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Paint still covered her legs, and the sight of it paired with her red-stained hair was enough to send my senses soaring.
She was a fucked up artist with fake blood on her hands. Blood my own father had led me to believe was real. And I wanted to lick every inch of it off of her skin. The relief that the stains were paint and not blood, powerful enough to bring me to my knees.
And seeing her before me, whole like the moon on wolves night was enough to make the monster in me shiver.
Her blue eyes capture mine and I can feel the ice melting around my heart.
“I’m waiting,” I state impatiently, reaching up with both palms to grip the top of the doorway. Her eyes follow my arms and I watch her throat swallow.
Liked what she saw, did she?
“If I... if I let you in... it's only to shower.” My eyes narrow at her words.
“Clarify.”
“I can't handle...” Rose shivers, “I can't handle anything else tonight.” Her eyes look up at me, so vulnerable it was like looking through glass, her emotions completely and utterly transparent. And I could see the trauma was threatening to tear apart her skin. I needed to be the glue to stick her broken pieces back together, not the hammer to shatter her apart for good.
“Fine.” I agree, “Just showering.”
She nods, satisfied with my anwer.
“You may come in.” and the siren has the guts to smirk at me, enjoying our little game of Netflix references.
Following her, I enter the bathroom and tear off my combat boots before reaching for the hem of my t-shirt. Her eyes track my every movement and I eat up her stare like it's a five-course meal. When I reach the button on my jeans she sucks in a breath, her attention focused intently on my fingers as I pop open the button and slide the jeans down my legs, leaving me in nothing but my skin-tight boxers.
Her eyes drift to my cock and I still as she takes in my rock-hard erection, the skin-tight boxers leaving little to the imagination.
Yes, I was hard. Had been since the minute she wrapped those sexy legs around my waist.
Fuck it all she had to do was open those ruby lips of hers and I was tenting in my jeans. My cock threatening to jump out of the fabric. It seemed my dick had its own agenda when it came to Goldie Locks.
“Sorry Blondie, I can't help it when I’m around you. My cock aches to be inside your sweetness, but I’ll behave myself.” She’s still glancing at the bulge in my boxers and I have to remind myself that fucking her is off the table. For now. I still fully intended to fuck her brains out in this bathroom. The plans were just backordered.
Tilting her chin from my cock, (in part because her looking at me like that was enough to make me come), I guided her eyes to mine,
“I promise.” The words seem to set Rose at ease and I watch as she takes a deep breath before stepping into the shower, waiting for me to join her.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
Shedding my boxers I join her, the warm water’s spray coating us both. She turns toward me and I gasp as her breasts graze my chest.
“Sorry.” She mumbles and tries to turn around but I hold her there, pressing her body against mine.
“No Blondie. It's perfect. You're perfect. You feel perfect. And fuck your tits.” I say, lightly grabbing her right breast,
“Your tits are gorgeous.” She blushes at the compliment before turning away and reaching for the bar of soap,
“Just showering, remember.” She scolds me and I hold my hands up in surrender even though I’m now facing the back of her.
Fuck she has a perfect ass too. It's like my guardian devil was just trying to torture the fuck outta me.
“I know, I know.” I chant before reaching around and grabbing the soap from out of her hands, “Here I can do that.” I state before rubbing the soap in slow circles on her back. She sighs and the sound runs shivers through me, straight to my cock.
Gosh if she kept making sounds like that I was going to blow. Come on her back in a matter of seconds. Fuck, the vision of my come staining her ass did nothing to relieve the aching tension in my dick, in fact, it only made it about a million times worse as I would love to come all over Rose's very perfect, very fuckable backside.
Red paint washes down the drain as I lather Roses back and my mind switches to the murder chanel. My father was a dead man walking. He better be counting his pennies and writing his damn will because it was over for that oxygen-stealing baby wipe. He’d gone too far and this time he would pay.
Preferably with his life.
