“Into what? Making you submit? I find that–” He stops his thought. “Well, youarestubborn. I guess mortal men can’t handle putting you in your place.”
“In my place?” I step towards him. The glossy illustrated cover still hides half his face, but I can tell by the lines around his eyes that he’s smiling to himself. “Nice try.” I lean back on my heels. “You’re not going to get me worked up tonight.”
“You say that as if it takes effort.”
I roll my eyes, snatching the book away. “I’m going to lay in bed and read.” I start to walk away but hear him follow me. I glance over my shoulder. “I told you I’m not in the mood.”
“So we can’t be close to each other?”
“You’re confusing. You call yourself a devil, but you’re trying to cuddle with me.”
“I said nothing about cuddling.”
I get into bed, laying against the headboard and cracking open the book with the fellatio scene. I deserve a good reread. “If you want to lay next to me, fine.” I should tell him to mope on the couch, but I don’t.
He gets into bed on the opposite side. I feel his eyes on me and look up from the words to catch him with his face propped up on his elbow, watching. I return my attention to the page, but he’s already caught me looking–at least, I assume that’s what brought on his low rumbling chuckle.
Rosier shifts next to me, laying flatter on the mattress. His hand slides onto my lower stomach, and he grabs my hip, but there’s still space between us. I nibble at the inside of my lip, not sure if I can really call this cuddling.
“You can pick something to read if you want,” I say with my attention still on the page.
“I’ve had my fill of your epic tales. I’d much rather watch you.” I try to immerse myself in the book and ignore my own rogue in my bed, but I can’t because he says, “Or you could read aloud.”
“This isn't a storytime corner,” I tell him. “Andyoushould read tome–here.” I hand him the book, expecting him to swat it away, but instead he takes it from me with a cocksure smirk.
“‘His hand groped the swell of her breasts.’” His rumbling voice makes for the perfect narration. He’d make a killing doing audiobooks, assuming that’s not beneath him. “‘Lilac, innocent as a lamb, gasped in horror, yet her body lifted to meet his touch…’”
He keeps going, and I watch and listen. Something about hearing him articulate these words creates a whole new narrative in my head. He’s a rake, of course, the sort that shows up to the London Season with a reputation and a long list of broken hearts. He probably keeps his long curls free flowing when he can, another clear indication of his wild nature.
But who am I in this little scenario? I’m old enough to know that all these historical romances are fantasies. I know I can be the daughter of the Count or a Princess. But I’m fatherless, which is a scandal. But why do the men get to have all the fun? Every good heroine should have a scandal.
Rosier’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “‘I want you.’” I blink and then remember the book in his hands. “‘I crave you, Lilac, like your namesake craves the sun.’” Rosier pauses, looking at the pages with a confused brow. “What’s a lilac?”
“It’s a purple flower. Small petals, but they grow in bundles from large bushes.”
“Ah.” He nods, then starts reading again.
I inch towards him, trying to be subtle before I give up on that and slide under his arm to rest against his chest.
Rosier says nothing, still reading aloud like he’s a living breathing audiobook. “‘No one has ever held me like this. I fear my heart may tear out of my chest and run off—run off with you.’”
His fingers trail along the waistband of my pants. But it could be an absentminded touch. His eyes are still fixed on the page. “‘I must be careful not to finish this, Lilac. Not till we’re wed. Yet she desired him wholly, forgetting all about her station and the world around her…’”
Every good heroine should have a scandal.
I take Rosier’s hand and guide it under my waistband. I look at his face to see if there’s any reaction. His teeth drag along his full bottom lip, hesitating a moment before continuing to read aloud. But then his hand slips farther down my pants and starts to stroke along the satin of my panties. I close my eyes and let myself listen to him. Feel him.
His tone becomes throatier as he reads. “‘His heart began to hammer as, for the first time, Lilac reached for him.’”
Rosier presses his fingers against my bud, and my breath catches in my throat. I’m torn between tearing off my clothes, removing the barrier between us, and the sense of security that comes with being clothed. But I give in and slide my pants and panties down in one swift motion.
Rosier doesn’t waste any time dipping his fingers between my folds, only his fingertips inside me. “‘In the light of the grove, Lilac’s rich caramel curls bounced as she took more and more of her lover in her mouth, an act she had only heard of in hushed whispers from the scullery maids.’”
He pulls out, his wet fingers continuing to lightly stroke my folds as he reads aloud his favorite scene. I don’t remember it being so filthy, and perhaps the words themselves aren’t any more graphic than the rest of the novel. But that’s part of the appeal, the heightened and sometimes too flowery language to describe giving head of all things.
Rosier’s fingers finally slide deep inside me as he grabs my waist and pulls me flush against his body. “I crave your mouth,” he growls in my ear. “I crave the pink of your lips.”
I can’t recall if that’s part of the book, or if he’s actually talking to me.
