Page 59 of Watched

His rasp moan penetrates the air as he pulses and spills down my throat, legs shaking and hips jerking, trying to fuck my throat as he comes.

He pants jaggedly as I suck back to the tip to clean him.

“Shit,” he mouths, falling back onto the bed with still-quaking legs.

I doubt Connor ever made him come that hard. Stupid prick.

Chapter twenty-four

RAIN

The lamp glows beside me as I smile and pull back the comforter. Rome mumbles under his breath, sliding into bed beside me.

I think he’s beginning to understand that I’m not leaving unless he takes that pathetic bat to my head and drags me out himself. Considering he felt bad that he made my lip bleed, I doubt he’d run the risk of killing me.

Throwing the blanket over him, I grip his nape and waist, pulling him into me. I’m not surprised by his fight when I force his head to my chest.

“I’m tolerating you sleeping beside me. I don’t want to cuddle,” he grumbles.

“Too bad.”

I keep my hold firm until he admits defeat and lays against me. Gripping his arm that’s laying at his side, I wrench it across me.

“Rain,” he protests.

“Cuddle me.”

He releases a deep sigh and relaxes his arm. Can’t say the same for the rest of his body, though.

“Your cock was just in my mouth, and you dislike the fact I want to cuddle?” I ask, tracing the contours of his back with a featherlight touch.

“I’m not a big fan of cuddling,” he whispers. “I mean, I held my sisters while they slept when we were younger, but that was only to make sure they were okay.”

My heart flutters. “But never a romantic partner?”

“Connor, once.”

I grind my teeth.

After a few more minutes of slowly rubbing his back, he’s no longer a wooden plank, seeming to be enjoying it. His breathing has evened out, and his fingers are gently stroking my side. His eyes are even closed.

“You’re a good artist,” he compliments quietly.

I gently kiss his damp hair. “Thank you, baby.” I don’t know why, but he insisted he needed a shower.

“When did you start to paint?”

Well, well, well, Rome Aston wants to know me.

I keep my strokes light against his skin. “My mother loved to paint, and one day, when I was six, I wanted to do it with her. I apparently have a ‘natural talent’.”

The corners of his mouth lift with a smile, but it quickly falls. “You said loved…”

“Cervical cancer, when I was seventeen.”

My heart squeezes, not as hard as it once did when I’d talk about her, but the pain is permanent.

“It sounds like she was a great person.” He strokes my rib apologetically.