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“I can go to my room all on my own, thanks.”
“That’s the thing. You’re in our room now. I need to show you where it is.”
Frowning, I ask, “Ourroom?”
“You’re my wife, Lou. You didn’t think I’d allow you to sleep anywhere but my bed, did you?”
I’m about to let out a sarcastic laugh when I recall the way he responded to me earlier. All it took was a little knee graze and he was putty in my hands, telling me more than he would have otherwise. I’m sure of it.
You’re the one who ended up on your back, Louisa.
That’s true. Unfortunately for me, I’m also easily seduced by him, which makes me vulnerable. However, it’s a worthwhile risk if it gets him to talk.
Plastering a smile on my face, I say, “Of course.Ourroom. It makes sense. Okay, lead the way.”
I follow him to the second floor and to the left, to the room right below the “guest suite” I was kept in. If I’d known, I would have stomped around to drive him crazy.
“This is it,” he says, moving aside to let me enter.
“It’s nice,” I remark, taking it all in. “Is this the master?”
“No.” He walks in behind me and shuts the door. “Uncle Bryan had that room. This has been mine since I moved here.”
The room itself isn’t large, about half the size of the one above it. Oak paneling covers the wall with the window, the other walls painted a pale blue. A dark wood sleigh bed is centered on one side, and on the other, a rustic chest of drawers sits between two doors.
“That’s the closet.” He points to the one on the right. “And that’s the bathroom.”
I peer into it, admiring the classic black and white tile floor and claw-foot tub. It’s not a huge space but is better suited for him than the one in the studio apartment.
He stands behind me, and through the mirror above the sink, I see something like doubt cross his features. “We could move into the master if you prefer that.”
“No. I don’t mind—” I pause midsentence when I spot a few lines carved into the door casing. Beside them, dates have been inscribed, a single large digit next to each one—5,6,7. Then they stop.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out that the lines recorded his height at those ages. I know this because there are similar lines in my house. We each have our own markings, my brothers and I. A register lovingly made by Mom, and even a few by Papá, so that we could always see how far we’d come.
Rowan’s end at seven. The year his mother died. There was no one left who truly cared after that.
My throat suddenly tightens and I glance away, not wishing to feel anything but resentment toward him. But damn me, I can’t help it.
“I like this room,” I tell him, going to rummage through my luggage, needing something to distract me from the unwanted emotion.
“I made space in the closet for your stuff.”
Flicking my gaze in that direction, I give him an apprehensive smile. “Once I figure out what’s staying, I’ll put my things away.”
The first bag I check has a few pairs of threadbare sweat pants, old college sweatshirts, and some socks that don’t even belong to me. Ugh, Daniel.
Disgusted, I push aside the other two bags. I go to the bed and throw myself back onto it and sigh.
“What’s the matter?” He knocks my knees apart and climbs between them. Burying his face into the crook of my neck, he takes a deep breath, inhaling my scent. “You smell like me. It fucking turns me on.”
Almost on instinct, as if his hard cock against my center is a button, I lock my legs around his waist. “You’re seriously ready to go again? I haven’t even showered yet. I’m literally still wet from the last time.”
He thrusts his hips forward, and I moan. “That only makes me want to fuck you again.”
Pushing with all my might, I roll us until I’m on top, straddling him. Just like he did to me, I hold his wrists by his head. “I’m a little tired of you manhandling me.”
“Then by all means, teach me a lesson.” He thrusts upward. “I’ll take it like a man. Promise.”
