Chapter 13 Rosemarie
THIRTEEN
ROSEMARIE
I tripped on the first stair up to my apartment, like it was the first time I had ever seen a stair in my life.
Not because I’m clumsy.
Because Gavin called me a good girl.
Two fucking words and my brain was short-circuiting. Legs shaky. Heart thudding like I’d run a marathon. My thighs pressed together like I could somehow contain the heat building between them, but it was pointless. I was soaked and aching and already a little dizzy.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he said from where I had left him at the bottom of the stairs, voice low and amused.
Yeah. Easy for him to say when he wasn’t dripping down his own inner thighs in a sundress.
I somehow made it to my bedroom, palms tingling, my breath shallow. I grabbed a bag and threw in some essentials: phone charger, pajamas, a toothbrush. My fingers trembled like I was packing to commit a crime instead of going to a sleepover at a man’s house. Not just any man. Gavin.
My chest felt too tight. My stomach flipped every few seconds. This was happening. This was real.
Just before I zipped the bag closed, I sat on the edge of my bed, pulled out my phone, and shot off a quick text to Elodie.
ME
Going to Gavin’s tonight and staying over?!
ELODIE
MAJOR PLOT DEVELOPMENT! YOU’RE SOOOOO LOSING YOUR VIRGINITY TO A DILF.
Remember to pee after and have fun! XO
I groaned and threw my phone across the bed, my cheeks burning. God, I loved her.
I made it back downstairs—somehow—without doing something mortifying. Like jumping Gavin right there at the bottom of the stairs where he was waiting. Leaning against the banister. Watching me with that heavy, unreadable look that made my legs turn to jelly.
He opened the truck door for me, and I didn’t even try to pretend I wasn’t melting inside. The way he did it so casually, so naturally, like taking care of me was already second nature. I climbed in, heart still hammering against my ribs like it wanted to break free.
The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortable.
His presence wrapped around me like smoke.
Warm, heavy, thick with intent. Every glance from him felt weighted, like his thoughts were crawling over my skin even though he didn’t say a word.
The kind of silence that made you feel everything more—not less.
When we pulled into his driveway, my eyes immediately caught on the little black sedan tucked near the garage. My stomach flipped again, this time with nerves.
“Wait, what about Teagan?” I asked, chewing on my bottom lip as I glanced over at him.
He shook his head, eyes still on the garage door as it slowly opened. “She’s with her friend. Some concert, I think. She’ll be gone for a few days.”
“Okay,” I breathed. Safe. For now.
Inside, his place was exactly like him—solid, clean, warm. Masculine without trying to be. But it also felt … empty. The scent of cedar and this morning’s coffee clung to the air, and I couldn’t tell if it was cologne or just him. Either way, I wanted to bottle it and drown in it.
My bag hit the floor with a soft thump. I toed off my shoes as Gavin walked into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves, and I almost forgot how to breathe at the sight of his forearms. He pulled out ingredients—a lot of ingredients—like he was about to audition for some cooking competition.
“Really, you don’t have to cook a whole meal,” I said, trying and failing to keep my voice even. My pulse spiked just watching him—the way his hands moved, the way his forearms flexed.
“Rose, I cook a whole meal every damn day,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with that smirk that made my stomach flip. “Sometimes even more than one. Sit. I’ll feed you.”
He returned to chopping vegetables—onions and an assortment of peppers. Once they were in the pan, he moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times. It felt domestic. Simple.
“Can I do something to help?” I asked while he was grabbing a package of marinated chicken from the refrigerator.
He turned slowly, eyes raking over me. A different smile pulled at his mouth—darker. Hungrier.
My heart skittered and my spine straightened as he crossed the kitchen in three long strides.
And then his hands were on my hips, lifting me like I weighed nothing.
I landed on the counter with a soft gasp, the cool stone shocking my bare thighs.
His hands didn’t leave me. His grip was firm and possessive, squeezing at my waist like he needed to touch me or he’d lose his mind.
A soft moan escaped before I could stop it.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me, Rose?” he groaned, stepping between my knees like he belonged there.
“You walk around in those little sundresses like you don’t know your nipples show through.
You look at me like you want me to rip the damn thing off.
And when you moan like that”—his hand came up, thumb brushing my cheek—“I practically lose my mind.”
I whimpered. Actually whimpered. My thighs tried to close but he was already standing between them, a thick wall of want.
“I want you,” I said. “I—I want you so bad.”
His jaw clenched, and then he reached over and flicked off the stove.
No hesitation.
His mouth crushed mine—hot, demanding, all tongue and teeth and possession. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming. It was a promise. That I was his now. That he was going to ruin me in the best way possible.
His hands slid to my shoulders, fingers curling around the thin straps of my dress. He pushed them off slowly. Deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world to unwrap me. I gasped as the fabric slipped down, baring my breasts to the cool air—and to him.
His mouth found my neck, then moved lower, and lower.
“No bra again?” he growled, dragging his tongue between the curve of my breasts. “You do that for me, don’t you, sweet girl?”
I nodded frantically, mind spinning.
“Words, Rose,” he growled, one hand squeezing my thigh hard enough to anchor me to the moment. “I need your words.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Yes, what?”
Before I could process what he’d said, his mouth latched around my nipple, hard and hot, sucking until I cried out.
And that’s when it happened.
“Yes, D—” I froze.
Oh, God.
No.
That was wrong.
He was a dad. He had a daughter. What the hell was wrong with me?
He stilled.
His hand gripped my cheeks, firm but gentle, and tilted my face up to meet his gaze.
“What did you just start to say?”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“Say it, Rose.”
I swallowed, every emotion possible going to war in my chest.
“Gavin—”
“I want you to say it.”
My pussy throbbed at the demand in his voice. The authority. The ownership.
He wasn’t asking.
He was telling.
My lips parted.
And I purred—
“Daddy.”