Page 39 of Billionaire Bachelor
Rosie’s eyes roll. “Nobodyneedsan excuse to read fairy smut. They just do it because it’sawesome.”
She snort-laughs, coaxing me to grin like a fool. I give the dish one last glance before continuing my slow sweep of the apartment.
Velvety eggplant-colored drapes frame the windows, their rich hue softened by the glow of retro brass lamps. The dark gray couch isunderstated, but the lime green crocheted blanket tossed over the back adds just the right hit of playful contrast.
“This place really suits you, Rosie.”
She glances around, as if she’s trying to see it through my eyes. “You think so?”
“I do,” I say with a nod. “It’s warm. Feminine.” My eyes are drawn back to the eclectic gallery wall. The varying sizes and styles of art create a perfect balance of whimsy and charm. Grinning, I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart and add, “A little chaotic.”
Rosie’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “That tracks.”
A pile of paperbacks sits on the side table. They’re stacked on top of one another like a game of Tetris gone wrong, each with a bookmark protruding from the pages. I cross the room, inspecting the covers, confirming my suspicions.
“Ooh, what do we have here?” I flip to the marked page in one of the books, landing on a particularly spicy scene between a woman and two…no, wait,threemen. “You dirty, dirty girl. I knew you liked reading romance, but I had no idea you were into theextrasmutty stuff.”
“Don’t judge me,” Rosie huffs, swiping the book from my hand and smacking my arm with it.
“I’mnotjudging,” I say with a chuckle, catching her wrist and pulling her toward me. “I like it.” I brush some hair away from her face and add, “I likeyou, Rosie. I don’t think there’s a damn thing about you that I don’t like.”
She lifts her chin, meeting my eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm.
Rosie smiles bashfully, and her cheeks flush.
“So fucking beautiful,” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her temple and breathing in her sweet, familiar scent before pulling back slightly. My hands cradle her face, my thumbs tracing the delicate curve of her jaw. Rosie’s pupils darken, her breaths quicken, and I know she feels the same fevered energy crackling between us.
I’d love nothing more than to get lost in her curves all night, but Idon’t want her thinking I flew back early just for sex. Don’t get me wrong—the sex is incredible, and I wouldn’t say no if she’s game—but honestly, I’d be just as happy cuddling on the couch while she reads one of her dirty books. I just want to be in her orbit.
With a deep breath, I let my hands fall to my sides and take a step back, giving us both a moment to clear the lust-infused haze.
“So, are you going to give me the grand tour?” I ask, flashing her a grin.
Rosie shoots me a wry look. “You’ve pretty much seen it. It’s a one-bedroom loft in the Arts District, not a mansion up in the hills.”
“Humor me, smartass,” I deadpan.
She sighs, kicking off her heels and leading me down a short hallway, that opens into a bedroom dominated by a queen-sized bed with a padded white headboard. The duvet is soft gray, accented by a cluster of brightly patterned throw pillows, and a boho macramé wall hanging above the bed. In the corner, a round fuchsia chair is barely visible beneath a precarious pile of clothes, at least two feet high.
“Short on closet space around here?” I tease, smirking.
“Haha,” she mutters, flipping me off. “I’ve been busy, okay?”
“Uh-huh.” I arch a brow, clearly unconvinced. Rosie’s always been allergic to putting away clean laundry.
She huffs and rolls her eyes. “At least I didn’t let the load sit in the washer for three days like I normally do. I call that a win, thank you very much.” She props a hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes. “May we move on?”
Grinning, I grab her hips, pulling her into me. I kiss the spot just beneath her ear, feeling her soften under my touch. “Aw, Pip, don’t be mad. I was just giving you shit.”
Rosie sighs dramatically but smirks, taking my hand and leading me back into the hallway. She shows me a small, but modern bathroom followed by a laundry room—aka closet—before we reached the end of our tour.
“And we’ve hit a dead end,” she announces, leading me back into the main area.
“Man, you weren’t kidding. This entire apartment can’t be more than six or seven hundred square feet.”
She shrugs. “Seven twenty-three, actually, but I love it.”
