Round Thirty-Six #2
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and takes a shiny new phone from the box.
“I had a lot of time on my hands this morning, but the first thing I did, before I called to check in on my sisters, before I called Janine, before I had a shower or made a cup of coffee, was to find you a safety net.” He taps the screen and shows me the brand-new phone, with unread texts already sitting there, the ribbons open to reveal the texts from him. To me.
OLLIE
This is yours now.
My number is saved in the contacts list.
Tommy’s, Chris’, Cliff’s, Raquel’s, Eliza’s, Alana’s, and Fox’s, too.
He watches me in silence, his lashes coming down to kiss his cheeks. “I registered my credit card on there, too.”
“Ollie—”
“So if you need food, buy it. Clothes. A cab. A round of drinks at the bar if it’s your turn to buy.”
“No, Ollie. I can’t—”
“It’s for me,” he insists. “This is how I save my sanity. It’s how I know you’re okay, so next time you decide to go on an adventure, you can do it, and I won’t lose myself to stress.
” He takes the phone back, unlocks the screen, and navigates to an app.
Tapping on it, he turns it around and shows me a small, round, floating image of himself.
“This one tracks me, so you’ll always know where I am.
If I’m at the hospital. If I’m at home. If I’m at the gym or the grocery store, or literally anywhere else.
You might not care,” he chuckles. “But it’s available if you want it.
Just as I’m in the contacts list. Always available.
” He peeks up from beneath his lashes and meets my eyes.
Then he points to a toggle in the top right corner of the screen.
“This one makes it so I can track you, too. Only me. Only if you want to. It’s switched off right now, and it’ll stay off unless you decide otherwise.
If you never turn it on, that’s okay. I won’t be mad.
But please.” He presses the device to my palm.
“Please accept this, Rose. Use it. For the love of Christ, if you’re gonna disappear, just text me and tell me you’re okay.
If you’re hungry, tap it and buy some food. ”
“Ollie—”
“I’ll never use this to control you or hurt you. I won’t micromanage purchases, and I won’t demand attention or full disclosure. This isn’t about knowing exactly where you are or what you’re doing or who you’re with. I just want to know you’re okay.”
Sniffling, I swipe my nose and place the device on the counter in front of me. “Okay.” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth and tremble under the onslaught of my hitching breath. “I’ll use it. But I’m adding it to my list of things to pay you back for.”
He snorts, shaking his head, then switching it up and nodding. “Fine. Whatever.” He leans closer, hovering with his lips just half an inch from mine. Waiting. But not taking. “Is the ibuprofen kicking in yet?”
I reach around and probe the back of my head. “I guess. My headache is getting better.”
“Good.” He closes the space between us and smacks a noisy kiss to my lips, following it with a slide of his tongue. “Mmm. Booze.”
“Oh God!” I shove him away, laughing and groaning and stumbling to my aching feet. “So gross. I stink. Like, there are actual, literal odor squiggles rolling off my shoulders.”
“Not literal.” He pushes away from the counter and wraps his arms around my torso, pressing his chest to my back.
Together, we step-shuffle into the hallway.
“And that smell is all the alcohol trying to leave your body. A woman your size shouldn’t consume four bottles of wine in a single afternoon. ”
“Leave me alone.” I lazily push his hands away. He doesn’t release me. “I’m gonna take a shower. This is embarrassing.”
“But you’re awake now, huh?” He peels my hair aside and nibbles on the back of my neck. “Conscious. Consenting?”
I nudge the bathroom door open and reach into the shower, flipping the taps on. “Unfortunately. Kinda wish I was still unconscious.”
“Not me.” He hooks his hand around the front of my neck and spins me, pushing my back to the cold tiles, then he steps forward, his belly touching mine, and tucks my hair behind my ear.
“Unconscious is bad. It’s lonely and boring, and I don’t get to touch.
” He fingers the hem of my shirt and lifts it over my head, dropping it to the floor by my feet.
His eyes flicker to my chest. My stomach.
Tilting his head, he studies my ribs. “Unconscious means I have to be a good guy. Awake means I get to work through the things you drunkenly promised me last night when I put you to bed.”
“I…” I open my mouth. Close it. Open. “What?”
“Drunk Rose likes to flirt.” He tugs his sweater off.
Then his shirt. Releasing both so they fall into a pile with mine, he slides his hand into the waistband of my panties and strokes the side of my hip.
“Drunk Rose likes to promise nasty, dirty girl things and draw a man to the very end of his fuckin’ tether.
Drunk Rose speaks like a porn star and tests a man’s willpower to the point of cruelty. ”
“I didn’t?” I lay my head against the tile, a burning, humiliating blush warming my face. “Please tell me you’re lying.”
“I would never lie to you.” He buries his lips against the side of my neck and nibbles.
Bites. Laves. “So if it’s all the same to you, I’m ready to remind you I do, in fact, like you.
” He unsnaps his jeans and pushes the denim down his legs, and because he’s a man who insists on attention to detail, he lowers into a crouch and pulls my panties down, too.
He helps me step out of them, peppering a soft kiss against my left thigh.
The right. He nips at my hipbone, stealing all thoughts of humiliation and replacing them with need.
With an ache that has nothing to do with my head.
He presses a kiss to my belly. Another to my ribs, right where a shard of glass left me with a long trail of stitches.
He surges back to his feet and lifts me with a swift, smooth move, pinning me to the tile and taunting me with a hungry, devious smile.
“I’m looking for consent, Rose.” He nips at my bottom lip.
My jaw. He growls in my ear, his cock twitching near my core. “Say yes.”
“Yes.”
He chuckles. “Now say no. Show me you understand what we’re doing here.”
“I understand.” I reach between my legs and rub circles against my clit. Already, my breath seizes in my lungs. “Jesus, Ollie.” I drop my head forward, resting against his shoulder. “I understand. I promise.”
“You want me, Rosaline?” He fists his cock, drawing the tip over my pussy and collecting the moisture already shimmering on the outside. “You want me to fuck you the way you asked for it last night?”
“Yes.” Steam fills the bathroom, coiling in the air and leaving a sheen of mist on our skin.
His arm beneath my thighs is firm, unshaking, and already, his breath hitches and trembles. He’s a man of immense power. One with utmost control over himself. But he stares into my eyes, waiting for my consent, so when all I manage is a wordless nod, he growls. “Rose?”
“Yes, please.” I straighten my back, the cold tile touching my skin, then I slide my fingers through his hair and tug him closer, slamming my lips against his and tangling our tongues together.
Water splashes off my shoulder, bouncing up to kiss the side of his neck.
“Yes, Ollie. I want you to fuck me. This is my fully conscious, clear-thinking consent.”
He surges forward and fills me to bursting, his hips crashing against the underside of my thighs, and when I throw my head back, crying out at the deliciousness of his cock seated to the hilt, he grabs my face anyway, latching on to my lips.
He thrusts forward, hungrily taking my body with an intensity that leaves me reeling.
Pulling back to the very tip of his cock, he fills me again, his hands roaming my feverish skin.
Hot and cold. Sweating and chilled. He bruises my hips with the tight grip of his fingertips, and his stubbled jaw sends bolts of electricity beneath my skin.
He explores with his lips. My throat. My collarbone.
My chest. “Not ready to give you up, Rose.” He cups my breast, stroking my nipple with the pad of his thumb, then he bends and takes the tip between his lips. “Not ready to let you go.”
“Three months.” My pulse sprints, quickening my breath and driving my release to a fiery peak. “We’re almost halfway already.”
“Then I’m keeping you forever.” He slides his hand around and slips his finger into my ass, tossing me over the edge of sanity and into a frenzied orgasm that steals my breath and rocks me to my core.
I explode on a strangled cry, clamping down on his cock and riding my release from crest to crest, and still, he fills me with a violence that should scare me.
Something in the back of my consciousness niggles, a familiarity I should be able to label, but there’s nothing about this man that scares me.
Not a single look. Not a shouted word. A balled fist. A moment of silence.
He’s perfect, even when trapped in the throes of his desire.
And because of that realization, I throw my head back and cry out in pleasure.
“So good,” I choke out. “Don’t stop.”
“Not for the rest of my life.”