Page 32 of Dearly Unbeloved
“You’re not?”
She shakes her head, her lips lifting at the edges. “No. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I know you don’t like me. And you know I don’t like you. We have nothing to lose here.”
Well, when you put it like that…
I sit up enough to push the blanket off, and Rose tugs itaway. I shouldn’t be surprised that she stops to fold it before placing it on a chair, but I am. The anticipation is painful, waiting for her to look at me. But once the blanket is safely stowed away, she still doesn’t.
Rose takes her time, standing with her back to me as she pulls her college sweatshirt over her head. Her blonde hair tumbles down her bare back as she folds it and drops it on top of the blanket.
I draw my knees up to my chest as I watch her twisted little power play. The candlelight illuminates freckles on her back I’ve never seen before, dotted around like a constellation. Without a word, she shucks her slippers off and tucks them under the chair, then shimmies out of her cycling shorts, leaving her in nothing but a black lace thong.
Pink satin. Black lace.What the hell is up with her lingerie collection, and how have I never seen any of these in our laundry room? Probably because she washes, dries, and puts everything away without waiting three to five business days.
I open my mouth to snark about her surprisingly spicy lingerie, but the words die on my tongue when she nonchalantly turns around.
My cheeks burn, but I can’t help but drag my eyes over her, drinking in every inch. I regret asking her to turn the light off, though the candles light her enough for me to take in the lines and details of her body I’ve never been privy to.
Rose’s body is the kind you’d see in a swimsuit magazine—long and lithe, model perfect with curves everywhere society claims is acceptable. Her skin is unmarred otherthan a surprising belly button piercing and a few scars on her upper thighs.
Even from my spot over here, I can tell her breasts are a perfect handful, with pretty pink nipples the exact shade of her lips. God, I need to get my hands on her.
I raise my eyes to her face and find her watching me, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on her mouth. “Are you done ogling?”
I shrug. “I didn’t expect the piercing.”
“I got it in high school and was too scared to take it out in case it left a scar.”
She kneels on the end of the bed, and the proximity of her makes me a little lightheaded. “Are you going to hide away like that all night?” The words are sarcastic, but she sounds softer than she usually does.
“No,” I reply, gulping down a breath but making no move.
Rose screws up her lips. “Okay. Don’t be alarmed, but I’m going to be nice to you for a second?—”
“Someone call the news.”
“Ignoring that… You know I don’t like you?—”
“Is this your idea of nice?” Sounds about right.
“You know, I was planning on keeping things nice and light tonight, but if you’re going to interrupt everything I say, your ass is going to become well acquainted with the palm of my hand. Are we clear?”
My mouth pops open, and I swear my legs part ever so slightly of their own accord. It’s simultaneously sexy and terrifying how her expression doesn’t change, how she says something so threateningly filthy without battingan eye.
“Crystal clear,” I answer, but my voice sounds a million miles away to my own ears.
“Great. As I was saying, I may not like your personality, but your body? Fuck, Sierra. That little glimpse I got when we woke up in Vegas has been haunting me. You’re infuriating, but you’re beautiful. I get the feeling people haven’t always made you feel that way. Am I right?”
I hesitate before finally nodding. I half expect pity, but fire flashes in Rose’s hazel eyes and she huffs, her nostrils flaring like a pissed off bull.
When I lived in Canada, we lived near a lot of other Asian-Canadian families. It was a diverse neighborhood, and I never felt out of place. Until we moved back to Washington, and I realized I didn’t fit the average American stereotype of an Asian woman.
My first week at my new school, I overheard a group of girls in my grade whispering about me: “I thought all Japanese girls were skinny,” one of them said, and the rest just laughed. Teenage girls aren’t known for their kindness.
I was sixteen, so it wasn’t the first time someone had made a shitty comment about my appearance or my race. And god knows it wasn’t the last. But it was the first time it had happened without the community I was used to having around me, and sixteen is a formative age.
