, but it is what it is. If she can’t handle having a daughter instead of a puppet, she doesn’t deserve one. That’s what I keep telling myself.
Otherwise, everything is absolutely perfect. Well, except for the fact that I’m not quite the same anymore. I always used to think of myself as a good girl, a rule follower, a kind person. I know that’s not true anymore. I’ve awakened a streak of cruelty within myself. And I have absolutely zero clue what to do about it.
I’ve tried going to one of those rage rooms, the places where you rent a sledgehammer and pay to smash random stuff to smithereens? I dragged Daisy there with me two days ago.
