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The door to Rose’s room is wide open, it also hasn’t changed one bit. There is an open suitcase on the bed. Completely out of character for her. She always comes for the party and leaves right after. I make a mental note to get to the bottom of that. No fucking way am I staying in this house with her and her insipid good-for-show boyfriend, sleeping down the hall.
She left the water running when she ran away, I’m just not sure if she’s running from me or herself. The half-full tub welcomes me in, soothing tense muscles but doing nothing for my hard cock.
I have definitely wondered what she looks like naked, and jerked off to the idea of her over the years. But it was all innocent… as innocent as getting hard over someone you can’t have ever is. Finally seeing her has given all those fantasies a whole different reality to go on. Gasoline on the embers of a budding fire. For the first time I find myself picturing it actually happening.
I can’t say it’s the first time I’ve thought about Rose in a way I probably shouldn’t have, but it didn’t bother me. At the end of the day, we aren’t blood-related and I am only a man. The flesh is weak, some bits of flesh much weaker than others. There is no real issue besides the imposed societal norms, which I can’t give a shit about. Rose though? Social conventions are the air she breathes. She’s uptight and strict, leading a beige-on-beige life bound by a fucking book of rules no one but her gives a damn about.
I fist my dick in my hand while my mind dangles on the edge of a precipice of dark lust. I can’t help but pump, each stroke harder, fueled by perky pink tits and a taught ass I wouldn’t mind desecrating. She’d flick me all the way back to the city if she could read my mind right now. A part of me wishes she could.
Would she use the pent-up anger behind all these years of fighting and teasing between us as incentive? I know I would. Angry sex is the best and I am an expert at it. I’d make her scream; make her proper, rehearsed, polite little voice reach decibels that would shatter the lies she tells herself about what she really wants.
I pump harder. My head bangs against the side of the tub as I jerk back.
I see her riding me behind my closed lids. Bouncing to the rhythm of my groans. I can feel her hands on my chest as she lifts herself and sinks back onto me. The force of my hand, milking my cock to the very last drop is sending sloshes of water over the glazed edge. I bite my tongue and my lip to keep the sound of pleasure from permeating the walls.
I come. I come hard to the image of a perfect redhead fucking me as if her life depended on it. The pace of my hand decreases until I’m down to gentle strokes, waiting for the ‘what the fucks’ to torment me. But they never come.
Well, fuck my life! Given the chance, I’d actually do it.
I get dressed in a trance; my mind boggled by the recent realization.No use in mulling over it, though.
I head back down, ready to be hit by an overload of unapologetic Valentine’s Day décor. As predicted, arrows and hearts line every wall, an explosion of red has tainted every visible surface. Some of it has even landed on my tie. Dress code. Everyone must wear at least some red.
“Archie!” My mom squeals from behind me. “There you are, my baby. Give your mother some sugar.” She practically smothers me with her signature bear hug. Even though she’s smaller than me, her love is so big it crushes my bones.
She places a headband with heart antennas on my head and stuffs a red handkerchief in the pocket of my suit jacket, trying to blend me further into the scenery. “There, much better. Where’s your sister?”
“Rosy’s here already?” I fake surprise. No need to have my mother calling a priest for an exorcism just yet. The doorbell cuts us off, and I get no more information about why my stepsister came early this year.
“Go get that for me, will you, dear? I just have to run upstairs for my pearl necklace. Find your sister, will you?” My mom yells on her way up. Pearl necklace… she’d be clutching those if she knew.
I yank the headband off before I open the door. I do it a couple of times, before someone from the catering company finally takes my place as the door man. The house is quickly filling with friends and family, but sister dearestis nowhere to be seen.
I saw the way she stared at me. Did she uncover the buried need to scratch an itch like I did? That would surely push her over the brink of annoyance. I turn my back to the door and see her standing at the top of the steps.
“Finally, buttercup.” Teasing Rose is a sport I have always excelled at. The annoyed flush on her cheeks never disappoints. It invariably makes me think of all the other supple, dark, hidden places that might be feeling the sudden rush of blood.
She is wearing a red satin dress, conforming to our parents’ ridiculous dress code for this miserable evening. That’s where the conforming stops. The dress is tight as sin with a slit that almost reaches her slit. I can see the outline of her ribs, the outline of her goddamn nipples. And I would bet my twitching cock she is not wearing any panties under it.
I know she can feel the weight of my stare as I peruse her figure where she stands. Fuck. She’s wearing stilettos, or whatever the hell they are called. All I know is they make her legs look like fucking death traps. I’m expecting the standard snarky reply but it doesn’t come. Instead, she’s just standing atop the staircase of the home we grew up in — or whatever is still visible of it underneath the red hearts, arrows and Cupid decorations my mother happily plastered on to anything that couldn’t protest.
“James.” Her tone does nothing to hide the contempt she charges my name with.
“That’s it, sis? I haven’t seen you since last year’s anniversary festivities. I deserve more.”
“I’m not in the mood today.” I’m guessing that’s my fault and I can’t help but stick my finger into that wound.
“Why? Is what’s-his-face acting weird already?” Rose pushes past me, dodging a waiter wearing a headband with heart antennas like the one I tossed. My hand grabs on to her arm, turning her around to face me. “Oh c’mon, it’s only fun when you fight back.”
“Greg’s not here, okay?” She angrily replies. Greg. That’s her insipid, joke of a boyfriend’s name. That’s why she’s upset? It’s not because of me after all. A tight pang of something hits me unpredictably, I didn’t expect to be disappointed, but I am.
She finally fights back by pulling her arm out of my grasp and fielding the crowd, beelining towards the bar. I follow. I always follow. Besides, from two steps behind her, I confirm my suspicions that there is nothing but a thin layer of satin between her skin and the world.
The man-child behind the bar is ogling her. Fuck that. I pull her by the shoulders, take a longer step, reaching the bar first, blocking her from the help’s view. He can feast his eyes on my back. “She’ll have a margarita. A scotch, neat, for me.”
Rose clenches her jaw. There it is, the lovely frustration I’ve been waiting for. “Is that what I wanted, your royal assholeness?”
“A flower for a flower,” I muse with a smirk. I think she mumbled ‘insufferable’, I can’t be sure. “I always know what you want, Rosy.” My voice drops, catching her attention. Her eyes are finally on mine. Defiant. Sexy as hell. She doesn’t even know how sexy she is.
