Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
MAGGIE
Sleep doesn’t come.
And neither do I. Which is bugging me. Usually, a quick fumble in the dark with myself clears my head, and I can’t do that while Roman is in my bed.
It might be a bit much to ask him to go into the bathroom so I can rub one out. Or maybe he’d prefer to stay…
No, Maggie. Stop it.
Roman is stretched out on the bed, his shirt riding up and exposing an expanse of stomach that is making my horn-haze even worse.
‘I can’t just ignore it. She crushed something, and it didn’t look like a vitamin to me.’
‘It still could be. Maybe your dad doesn’t like to take pills.’
‘He’s not a bloody five-year-old.’
He rolls toward me and sets those lash-framed eyes on me. ‘What are you thinking, exactly?’
‘I’m thinking we go investigating,’ I say. ‘Everyone will be in bed, so it shouldn’t matter if we need to bust the cabinet open.’
His mouth curves. ‘You’re going to break into a cabinet in your own house?’
‘I need to know what’s going on, and lying here isn’t helping. My head’s a mess.’
There’s a pause before he sighs, swinging his legs off the bed. ‘Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you.’
‘I’ll take the full blame, I promise.’
We creep through the corridors like hedgehogs on a garden snack run. The house is mostly silent, the odd distant TV rumbling from behind closed doors.
The locked cabinet is still locked when we get there. Naturally.
Roman peers into the keyhole. ‘You’re sure you’re no good at picking these things?’
‘I once failed to open a child-proof bottle for a good twenty minutes.’
He laughs. ‘At least I know how to open those.’
‘Maybe we can prise it open with this.’ I pass him a shoehorn that rests next to the row of Wellington boots.
Roman gives it a jolly good go. For good measure, so do I. Not a sausage.
We’re about to give up when a soft clatter sounds from the shelf behind us. A delicate ornament tips and smashes onto the tiled floor.
Coffin, perched on the shelf, watches it drop before setting his eye on me.
‘Oh God,’ I breathe as footsteps sound nearby.
Roman grabs my hand, and we bolt, ducking into the shadow of a doorway just moments before Dad and Priscilla pass. They’re talking quietly, heads close together.
‘It’s worse than last week,’ Dad mutters.
‘It’s probably wedding nerves,’ Priscilla replies, low and soothing. ‘You know you get a stressy belly.’
My heart pounds. It’s not bloody nerves. I’m going to kill her if she’s hurting my dad. They move on, and we wait until they are well gone before talking.
‘You heard that,’ I whisper. ‘Worse than last week. That’s—’
‘—exactly the sort of thing people say about all sorts of things,’ Roman says, reaching out to hold my hand. ‘Not everything is a murder plot, Maggie.’
I scowl at him. ‘In this house, it often bloody is.’
We retreat empty-handed, detouring through the kitchen like teenagers at a sleepover. I grab a bottle of red from the rack. Roman adds a tray of miniature desserts yoinked from the fridge. I’d have to apologise to Chef later.
Back in the suite, we collapse onto the bed, breathless.
I pull the cork, drink straight from the bottle, then pass it to him. We eat the tiny, perfect pastries with our fingers, sugar clinging to my lips. They are delicious. Though I could go for a fatty, greasy pizza. No chance of that in the middle of nowhere, Scotland.
We eat until the pastries are nothing but crumbs, and swig the wine, passing it between us until we’ve sunk half of the bottle.
I fidget and shift. Pick at the edge of a napkin.
Roman watches me over the rim of the bottle. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
He arches a brow. ‘You’re lying.’
I shrug. ‘I’m just stressed out.’
‘Is it what your sister said earlier? About you being a happy humper?’
I nearly die on the spot. ‘It’s just stress relief.’
He takes another swig, then cocks a brow at me, those eyes glittering darkly. ‘Well, don’t mind me. Have at it, Princess.’
‘Shut up,’ I groan.
He sets the wine aside and hauls me onto his lap while I let out a little yelp. It’s effortless, like I weigh nothing. I freeze, hyper-aware of every part of us that connects. The heat of his hips against my thighs. The way his fingers dig into my waist.
Fuck, he feels solid between my soft thighs.
‘Don’t be embarrassed, I can’t have you all unhinged. If you need this… then show me what you like.’
‘Roman, I do not need a pity hump. You don’t even like me.’
‘I’d argue that you very much do need this. And it’s not pity. I think you’re crazy, but in that crazy-hot kind of way. Show me what a little freak you can be.’
Well, damn. I can’t ignore the way he turns me on when he looks up at me with hunger in his eyes. I think it’s hunger. Or maybe I’m just tipsy and deluded. Either way, I very much want to come.
‘Move your damned hips, Maggie. Let me see what you do when you listen to me through the wall.’
His voice dipped low, a growl lacing through his words. I must have died and gone to bloody heaven. If heaven is filthy.
I arch my pelvis, grinding my hips against him and sighing at the delicious friction that coils low in my groin. A moan tumbles from my lips, and I slap a hand over my mouth.
Roman takes my wrist in his hand and presses it to his chest. ‘I want to watch.’
Is it hotter that I’m embarrassed? Whatever way, I’m wetter than an otter’s pocket and desperate to fall over the edge.
Picking up the pace, I rock back and forth against him until I’m panting. His fingers dig into my hips, the slight pain only adding to my growing pleasure. I soon give up on any idea of dignity and chase bliss.
Roman thickens beneath me, his hardness adding to the friction against my clit. My eyes roll as I slow, but Roman gives me no reprieve. Our eyes lock, and he manhandles my hips, sliding me over his clothed length until I whimper.
‘God, you look hot when you’re needy. Is this what you like, Maggie? Grinding on a hard dick?’
‘Yes,’ I moan. ‘Damn, you feel good.’
He really did. Like skin-blisteringly good. I wanted to bottle up the way he feels beneath me and store it up for when we go home and go back to being neighbours again. Assuming, of course, that he doesn’t call the police the moment we get back.
‘Eyes on me,’ Roman groans, pulling me back to the moment. His arms gleam with a light sheen of sweat, and I desperately want to lean down and splay my tongue over his skin. To taste him.
But I don’t. I just let him guide my hips, each rut making me tremble.
‘Fuck,’ he moans, the noise throaty and primal. ‘Let me see you come.’
Electricity storms up my spine, erasing any lingering thoughts as I chase the fall.
Sensation swarms me, my thighs quaking as I let out a guttural cry.
Roman pulls me flush with his chest, his breath hot in my ear as he pins my hips to him.
He fucks me mercilessly through our clothes, grinding me until I see constellations.
Heat spreads between my thighs as Roman stiffens beneath me. Wet heat.
We lie there, catching our breath. Shame creeps over me. I feel his heart hammering against my chest until I push back up to sitting.
‘We should—’ he starts.
‘—get cleaned up,’ I finish, breathless.
‘Can’t believe you made me come in my pants,’ he says as he stands. ‘I’ve not done that… in a very long time.’
‘I think you were an active participant.’ My shorts were grossly sticky.
Roman stands and reaches out to touch my cheek. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but he tosses me on the bed instead and runs for the bathroom.
‘Bagsy the shower!’
I can’t help but smile.