Chapter Thirteen
Rosaline spent the majority of the drive staring out the window and Poppy spent most of the drive staring at Rosaline.
She’d said maybe fifty words to Poppy since leaving the theater, Cash and Lyric taking a separate car to her house, skipping
the after-parties in favor of a quiet night in, savoring their time together before he’d have to leave at the ass crack of
dawn to fly back to Portland.
Three blocks down from Poppy’s hotel, AKA Beverly Hills was hosting the iHeartRadio after-party. The entire Golden Triangle
district would be teeming with paparazzi and rather than deal with that, Rosaline had suggested she stay with her, an invitation
Poppy had been all too eager to take her up on.
Only now, sitting and stewing in the silent back seat of the limo, Poppy was beginning to rethink the plan.
“Are you sure you aren’t mad?”
“I’m not mad. I’m—” Rosaline pressed her fingertips to the space between her brows and sighed. “When we first met, you told
me that people were always going to be more important to you than good publicity. You aren’t the only one who feels that way.
Maybe I don’t always say it, but . . . most people—people who don’t know me—think I’m Rosaline Sinclair, Machiavellian bitch pulling strings behind the scenes who doesn’t care about anything but the narrative.” She stared down at her lap. “I don’t want you to be most people.”
Poppy didn’t want to be most people, either. She wanted to be more than that. So much more. “I know that. I guess I just hadn’t realized that you . . .”
She didn’t know how to finish that sentence in a way that wouldn’t give her own growing feelings away.
Rosaline’s face softened. “I like you, Poppy.”
The profession was bittersweet. She liked her, but she didn’t like her the way Poppy was growing to like Rosaline. It wasn’t
the same. But it was good. It was—it was good enough. Close enough.
Not that it needed to be said, but . . . “I like you too.”
A wrinkle appeared between her brows. “Do you?”
She looked at Rosaline sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged a shoulder, eyes fixed on the seat in front of her. “Earlier, in the limo, you seemed uncomfortable with Curran
and Lyric knowing about us. If you didn’t want me to say anything to Lyric, I’m sorry. She and I, we don’t really keep secrets
from each other, and considering you told Curran—”
“Technically, I didn’t tell him. The gigantic love bite you left on my neck did the talking for me.”
Rosaline pressed her lips together, eyes dancing with mirth. “Sorry?”
“No, you’re not.” Poppy laughed.
Rosaline smirked. “No, I’m really not. Lyric had a lot of questions about what you and I were doing together alone after midnight.
A lot of extremely pointed questions. So, I suppose I was put in a similar situation.”
The car made a left onto Nightingale Drive, the street Rosaline lived on.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable earlier. Or, yeah, I was, but only because Cash is, well—I love him, but he’s Cash. His sense of humor
is, well, you heard him today. And I didn’t know if this”—she pointed between them—“was supposed to be like, you know, Fight Club.”
A laugh burst from between her lips. “Fight Club? When I was teasing you earlier about needing a firm hand, I certainly didn’t have anything quite that brutal in mind.”
“No!” Poppy snickered. “The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club?”
Rosaline bit her bottom lip, clearly stifling a laugh. “No, it’s not like Fight Club. At least not to me. I mean, unlike Lyric—who, for the record, is a big fat liar because she does, in fact, go into specifics,
meaning I know entirely too much about your best friend’s sex life—I’m a firm believer that some things should remain private. That being said”—Rosaline reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Poppy’s ear—“a part
of me wants to brag to everyone I know that I get to have you like this.”
Rosaline’s touch lingered, fingers grazing the shell of Poppy’s ear, the lobe, the sensitive spot behind it, before she trailed
the back of her knuckles along her neck.
Poppy shivered. “Get to have me like what?”
The wrought iron gate outside of Rosaline’s house opened, allowing the car to pass.
Rosaline took her hand away, lips quirking when Poppy arched her neck, chasing Rosaline’s touch. “Come inside with me and
find out.”
Overnight bag slung over her shoulder, Poppy followed Rosaline into the house.
“You can just set that down anywhere,” Rosaline said, locking the front door and kicking off her heels, sighing softly as she curled her toes in the plush pile of the colorful runner that stretched down the hall.
Poppy dropped her duffel and clutch near the big planter by the door and steadied herself on the entry table to step out of
these godforsaken heels that, at this point, were practically suctioned to her poor feet. She caught a glimpse of her reflection
in the gilt bronze Rococo-style mirror hanging on the wall over the table.
For all the stress and rigmarole of the day, including her unfortunate red-carpet audition for WWE SmackDown! she didn’t look too shabby. Her hair had fallen flat, and her mascara had started to flake, leaving a faint smudge under
her eyes, but it wasn’t nearly as scary a sight as she’d expected.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?” Rosaline swept her hair aside, baring her shoulder, a shoulder which she
hooked her chin over, wrapping her arms around Poppy’s waist and studying them in the mirror, a small smile flirting at the
corners of her lips.
Poppy shook her head and melted back against Rosaline. “You just told me I clean up nice.”
“You do.” Rosaline pressed her lips against the bare skin of Poppy’s shoulder, just behind her dress strap. “Look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” She tipped her head to the side, baring more skin for Rosaline to explore with her mouth, the gentle sweeping brushes
of her lips making Poppy’s skin prickle. “But I think we can both agree this dress looks better on the floor.”
Rosaline buried her smile against Poppy’s skin, pressing a too-soft kiss to the spot where her neck met her shoulder. “Do
you trust me?”
Poppy had slept with people before with whom she’d trusted only so far as to stop if she asked them to, the barest of minimums. On the other hand, she’d told Rosaline things only Cash, her closest friend, knew.
Of course she trusted her. Trusted her more than she trusted herself right now, probably.
“Of course.”
Rosaline pressed against the small of her back, silently urging her to lean forward.
“I really do like this dress,” she said, reaching for the zipper and sliding it halfway down Poppy’s back. Taller than Poppy
now, with her bent over like this, Rosaline’s gaze flickered down, meeting hers in the mirror. “I think maybe it should stay
on a little longer.”
She slipped her fingers under the straps and tugged them down Poppy’s arms, making her shiver. The fabric didn’t quite pool,
hindered by the zipper. Instead, Rosaline gave the top of the dress a tug until the bodice slipped, baring Poppy’s breasts.
Her face flamed, totally on display and in front of a mirror no less.
Rosaline reached around her body and cupped her breasts, lifting them, thumbs brushing her nipples. They felt heavy, her nipples
hardened into taut peaks from the cool air and Rosaline’s simple touch.
“Every part of you is so fucking pretty,” Rosaline murmured, letting Poppy’s breasts fall, hanging heavy outside her dress. “Can I touch you?” Her hands skirted
Poppy’s sides, dragging the fabric of her dress up her thighs, and gathering it around her waist.
Poppy braced her hands against the table, palms flat. “I thought you were touching me.”
A sting against the back of her hip made her gasp and arch her back, Rosaline having snapped the elastic of her underwear against her skin. She shifted restlessly, rubbing her thighs together.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Rosaline said, slipping a leg between Poppy’s knees and knocking a foot against
the inside of hers. Taking the hint, Poppy spread her feet apart, sucking in a startled gasp when Rosaline pressed firmly
against her back, bending her over the entry table. Poppy’s hands scrambled against the wood, seeking purchase, fingers curling
around the back edge closest to the wall as Rosaline slipped a hand under her dress, fingers stroking up the back of her right
thigh to the curve of her ass, teasing.
Poppy blinked down at the glossy wood finish, hair spilling over her shoulder in a curtain. “Touch me. Please?”
Rosaline’s lips skimmed the back of Poppy’s neck, a gentle brush that sent a shiver down her spine. “That’s good, Poppy. You’re
going to keep being good for me, aren’t you?”
Poppy trembled, breathing fast. “Yeah.”
“Keep your hands on the table, okay? Don’t move them.”
She nodded, keeping her palms braced and holding still as Rosaline’s arms disappeared from around her, the warmth at her back
disappearing too. She could’ve lifted her head and looked in the mirror, but there was something heady about the anticipation,
about not knowing what Rosaline was going to do, where she was going to touch that set her blood on—
“Oh my god.” Poppy jerked, rising up onto her toes, Rosaline’s mouth suddenly between her legs, her breath hot and damp against Poppy’s
panty-covered core.
Rosaline chuckled against her, fingers dipping beneath the elastic at her hips, tugging her panties down her thighs, letting
them pool around her feet. Her laughter morphed into a soft, breathless moan.
“Fuck, Poppy,” she rasped, sounding reverent, thumbs parting Poppy’s folds, holding her open. Poppy’s toes curled harder in the rug, her face on fire. “You’re dripping, sweetheart.”
The little term of endearment made her heart clench. “Rosaline.”
There was no warning, just Rosaline’s tongue running up her slit making her jerk hard, one knee knocking into the table.