Seeing her in those first few stunned minutes, I felt … entranced. Intoxicated, and I hadn’t even had a drink yet. She was just so pretty, her skin damn near glowed. Everything about her was perfection, at least in my eyes, and I physically yearned to be close to her.
I should be focusing on my newfound opportunity to snag the Poppy Necklace. Not thinking about how I can possibly kiss her again. Seeing her, though, having her close enough to touch … I forget all about the necklace. All I can think about is her.
She hadn’t expected to see me and my being at the table threw her off, I could tell. She tried her best to ignore me. I think she was mad that I came with Whitney, who acted like a possessive girlfriend. Made me wonder if Whitney could sense the sparks flying between me and Rose and was doing her best to play interference.
That didn’t stop me. Whitney started talking with Violet, and that freed me to watch Rose unabashedly. The way she laughed and joked with Ryder and his friend. I liked the sound of her laughter. Full-bodied and unrestrained. She drank at least three beers, maybe four, and she consumed the bloodiest steak I’ve seen in a long-ass time, like she was one of the guys.
It was sexy as fuck.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. And eventually, she couldn’t take her eyes off me. I wanted her. Just like before, that night in Cannes with her naked and in the pool, her beautiful body on display just for me. I had my hands on her, my mouth on hers, and then I walked away.
Now, at this moment, in a small bathroom in a pub in the middle of Covent Garden on a Friday night, I’m not walking away. Hell no.
I cradle her head between my hands, my fingers buried in her silky, soft hair, my thumbs caressing her cheeks. Her eyelids are heavy, her lips damp and parted, and I want to kiss her as much as I want to take my next breath.
“Tell me you feel this,” I demand, needing the confirmation before I go any further.
“Feel what?” She’s playing dumb. Her breath quickens as I continue to touch her, and the shiver that steals over her skin is a sure sign she’s just as affected as I am.
“This … connection between us.” I touch the corner of her mouth. “I feel it.” I earn an eye roll for my words but I’m not deterred. She’s putting on an act.
“What about your girlfriend?” She meets my gaze steadily, those honey-gold eyes doing things to me. Like making my dick hard.
My girlfriend? Oh … Whitney. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
One perfectly arched brow lifts. “Does she know that?”
I smile. I like this girl. She has a smart mouth and it’s sorta hot. “Probably not.”
She releases her death grip on the counter and settles her hands on my chest, giving me a shove. But I don’t budge and she doesn’t like it. “That presents a problem.”
“What does?” Christ, I wish she’d stop talking so I can kiss her. I want to know if she tastes as good as I remember.
“Your not-a-girlfriend girlfriend.” She pushes at my chest again but I brace myself, which just frustrates her further. “You’re taken.”
“No, I’m not,” I say truthfully. “It’s not my fault she thinks we’re a couple.”
“You’re staying with her, right? Here in London?”
I don’t answer her. If I tell her the truth she’ll reject me. Instead, I press my mouth to hers, silencing whatever argument she might have offered. She makes a strangled noise deep in her throat but I’m persistent, deepening the kiss, sliding my tongue between her lips and touching hers.
She tastes as good as I remember, maybe even better. And she feels amazing in my arms, all warm and soft curves, her breasts pressed snug against my chest. She’s not wearing a bra and I can feel her hard nipples. I want to touch them. Lick them. Suck them.
I drift my hand down along her neck, across her collarbone, my fingers teasing along the neckline of her dress. She shivers beneath my touch, a little whimper falling from her lips when I tangle my tongue with hers at the same time I dip my hand beneath the bodice.
And encounter nothing but warm, plump skin.
“You shouldn’t do this,” she murmurs when I break the kiss to trail my lips along the length of her neck, my fingers going to the tiny buttons that run down the front of her bodice. I undo them one by one, exposing her, my gaze dropping as I spread the fabric wide and take in her perfect breasts topped with rosy nipples.
“Do what?” I ask as I rain kisses along the tops of her breasts. She puts her hands on either side of my head, her fingers going into my hair, much like I held her only a moment ago, but she’s not pushing me away.
She’s guiding me toward her nipple and I circle it with my tongue, draw it into my mouth and suck. Hard.
“Touch me like this. Kiss me like this,” Rose says breathlessly as she tosses her head back, her eyes sliding closed as she moans. I smile against her skin as I move to her other nipple, giving it the same treatment.
“You want it,” I tell her. Her skin is sweet and warm and she smells fucking amazing. I’m feeling her up in the middle of a bathroom and I don’t really give a damn. I have to have her.
“I don’t even know you,” she whispers when I lift away from her breasts, her eyes hazy with lust as she watches me. “We need to get back out there.”
I kiss her, my tongue teasing hers before I break away. “Not yet.”
“They’ll get suspicious.”
“Who?” I keep my gaze on hers as I slip my hand from her breast and touch her thigh, slipping beneath the skirt of her dress.
“Your girlfriend.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “I told you. She’s not my girlfriend.” My fingers rise farther, farther still, and I encounter nothing but bare skin. “Are you wearing panties?”
Rose slowly shakes her head, sinking her teeth into her plump lower lip.
“Consistent, aren’t you,” I murmur as I slip my hand to her trembling belly, sliding it lower until I’m cupping her between her legs. I can feel the heat emanating from her pussy and my cock stiffens, strangled beneath the fly of my jeans. “Spread your legs.”
She does as I ask without hesitation, her thighs opening enough to let me in, and I run my fingers over her slit, back and forth, searching her folds. “You’re fucking soaked.”
Another whimper escapes her and she closes her eyes, tilting her head back, lost to the pleasure. “Look at me,” I command and she lifts her head, meeting my gaze, hers full of anticipation and fear and arousal. “Feels good?”
Rose nods but otherwise doesn’t say a word and for whatever reason, that pisses me off. I want her to be as into this as I am and I can’t tell if she really is or not.
I stroke her, trace her folds, circle her clit, slip a finger inside her welcoming body, and she moans. Moans louder when I remove my fingers from her pussy and rest them against her mouth. “Open up.”
Her eyes go wide and slowly she parts her lips, allowing me to slip my fingers inside her mouth. “Taste how much you want me,” I whisper, smiling when I see the spark of anger in her gaze.
She probably thinks I’m an arrogant asshole. I don’t really care. This is hot as fuck, making her taste herself, watching her squirm. She sucks my fingers into her mouth, all four of them, and I can only imagine her giving me a blow job.
“Get ’em nice and wet,” I whisper, and she sucks harder before I pull them from her mouth and return them to her pussy, teasing her swollen clit. “Fuck, you feel amazing.”
Her eyes close as if she has no control and she drops her head forward until her forehead meets my shoulder. I continue to stroke her, her panting breath, her low moans driving me on. I want to make her come. I want to see her come.
And then I want to send her back out to that table full of oblivious people and follow after her about five minutes later. I want to sit across from her for the rest of the night and pretend she doesn’t exist, all the while knowing I just made her come all over my fingers in the bathroom.
“I’ve been wanting to do this to
you since the last time I saw you,” I whisper close to her ear just before I nibble on the lobe. My fingers never leave her pussy. I’m working her into a frenzy, my hand busy beneath her skirt, her legs still spread, her mouth falling open.
“Oh God,” she chokes out, her entire body going still.
So does my hand.
Her eyes pop open and she stares at me, her expression full of agony. Full of pleasure. “Please,” she whispers, and I know exactly what she wants.
But I want to hear her say it.
“Please what?” I ask innocently.
“Don’t—don’t stop.”
Slowly, I slide my middle finger through her folds, flicking it against her clit. “Don’t stop what?”
Surprisingly enough she laughs. “You know what.”
“Are you saying you want to come?”
She nibbles on her lower lip again—does she know how sexy that is?—before she answers with a soft, “Yes.”
I kiss her cheek. Cup her face with my other hand and turn her so I can drink from her lips. “Ask for it,” I say against that tasty, plump mouth.
“What?” Her voice falters. I don’t know what’s possessed me, but I love talking to her like this. Treating her like this.
“I want to hear you say the words, Rose.” My hand goes still once more and the whimper of frustration that falls from her lips sends a surge of satisfaction rolling through my veins.
I’m a sick fuck tonight. I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but there is something very dirty about getting Rose Fowler off with my fingers in a public restroom, demanding that she tell me exactly what she wants from me.
“I want to come,” she says, her voice strong, her gaze still on mine. “Please, Caden.”
It’s the way she says my name. It’s the use of the word please. Would she ever beg for her pleasure? I’d love to hear her. I’d love to see her down on her knees, my cock in her mouth, her tongue teasing, her fingers stroking …
Fuck. I can’t let myself get distracted. That’ll have to happen another time.
Without a word I increase my pace, sliding my fingers inside her body, my thumb pressing against her clit. She never looks away from me, not once, as her breathing increases, her mouth works as if she wants to say something, and again her body goes rigid.
But I don’t still my hand this time. I keep moving, keep fucking her with my fingers, keep teasing her clit with my thumb, and then her entire body is quaking, a gush of wetness bathes my fingers as her shaky moan lets me know without a doubt I just made her come. Her gaze is still on mine and I can’t look away, I can’t say a thing. I can only watch as she falls apart and then just as quickly pulls herself back together.
She licks her lips as I remove my hand from between her legs, her fingers working on the front of her dress, doing up the buttons. I step away, running my hand over my hair as she straightens her dress, then combs her fingers through her hair as she turns toward the bathroom mirror.
I just stand there like a dumbass, watching her. My cock strains against the front of my jeans and my fingers are wet. I rub them together, bring my hand up to my face, and take a sniff. They smell like her pussy and still I can’t move. Go to her, what the fuck?
“Did you just smell your fingers?” she asks incredulously.
I don’t answer her. Just continue to stare as she washes her hands and shakes them in the sink before she runs her damp fingers through her hair one more time. Then she grabs a hand towel and dries them off. A boring little ritual I’m oddly fascinated with. Finally she turns and looks at me, a pleasant smile on her face. Like we’re old chums versus newfound lovers who just messed around in a bathroom like sex-crazed lunatics.
“Um, thanks. That was … interesting,” she says as she starts to walk past me.
I’m not about to let her get away that easily. Reaching out, I grab hold of her arm, stopping her. “Interesting?”
“And satisfying,” she adds, that smile still on her face.
“I’m sure,” I say dryly, earning another laugh from her, surprising me. She’s treating this encounter so casually. I should like it. Prefer it. Most women would freak out or expect more. Not this one.
And I’m oddly disappointed.
“I need to get back out there before Violet starts looking for me.” Without another word, a glance, a thank-you, nothing from her, she walks away, head held high, a hum emanating from her as she unlocks and throws open the women’s bathroom door, exiting the room.
Shit, fuck. I need to get the hell out of here before someone else finds me. I dash out of the women’s bathroom and go into the men’s, thankful I’m alone. The reflection in the mirror reveals the same old me, but I feel different. Stupid, I know, but I can’t help it. I am not the same man I was before that encounter with Rose. I appear calm on the outside but inside, I’m rattled. Thrown. Turned on.
Jesus.
Turning on the faucet, I splash cold water on my face, hoping it’ll slap me back into reality, but it doesn’t. My head feels like it’s in a fog.
A Rose Fowler–induced fog.
I wash my hands, fighting the bitter disappointment of replacing the scent of Rose’s pussy with the sterile disinfectant smell of the liquid soap. I dry them and take a deep breath, counting to ten before I exit the bathroom, making my way back to the table. Rose is sitting there between Violet and Whitney, her cheeks still rosy, her hair tucked behind her ears, showing off that beautiful face. She doesn’t so much as look at me when I sit in my chair on the other side of Whitney. I grab my beer and polish it off with one swallow.
“Want another one, mate?” asks Ryder’s friend … Nigel. Right. Nigel.
“That would be great, yeah.” I reach for my back pocket, ready to pull out my wallet, but Nigel waves me off.
“I’ll get this round. I’m out anyway.” He holds up his empty glass before he slides off the chair and heads toward the bar.
“Where were you?”
I turn to find Whitney studying me with a suspicious gleam in her eyes, her tone accusatory.
“Bathroom. Then I had a phone call I had to take.”
“Who was it?”
Since when is it her business to ask me questions like that? “No one you know.” I am a consummate liar. It’s so easy to slip into my lies, they feel like a second skin.
“Hmm.” She doesn’t look like she believes me. Like I give a shit. “Rose was gone too.”
Unease creeps down my spine. “So?”
“So you were both gone. For a long time. And her dress is buttoned up wrong. It wasn’t before.”
Fuck. I feel everything inside of me wilt at Whitney’s words. As discreetly as possible I check out Rose, my gaze falling to her chest. Yes, the buttons are done up wrong, and I feel like a shit that I didn’t catch that before she escaped the bathroom.
“Are you accusing me of something?” I ask Whitney, my voice mean. I’m irritated that she’s calling me out.
“I don’t know. Did you do something?” she returns.
“Just say what you want to say, Whit.” I sound weary. I feel weary. “Let’s get this over with.”
She parts her perfectly glossed lips, swinging her hair back in a calculated move I’ve seen her perform before. The girl is gorgeous and she knows it, but she’s also a world-class pain in the ass and has driven every guy who’s been remotely interested in her far away with her needy, bitchy attitude.
I’m a shit. I put up with her, give her what she wants in bed, and then move on. What she sees in me, I have no idea. I don’t deserve her kindness. I don’t deserve anyone’s kindness.
“Whitney.” Violet rests her hand on Whitney’s arm, startling her. “Tell my sister about the time you slapped that guy across the face at a party. I was trying to tell her about it, but I just can’t do the story justice like you can.”
Whitney’s eyes narrow as she contemplates me, her expression tight. She doesn’t have to say a word but I know she’s thinking, You just got off
easy. She turns to look at Violet, her smile back in place, her voice light and with the slightest hint of a drawl. “Violet, darling, there have been two face-slapping incidents. Which one are you talking about?”
Violet tilts her head, her gaze traveling to mine for the briefest moment, sending me a knowing look. “Tell us about both of them,” she says encouragingly, sending me a wink before she returns her attention to Whitney.
I sit there quietly, shock washing over me as I wait for Nigel to return with my fresh beer. Contemplating what just happened because holy hell, that was unexpected.
As crazy as it sounds, I think I was just saved from a nasty confrontation by Violet. Meaning somehow, some way, Rose told her sister what happened between us.
Un-fucking-believable.
Chapter Seven
Rose
“You have some serious explaining to do.” Violet sends me a pointed look just before she picks up her coffee cup and sips from it.
We’re at a crowded little bakery not too far from my hotel, eating decadent pastries and drinking deliciously bitter coffee while sitting at a tiny table right next to the window that faces the street. The sidewalks are crowded with Saturday shoppers, all of them bright-eyed and dressed to perfection.
All while my hair is still damp from the quick shower I took before I came here. I’m wearing skinny jeans and a boring plain blue T-shirt I threw on as I dressed in a hurry in order to meet Violet on time. I have no makeup on, a cardinal sin according to our grandma, but I don’t really care.
I awoke earlier this morning from a crazy sex dream involving me, Caden, and a swimming pool to an endless stream of texts from Violet, basically demanding that I meet her here at the bakery at ten, no trying to get out of it. I replied that I would meet her only if she wouldn’t badger me with questions until I’d had my first cup of coffee.
More like my first sip. The cup barely touched my lips before she said something, asking for an explanation.
But how can I explain what happened yesterday when I barely understand it myself?
“I already told you what happened.” Briefly. Sort of. Last night she saw how rumpled I appeared when I returned from the bathroom, the buttons done up wrong on my dress—God, could I be any more foolish?—and immediately she was suspicious. I’d already told her I knew Caden, so she suspected it had something to do with him.