“Better than The Shard?” The newest skyscraper, close to the London Bridge, is one of the more popular spots for tourists to check out a view of the city. Not that I’d been there, but I’d heard all about it from Whitney.
“Not as crowded, at least. I don’t know about better.” The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a crazy interior.
I start to laugh as we walk inside, earning a weird look from Rose. “What’s so funny?”
“This elevator looks like a damn nightclub.” It’s dark inside save for the glowing purple and green lights that shine on the black floor, the little glints of silver embedded in the solid surface shining bright. The walls are mirrored and covered with a faint black brocade print, and there’s even mood music.
“It does,” Rose agrees with a little smile. She starts to move as if she’s dancing, and I watch in fascination as she sways her hips in time to the music.
She’s wearing a short pastel-colored lace dress and I’m not sure if she has panties on beneath it, but now is not the time to check. I’m hungry after expending my energy for the last five hours or so of straight fucking and eager to get to this restaurant so we can order something to eat.
“You trying to turn me on?” I ask her.
Rose flashes me a smile over her shoulder and shakes her ass. Jesus, the woman is hot. “Maybe.”
“It’s working.” I grab hold of her hips and pull her to me, stifling the groan that wants to escape when her ass brushes against my cock. It stiffens, though I can almost hear it protesting in agony, enough already. Let me rest.
She swivels her hips, her ass pushing against my cock, and I hold her still, my mouth against her hair as I whisper, “Do you want me to fuck you in the elevator?” I bought condoms at the Boots drugstore not far from her hotel, running in to purchase them while she was getting ready, blowing her hair dry and all of those other things women do before they go out on a date.
My entire body goes still. Is that what this is? A date? I’ve never been on one in my life, not even when I was young. It was all about the hookup. That’s all it’s ever been. Why let someone get close to me when I had all of these deep, dark secrets I didn’t want to share? My life turned into a tragedy, and then it turned into a joke. But the joke was on me and Mom, no one else. We became the punch line and it sucked.
I didn’t want to share that with anyone else. Of course, I’d never met anyone like Rose, either.
“I’m just playing.” She rests her hands on the outside of my thighs, her touch burning me even through the thick denim of my jeans.
“With fire,” I murmur just as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open.
Rose pulls away from me, practically running out of the elevator, and I follow after her down the narrow hallway that turns into an even narrower staircase. She glances down at me, making sure I’m right behind, and I fall into step after her, cocking my head so I can sneak glances up her skirt.
Just as I thought. The little tease isn’t wearing panties. She’s going to drive me straight insane before the night is done, I swear.
We reach the top of the stairs and the night air hits me, cool but with that hint of lingering heat that declares summer is coming. Rose sends me a smug look over her shoulder and I’m about to say something when the hostess approaches, a cute, petite thing dressed all in black, the skirt of her dress so short I’m afraid one wrong move and she’ll be showing the world—or at least us—everything she’s got.
“Two for dinner or just drinks?” the hostess asks, her accent thick, a little sneer curling her upper lip.
“Dinner, please.” I wrap my arm around Rose’s waist, pulling her into me. She goes willingly, her curves fitting perfectly against my side, and we follow the hostess to a high table that faces directly out over Trafalgar Square. She hands us our menus with a quick smile and then scurries away.
“If she would let me, I would so give her a makeover,” Rose says as she flips open the menu. “If I suggested it, though, she’d probably be insulted.”
“You think she needs a makeover?”
Rose glances at me from over the top of her menu. “Did you see all the eyeliner she had on? And mascara? Hell yes, she needs a makeover. When I was in high school I worked the Fleur counter at Bloomingdale’s for one summer. I was sixteen and loved it.”
“Really? One of the Fowlers working the makeup counter?” I’m surprised. Figured they would think that sort of work beneath them.
She sends me an irritated look. “My grandma made me and my sisters do it at one point or another. I’m the only one who enjoyed it, though. I loved giving makeovers.”
“Why?” I forget about the menu and my hunger and wait for her answer. I like that she’s opening up to me. Though of course, her opening up means she probably expects me to do the same.
And I don’t know if I can.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, her expression thoughtful. “It was fun, to make that transformation happen. And to see the joy on the women’s faces when they saw what I did, it made me feel good. I didn’t even care about selling them the product. I just wanted to make them happy.”
“Isn’t that the point of a makeover at a cosmetics counter? So you can sell them the product?”
“Yes, and I failed miserably at that part. I’d take over an hour on a woman’s makeup and let her walk without spending a dime.” Rose shakes her head. “I was awful.”
“Sounds like you did it just for the fun of it.”
She smiles wistfully. “I did. That was the one time when working for Fleur truly felt like fun.” Her smile falls, and it’s as though she just caught herself in a terrible confession. “Lately working for Fleur, sometimes it feels like so much …”
“Work,” I finish for her.
“Right. Work.” Her voice is faint and she turns to study the view, offering me a glimpse of her profile. The single candle sitting in the middle of the table casts her face in a golden glow, emphasizing the shape of her jaw, the straight angle of her nose, the plumpness of her lips. The longer I stare, the more I become entranced. She’s stunning, looking a little sad, a little lost.
“Ready to order?” The waitress appears and I turn to her, my gaze dropping to the neckline of her dress, her cleavage on obvious display. She’s a pretty girl but there’s nothing subtle about her, from the bright blond of her hair to the short skirt and loads of makeup on her face.
“I haven’t had a chance to look at the menu yet,” I admit, tearing my gaze from her boobs.
“Me either,” Rose says, her voice tight.
“Want something to drink then?” the waitress asks, sounding bored.
“Yeah, that sounds good.” I order a beer and Rose orders some fancy little cocktail I’ve never heard of before and the waitress walks away, an extra swish in her step, as if she wants me to look.
And I do.
“God, you’re a pig,” Rose says with a little groan.
I look in her direction. “What do you mean?”
“Staring at the waitress like you want to molest her while you’re sitting at the table with me,” she accuses, her eyes flaring with anger.
“She wants me to stare at her like that. Look at the way she’s dressed,” I say in my defense. Damn, look at her, acting like a possessive girlfriend.
“I couldn’t take my eyes off her bad makeup,” Rose retorts.
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t take my eyes off her short skirt.”
“And her boobs.”
“Fine, and her boobs.” I shake my head. “Are you jealous?”
“What? No.” She sounds horrified. “Why would I be jealous? You can look at whoever you want.”
“Uh-huh.” I let my gaze return to the menu, checking out what they have to offer, which is a lot. Just reading the descriptions of the various entrees is making me hungrier.
But I can feel Rose’s anger radiating off her in palpable waves. She doesn’t like that I called her out on her jealousy.
“You’re an ass,” she finally says, the last word ending in a hiss.
“Just speaking the truth.” I don’t look up from the menu and I can feel her glaring at me. That old saying “if looks could kill” would definitely apply here.
I’d be dead right about …
Now.
Chapter Eleven
Rose
I’m mad because Caden’s right. I am jealous. He stared at her chest right in front of me like he couldn’t help it and fine, he probably couldn’t, but oh my God, have some restraint, please. We’re on a date.
Staring at the menu, my vision blurs so bad I can’t even read it. Is that what we’re doing? Are we really on a date? I went from asking him to leave my room to behaving like an embarrassed idiot to letting him take a shower with me, all in about a five-minute span.
That shower had been so worth it, though. The man fulfilled his promise, washing my hair and massaging my head until I wanted to melt into the tiles. Then he proceeded to soap up my entire body, rubbing his hands all over me, making sure to get “everything clean,” as he said. He then proceeded to bring me to orgasm with just his fingers. Oh, and his mouth wrapped tightly around my nipple after he rinsed off my chest, sucking it so deep I felt the pull of his lips and tongue to the depths of my being.
Dramatic but true. I bet he could make me come with only his mouth on my breasts. I’m squirming in my seat just thinking about it. Doesn’t help that I didn’t wear any panties. Again. He makes me do these things, I swear. And I don’t understand why.
Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I spy on him, my anger slowly dissipating. The breeze makes his hair flutter across his forehead, into his eyes, and he absently swipes at it, brushing it back. He’s wearing the same clothes from earlier because of course, he didn’t have anything new to change into after our shower. It doesn’t matter, though. He looks good.
Too good.
“Are you plotting my death?” he asks, startling me. He still hasn’t looked up from the menu but I can see the faint smile curving his mouth. I feel myself start to smile in return, and I immediately frown instead.
“What are you talking about?” I sound bitchy and I clear my throat, mentally telling myself to ease up. The man is worth keeping around for the orgasms alone.
Ack. That’s the shittiest thought ever.
I like him for more than just orgasms. He’s … challenging. Funny. Fun. I’ve been so serious lately. So wrapped up in my own problems, my own worries and concerns. Reading my mother’s diary brought me further down and I feel terrible that I haven’t even mentioned it to Violet or Lily. If I were them, I’d want to know.
But what good would it do, telling them? What would it gain? Nothing but sadness. I’m sick of feeling sad.
Caden makes me smile. He makes me moan. More than anything, he makes me feel good. I need that right now. I need to remember that I can smile and laugh and have a good time. Caden is the ideal remedy to my problem.
“I can feel you staring at me. Still pissed?” He finally looks up, those deep brown eyes meeting mine, filled with amusement, the smile stretching into a full-on grin, and I can’t help but smile at him in return.
“Why can’t I stay mad at you?”
“I don’t know. My irresistible ways?” He raises his brows, making me laugh.
“Not so sure about that. We seem to argue a lot.” The laughter fades. I don’t know how I feel about that particular fact. It’s disconcerting, how easily we fall into an argument and then into each other’s arms. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.
“They call it passion,” he says.
I go completely still. “What?”
“What’s happening between us. It’s called passion.” His smile fades and he leans across the table, his voice lowering. “You get mad at me and then you want to kiss me and then you’re yelling at me and then … we’re fucking. Passion.”
He makes it sound so simple. But it’s not. It feels terribly complicated. “Passion,” I repeat.
“Yeah.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. Which, of course, infuriates me.
“Have you ever experienced this with someone else?” I ask. That has to be the reason for his total nonchalance over it. He talks of passion like it’s nothing special, while I sit here filled with it. I feel like a bottle of Champagne that’s been shaken up so much the cork is this close to popping across the room and sending half the alcohol shooting out in a white frothy mess.
That’s me. I’m the white frothy mess.
His jaw works and he leans back, as if he needs the distance. “No,” he says, his voice short. And he doesn’t look very happy about it, either.
Pleasure fills me at his admission and I want to say more, but the waitress makes her reappearance with our drinks, setting them in front of us before she takes our dinner order.
“What are you drinking?” he asks after the waitress leaves.
“It’s called a Trafalgar Tease.” I swirl the thin red straw in the glass, mixing everything so I won’t take a sip of straight alcohol.
“I should call you a Trafalgar Tease,” he says, his voice deepening in that way of his that makes me think of naked skin and twisted sheets and sex.
“Why?” I pluck the cherry out of the drink and pop it into my mouth, the tart sweetness spurting all over my tongue as I chew.
“There are a few reasons.” His gaze is locked on my lips, and my breasts grow heavy the longer he stares. “First, for the way you just ate your … cherry.” Okay, that sounded incredibly dirty. “And second, for the fact that you’re not wearing panties. Again.”
I swallow the cherry. “How do you know?”
“I caught a peek up your dress when you were climbing the stairs.” He flashes this wicked, one-sided, closed-mouth smile that makes everything inside of me go fluttery and weak. “Like you didn’t do that on purpose.”
“I didn’t.” I had no idea that he was looking up my skirt. Though I should’ve known.
“And then there’s the way you were grinding your ass against my cock in the elevator.” He shakes his head but he doesn’t look mad. No, he looks very, very pleased. “You were just daring me to lift your skirt and fuck you right there, weren’t you?”
“N-no.” Oh God, I’m stuttering. He’s saying these things so casually, all while we’re surrounded by plenty of people. The rooftop restaurant is crowded. I can hear the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of glasses and silverware against plates, but it all fades as we continue to stare at each other. Until I feel like Caden and I are the only two people in this restaurant, in this city, in this country.
He leans back in his chair, looking every inch the casual playboy hell-bent on seducing me. Though it wouldn’t be much of a seduction. I’d give in too easily and he knows it. Whatever he wants to do to me, I’ll take it. And I’ll enjoy it. Because he’s not a selfish lover, oh no. He makes sure I get my pleasure.
Lots and lots of pleasure.
“I think I’ll make an attempt when we leave,” he declares as he grabs his beer and drinks straight from the bottle despite the glass the waitress left for him.
“An attempt at what?” My mind is awhirl with all sorts of … things. I can’t keep up with the conversation and I feel a bit of a wreck.
“Fucking you in the elevator.” He takes another swig. “Don’t give me that look. You know you want me to.”
He’s right. I do want him to. God, what’s wrong with me?
My throat is dry. Reaching out with a shaky hand, I grab my drink and take a big sip, the sweet liqueur going straight to my head and empty stomach. I feel Caden’s eyes on me and I lift my gaze, my lips still wrapped around the straw, to find him staring at me, his dark eyes filled with hunger.
Slowly I withdraw the straw from my mouth and set the glass on the table, my breath increasing, my skin growing hot. The table we’re sitting at couldn’t be called a table at all, more like a narrow counter attached to the low wall, a candle bur
ning in between us, our chairs sitting next to each other but at an angle. We have the best view in the entire restaurant, straight out over Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery lit up like an elegant beacon in the night. Tons of people still fill the square, spilling all over the stairs that lead to the gallery.
I keep my gaze focused on the view, the billowing British flags snapping in the wind that top so many of the buildings spread out before us like a blanket. This city seems to go on forever, majestic and white and full of history and beauty. While I’m here, I should be out touring, wandering through museums and absorbing the history. Becoming inspired so maybe I, too, could one day have my own cosmetics collection like Violet.
Instead I’m having dinner with an impossible man who makes me feel impossible, wonderful things. It’s crazy. I’m crazy.
His hand settles on my knee, a casual touch that looks like nothing to anyone else who would happen to see but feels like everything to me. I keep my gaze purposely averted from his, watching the people mill about below, the music some kids are playing drifting up as they put on a performance for a handful of observers standing around.
All the while, Caden’s hand moves up. Skimming past my knee, along the top of my thigh, farther up, until he’s sliding it down to my inner thigh and I hear him say in that sexy, gruff command of a voice that’s barely above a whisper, “Open your legs.”
I do so without hesitation, my breath hitching in my throat when his fingers brush against my bare pussy. I close my eyes, my legs falling open even more when he slides his finger inside my body.
“Look at me,” he demands and I snap my eyes open, turning to face him. His eyes are hooded, his lips parted, the candlelight playing shadows upon his face, and I’ve never seen him look so sexy.
“Can I make you come right here in the middle of the restaurant?” He presses his thumb to my clit and I jolt in my chair, the little whimper sounding in my throat earning a stern look from him. “Be quiet, Rose. Don’t want to draw a crowd.”
No. I definitely don’t want to draw a crowd. But I do want to come. I glance around the restaurant to see that no one is paying us any mind, everyone too wrapped up in their own conversations, their own personal dramas. All the while, I have a man’s hand up my skirt, his finger buried in my pussy, trying his best to draw yet another orgasm from me.