31. THIRTY-ONE
Roscoe kissed her so sweetly that something broke inside her. Not her common sense—that had long since sailed. But something deeper, the part of her that had still been pretending this didn’t mean as much as it did.
His lips slid across hers, his tongue teasing her, dipping inside, and she moaned as he kissed her deeper still, his hand cupping her jaw, strong fingers wrapping into her hair.
Every part of her raced with sensation, drowning again, just as she had done last time. But sober now, every sense aware. She was desperate for him already, as though every nerve in her body was nothing but a path pointing there. Touch me there.
He found the edge of her t-shirt—his t-shirt—and she sat up as he drew the soft cotton off, over her head. She was naked, nothing underneath, and she lay back as his gaze swept down her, a muscle clenching in his jaw. He made a noise, shook his head slightly, then kissed her again, hand moving to cup and palm her breast.
His kisses were slow, warm, melting. But the breath he exhaled as he moved to run his mouth down her throat was ragged and raw. His thumb swiped over her nipple, and she twitched at the rush of sensation, then his mouth was there, dragging a whimper from her.
She held onto his shoulders, his back, squirming with too much and more. But when she reached his waist, he drew back, stilling her hand with his. “Same rules,” he breathed. “The same as I said last time… That’s the only way we do this. Please…”
“Let me see, at least…” She tugged on his t-shirt, and he sat up and pulled it off. He smiled a little as her gaze tracked over his chest and abdomen, but she didn’t care about the teasing light in his eyes, was too preoccupied, too greedy. She ran her hands down the planes of his chest and over the ridges of his muscled stomach. He sucked in a breath as she reached the trail of dark hair leading to his waistband, then he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to her pillow.
“I’m trying to be good,” he said, half amused, half chiding. “But you need to help.”
“I won’t touch,” she promised, all the heat in her body and the burning way he looked at her making her bold. She smiled. “I’ll hold onto the headboard. You can tie my hands.”
His eyes went dark. “Don’t give me ideas, Poppy.”
She shrugged, his weight still pinning her wrists, her breasts against his chest. “Just trying to help.”
His laugh was husky, then he kissed her again, the devil in it this time, his tongue wicked. She tried to keep up, tried to match him, but all she wanted was to melt, let him in, lie there open and unresisting as he moved down her body. He kept hold of her wrists as he grazed his teeth over her nipple, and she cried out at the sudden, raw sensation. He followed it with warmth and softness, and whatever the last part of her had been that was holding back floated away completely. Thoughts unfurled, and only sensation was left. Lips and mouth and his soft hair brushing briefly against her stomach before she felt hands on her thighs, on the soft inner skin, fingers gently coaxing her open, apart, spread and waiting, pinned to the bed by pure need.
He slowly slid a finger inside, and she was sure he listened to the way she moaned, moved his hand in time with the noises she made, found the angle, the pace that left her pathetic and moaning. Then he licked her with slow deliberation. No teasing this time, but certain and sure, lips and tongue and fingers finding every single point of pleasure at once, dominating her with merciless bliss, until she broke, gasping.
Poppy woke to a miracle. Roscoe Blackton asleep.
He was lying on his front, the duvet at his waist. The span of his bare shoulders seemed a mile wide. Morning sunlight filtered through the bedroom curtains, a milky, soft light one yawn away from dreaming. Roscoe’s skin was only faintly tanned, its last holiday barely remembered, but much darker at his neck, above the line of his shirt collar. There were two large freckles on the tip of his right shoulder blade. And Poppy was seriously in trouble.
It was hardly a surprise that the young, gorgeous, aristocratic, millionaire genius with the nice manners had turned out to be her type. But her body, her brain, and her heart had now all unanimously decided he was also her absolutely most favourite person in the world. And that was a problem. Because he wasn’t really in her world at all.
Imagine: her at dinner with his family, sharing oysters in some endless stately home, being quizzed by George Blackton, Earl of Carnford, on her bloodlines.
Imagine: Roscoe at dinner with her family, plates on knee around the TV, an argument coming through the wall from next door, passing the budget ketchup around.
Maybe he would happily try to bring her into his world. But could she bring him down to hers?
She reached for her phone to check the time, knowing Aubrey would be coming with the car at ten. Roscoe always woke early, so it couldn’t be—
“Shit! Roscoe!” She pushed his shoulder until he stirred. “It’s nearly half-nine. You need to get up, pack…”
Roscoe sat bolt upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His eyes caught for a moment on her bare chest. They had fallen asleep without redressing, cuddled up like two idiots packed tight in a clam shell.
“Erm,” he said groggily. “What?”
She showed him her phone. “Aubrey will be here in thirty minutes. You need to get ready for your flight.”
“Shit,” he said. “Shit. I meant to get to the gym, I had some work to do… How is it half-nine?”
He flung the duvet back, got up. Poppy was treated to the sight of his body for a moment until he pulled his t-shirt back on and handed hers to her. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wish I could cancel…”
“Don’t be silly. Go shower, pack. I’ll make breakfast.”
“If I could get a later flight, but I’ve got that dinner meeting today before the conference starts tomorrow morning.”
“With Hendrich Lissi, I know. The tax guy. I emailed you the briefing notes on Friday. Go and shower, Ross. I’ll make coffee.”
Fifteen minutes later, Roscoe appeared, trying to stow his laptop in his bag with two suit bags over his other arm. Poppy took them from him, took his bag and laptop, and handed him a coffee. “Drink that.” She put the laptop away, closed his bag. “Do you have everything you need? Passport?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He looked at her, about to say something kind and reassuring about last night, something apologetic perhaps, some explanation of why it was wrong and couldn’t happen again. She turned away.
She had dressed quickly while Roscoe showered, pulling on her things from yesterday. Now she picked up her bag. “I’ll get going.”
“Poppy…”
“Have a good trip, Ross. See you Tuesday.”
“Let me see you to the door…”
He followed her downstairs, held the front door open for her, and again he nearly said something, her stomach coiling cold and uncomfortable in anticipation. But:
“Morning, Ross.”
Aubrey was there, a smart silver town car behind him. He looked at Poppy, face precisely neutral while hers flamed. “Morning, Poppy. Dropping off some files, I see.”
“Erm. Yes. Exactly.”
He looked back at Roscoe. “Bit of traffic on the South Circular. Thought it best to leave slightly early.”
“Right,” said Roscoe, nodding. “Yes. Of course. That’s…um…good thinking.” He turned to Poppy, apology in his eyes—for Aubrey, this moment, this goodbye, last night. Everything. “Thank you for the files… I’ll…see you on Tuesday.”
She nodded. “Yes. Great. Goodbye.” She inclined her head at Aubrey. “Bye.”
“Bye, Poppy. Have a good Sunday.”
She walked away, head down. Luckily it wasn’t far to Roscoe’s flat, but the fifteen-minute walk of shame felt far longer.