Crave the Rose

by Karen Kincy

  She glances into my eyes with a cocky little smirk. “Going to drag me to your bedroom?”

  I sweep her into my arms. She shrieks and clutches my shoulders. “Don’t drop me!”

  “I won’t.”

  I carry her across the foyer and to the bottom of the stairs. It’s dark and moonlit in here, and I don’t actually want to die on the stairs. There’s a lantern sitting on the dusty table. “See that lantern? Grab it for me.”

  I lean toward the lantern. She strains to reach it, then fumbles to turn it on. It blinks to life with a yellow glow. I climb upstairs, Cassia clinging onto my neck, the lantern in her hand. The light flickers and I walk faster.

  “The battery is almost gone,” I say.

  “Better hurry.”

  The lantern dies outside my bedroom. I set her on her feet and she drops the lantern. We face each other in the dark.

  Can she hear my heartbeat? It’s thundering in my ears.

  “After you,” I say.

  I sweep open the door and step aside. Boldly, she walks into my bedroom. Moonlight bathes the room in silver.

  I follow her inside. “Should have nicked some of those electric candles.”

  She leans against the door, and it swings shut behind her. She stands there in the shadows. I can’t see where she’s looking. “Take off your clothes.”

  I fist my hands at my sides. “You first.”

  She steps forward. A moonbeam falls through the curtains and hits her in a spotlight of silver. Her fingers trembling, she unbuttons her blouse.

  Why is she shaking? Is she afraid?

  “Cassia,” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “We don’t have to do this.”

  She freezes, her blouse held by its last button. “It’s too late for cold feet.”

  “It’s never too late.”

  Her hands tighten on the satin of her blouse. “What’s wrong with me?”

  My throat clenches. “Nothing. Please don’t think like that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t want to cock this up.”

  She’s silent for a moment. She licks her lips, then meets my gaze. “Whatever this is, it can only be improved by your cock.”

  I laugh, I can’t help myself.

  “You know what I want.” She tilts back her head. “Do you want me?”

  I nod.

  “Then don’t just stare at me.”

  She folds her arms over her chest. I’m struck by how small she looks standing there alone, halfway naked, her eyes defiant.

  With one last prayer that I won’t regret this, I close the distance between us.

  18

  Cassia

  Bram strides toward me without hesitation. It’s not cold in here, in his bedroom, but the tiny hairs on my arms prickle. I’m too sober for this, my stomach churning, my head sharp with the clarity of what I’m about to do.

  He slows and clasps my wrists. I’m holding my arms across my chest.

  Gently, he tugs my arms away. He ducks down and steals a kiss, his lips a soft caress. He’s too damn polite. It makes it harder for me to concentrate on why I’m here, harder for me to ignore the whispers of guilt.

  Turn off your brain. Think with your pussy.

  I close my eyes and block out Spencer’s voice.

  Bram deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping past my lips, and the sensation shocks my nerves awake. I grip his broad shoulders. His body is all lean muscle against mine. Not an inch wasted. And speaking of inches—

  “God,” I say. “Can I see your cock?”

  “Go ahead,” he whispers against my lips.

  I fumble with the zipper on his jeans. It’s hard to do because, well, he’s so hard. When I yank down his jeans and boxers, he springs free. His cock is more than I imagined, in every way. I wrap my fingers around its girth.

  He hisses through clenched teeth and thrusts into my hand. “I thought of you when I touched myself.” His words sound gravelly.

  Shivers dart down my spine. “You did?”

  “This afternoon. In my bedroom.” He has a dark chuckle. “I thought you saw.”

  “Damn. I’m sure I missed quite a show.”

  He kisses me again, fiercely, grabbing my hips. My hand is pinned between his cock and his flat stomach. I tease the tip of him, rubbing him with my thumb, and he moans into my mouth. The sound makes me wet.

  I whisper in his ear. “Show me how you touch yourself.”

  Bram kicks off his boots, jeans, and boxers. He drops into an armchair and tilts back his head. His hand works his cock.

  “Take off your shirt,” I say.

  He strips it over his head. He’s completely naked now, and fuck, he’s beautiful. All lean angles, his hipbones arrowing toward the rough hair of his happy trail. His biceps tighten as he strokes himself in his hand.

  “I touched myself like this,” he says, quietly.

  “Where did you come?”

  “On myself.”

  I’m already wet and aching for him. I would die to see him glistening with his own cum, but I would live to feel him inside me.

  “Shit,” I say. “I forgot my purse.”

  He looks at me with heavy eyelids. “What’s the matter?”

  “Left the condoms in the car,” I say, as casually as I can manage.

  Bram straightens and strides across his bedroom. I watch his silhouette, the outline of his arousal. He yanks open a nightstand drawer and finds a box of condoms. It crinkles in an unopened plastic wrapper.

  “Stockpiling condoms?” I say.

  He laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

  Either he goes through a lot, or he hasn’t needed one in a long time.

  “Christ,” he says. “These are glow-in-the-dark condoms.”

  I laugh. “What the hell? Why do you have those?”

  “My friend bought them on my last birthday. Thought it was funny.”

  I keep my voice light. “How long ago was your birthday?”

  Bram coughs, his cock at half mast, and doesn’t reply.

  I’m embarrassed for him. “You should be down to none. You’re fucking sexy.”

  He glances into my eyes. “There’s more to life than being fucking sexy.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  He laughs, and I kiss him before he’s done smiling. He hardens against me and rocks his hips. His hands clutch my ass.

  “Do it,” I say. “I want to see your cock glowing.”

  “Jesus, really?”

  I grin. “It will help me lick it in the dark.”

  His cock flexes, clearly on board. Bram tears into the box. He rips open the condom with his teeth. A wrapper hits the floor.

  “Is it on?” I say. “Your dick is dark.”

  “I think it’s broken.”

  “Your dick?”

  He snorts. “No, the condom.”

  “Wait, you need to expose it to the light.”

  “Really?”

  He walks to the window and stands in the moonlight. His ass looks chiseled. Seriously, like a motherfucking statue.

  I swallow a laugh. “I can go back to the car and—”

  “Wait.” He holds up his hand.

  When he turns around, his cock glows vaguely green.

  I start laughing. “Oh my God. It looks radioactive.”

  “Like a lightsaber.” He also starts laughing. “What rubbish.”

  Laughing even harder, I cover my mouth with my hand. My eyes water with tears.

  “Cassia, I love it when you laugh.”

  Bram kisses me on my mouth, my neck, my breast. My laughter turns into a gasp. He hooks his fingers into my jeans and yanks them over my hips. I let my blouse fall to the floor. He drags down my underwear.

  “God,” he says.

  I can’t think of a comeback. He tugs down one cup of my bra and licks my nipple. I thread my hands in his hair. He lavishes attention on my other nipple, and my hands tighten. His hair is ju
st long enough to grab fistfuls.

  “That feels so good,” I say.

  “Does it?” he says, in a tone that says he knows damn well.

  I shiver at the vibration of his voice. I’m aching for more than soft caresses. I push back his head. “Lie down.”

  He straightens to his full height. “I don’t think so.”

  “You might appreciate the view if you let me ride you.”

  He lets out a strangled sigh. “Tempting.”

  But he backs me toward the bed. My legs hit the mattress as I fall onto the sheets. The bed creaks as he pounces on me. He pins me there, his hands on my wrists, just enough pressure to feel my pulse against his fingers.

  “We don’t have any rules for this,” I tease.

  He pauses like he’s seriously considering this. “We don’t need any.”

  “Yes, oh master of the glow-in-the-dark penis.”

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “That’s terrible.”

  “You love terrible.”

  He leans down and kisses me, his tongue stroking into my mouth. I arch against him, but his hips keep me pinned to the bed.

  “I’m so wet,” I say against his throat. “I want you to fuck me.”

  Bram lets out a shuddering moan. His incredibly hard cock glides against my clit.

  Lust burns through my body. “Oh, God, do that again.”

  He grinds against me, harder, his touch igniting sparks of pleasure. I hook my legs behind his for leverage. When he thrusts again, I arch against him. He slides into me, just the tip, and I clutch him closer to me.

  “Got you. Captured by my pussy.”

  He looks at me with a bemused smile. “Do you always joke during sex?”

  I try to shrug. “Can be amusing.”

  “Do I amuse you?” There’s a velvety challenge in his voice.

  “The glowing penis was pretty funny.”

  “I don’t want you to remember that.” He drives his hips and slides in even deeper. He strokes into me with excruciating slowness.

  I resist the urge to bite him. “I want all of you.”

  He thrusts into me in one sweep, the thickness of his cock dragging pleasure from me. He’s so big he barely fits. I’m not sure I can take him thrusting much harder. “Slowly,” I whisper, and my voice betrays me with a waver.

  “Have I hurt you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bram slides back all the way, the hard length of him leaving me. My muscles clench as if trying to keep him there. He releases my wrists and braces himself with his elbows on the bed. He kisses me, tenderly, as he enters me.

  “Not that slowly,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Faster?”

  “Otherwise it’s cruelty to my pussy.”

  He smirks and draws back. When he thrusts into me, I groan and grip his ass. His skin already feels slick with sweat.

  I’m so turned on, I’m not worried about his size anymore.

  “More?” he says.

  “Yes. God. Please.”

  Bram fucks me faster, harder, then pauses before fucking me slow and sweet. “This is cruelty to my cock,” he mutters.

  “All these tortured cocks and pussies. Should we call the humane society?”

  He pulls out with a stern look. “Still joking?”

  “Sorry.” I fight a giggle. “I had to—”

  He thrusts all the way inside. I gasp at the shock of sensation. He grabs my hips and pumps into me, his balls hitting my ass.

  I let out a moan. “Fuck me.” It becomes a chant. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

  Bram doesn’t hold back. He gives me all he’s got with savage precision. The ache inside me flares. I’m so wet, I’m sure I’ve drenched the sheets. He thrusts at a steeper angle, his thick cock rubbing against my clit.

  “Fuck.” He halts and gasps against my neck. “I’m close.”

  “Come.”

  I’m on the brink myself. I crave the hard stroke of his cock, the tightening of his ass under my hands. He drives into me, grunting with every thrust. The sound pushes me over the edge. I cry out as a tidal wave of pleasure obliterates all thought. He holds me against him and shudders, his cock jerking inside me.

  Bram lowers himself, panting, the weight of him hot against my skin.

  “Sorry,” he whispers, and he rolls off. “Didn’t mean to fall on you.”

  I try to tell him I liked him on top, but my brain is still blank. He stands by the bed and takes care of the condom, then climbs back and lies alongside me. I snuggle against him and breathe in the scent of his skin.

  19

  Bram

  Cassia curls with her back against my stomach. “Bram,” she murmurs. “You smell good.”

  “Do I?”

  “Take the compliment. And consider fucking me when you’re hard again.”

  I lift myself on my elbow and brush her hair from her eyes. My gaze falls on the tattoos flowing over her skin like watercolors. My fingertips trace the ivy across her collarbones. “You’re more inked than I imagined.”

  She laughs. “I knew you imagined me naked.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “Your boner was.”

  “Touché.” She makes me grin. “Which was your first tattoo?”

  “The lilac. Syringa vulgaris. My favorite flower, beautiful with an ugly name.”

  I search her skin. A purple lilac blooms along the curve of her ribs, a tiny golden butterfly perching on a blossom.

  When I kiss the lilac, she laughs and squirms away. “That tickles.”

  “Which was your second?”

  “On my back. That one took awhile.”

  Roses crawl over her skin, blooming with pink petals, budding at the nape of her neck. I kiss the inked thorns. “Gorgeous.”

  She shivers under my touch before sliding away, the space between us cold.

  I rub my thumb over the roses on her wrist, remembering Spencer. “What do they mean?”

  “That’s too personal of a question.”

  Too personal. Says the woman lying naked in my bed. We just made love—no, we fucked. I grit my teeth at that word.

  Her tattoos are the illustrations to her past, but I can’t read her.

  “A girl needs her secrets,” she says flippantly, though her eyes look shadowed.

  “I’m a bit of a mystery, myself.”

  “You?” She has a crooked smile. “Bram Winterbourne?”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you left Oxford. But I don’t know why.”

  “That’s too personal of a question.”

  She looks away. “Point taken.”

  I sit upright in bed. “I’m not who I should have been.”

  “You and me both.”

  I wonder why she sounds so bitter. I wonder if she will ever tell me.

  Cassia slides behind me and hooks her arms over my shoulders. She kisses me below my ear, her hand lingering over my heart. “I like who you are now,” she whispers. A smile tugs at my lips. “Especially your cock.”

  Laughing, I untangle myself from her arms and catch her in a kiss. She holds my face between her hands, leaning back as I lower her to the bed. When we break apart, warmth glows like a coal in my chest.

  “It’s late,” I say. “Must be after midnight.”

  She murmurs something wordless. I stroke my fingers over her skin, feeling the beauty of her body. My eyes close.

  When I wake, Cassia is gone.

  I blink in the sunlight, then swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The rumpled sheets still smell like her, but she left nothing else. I climb to my feet and walk to the curtains. Dew glitters like diamonds on the lawn.

  Guilt sits heavy in my gut. What the hell have I done?

  I didn’t even see her this morning. It’s like last night was no more than a dream. An extremely dirty dream.

  Focus. Today, I have to work.

  I wash in the bathroom, dress, and head downstairs. I’ve plugged my cell phone charger
into a power strip by the wall. Until the electricians finish rewiring the upstairs, I have to make do. My phone has unread texts.

  “What do you want from me?” I say under my breath.

  It’s my sister, Grace. She sent me three texts, each a complete sentence with punctuation.

  Remember our appointment today at nine o’clock in Brighton.

  Mam will be joining us for brunch.

  Are you awake yet?

  I look at the time. “Shit.”

  Eight thirty. And I have a forty minute drive ahead of me.

  The keys to the Audi aren’t in my pockets. Cassia drove last night. I run back upstairs and tear apart my bedroom.

  I find the keys on the floor, by stepping on them, and hop on one foot. “Jesus Christ!”

  Dressed, decent, armed with keys, I sprint to the Audi and hit the road.

  My brain rattles with thoughts. Our mother wasn’t supposed to be at our meeting today. Grace and I are negotiating with English Heritage, who listed Wolfenwold Hall as an historical building. They have yet more hoops for us to jump through, and Mam wants to make sure we perform like perfect little show dogs.

  When I arrive in Brighton, it’s a quarter past nine.

  Sweating, I burst into the restaurant and hunt down their table. Grace and Mam sit side by side, their ankles crossed in exactly the same way. My mother looks flawless, her silver hair polished to a high shine, and Grace smoothes the scarf at her neck with an expression of calm disinterest. She glances into my eyes.

  “Bram,” Mam says. “How good of you to join us.”

  “Traffic was bloody terrible.”

  She narrows her eyes at me and glances at our guest. The bureaucrat. He reminds me of a heron, skinny with a big beak.

  “Bram Winterbourne.” I give the man my best polite smile and shake his bony hand. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Newton Dibble,” he says.

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Bram,” Mam says. “Have a seat.”

  I obey and sit by Grace. My sister looks sideways at me and wrinkles her nose. She slips her phone from her purse.

  Mam and Mr. Dibble start discussing Wolfenwold Hall.

  A minute later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Grace texted me.

  You look disheveled.

  By the look on her face, I think she means I look like shit. My stomach tenses. I do my best to pay attention to Mr. Dibble.