Chapter 21 Rosie
My heart is racing, knees wobbling as I look up at Boone from the floor.
“I’m sucking you off,” I respond.
I reach up for the band of his sweatpants, loop my fingers inside the cotton and pull hard.
If he denies me now, well I’m not only going to be super embarrassed, but horny too. Because this is all I’ve been thinking about since I got back to the city this morning.
His hands grip my wrists, stopping me.
Oh no.
“Wait a second. We should talk about what happened this weekend first.”
I shake my head no because I don’t want to talk about feelings and emotions. “I don’t want to.”
He hesitates, his dark eyes searching mine, and then releases my wrists. My fingers make quick work of the band and slide it past his hips. He's huge and already hard for a guy who wanted to stop things and talk.
I look at the way he's tenting his boxers then glance up for permission. His gaze is heated when he gives me a small nod.
I tug down on his boxers and his shaft comes into view first; I keep going. There’s more smooth skin, his thick length with veins like the ridges of a tree trunk, until the tip of him appears, heavy, hard and leaking.
He lets out a pained curse. His hand moves to his base to hold himself outright for me. I wrap my fingers around him, and he lets go, pumping a few times before licking my lips in anticipation.
“What are you doing to me, Rosie?” he groans. “You don’t have to do this.”
I scoff. “I know that.” As if he thinks I’m being forced to do things against my will.
I want this. I want to taste him. I want to smell him. I want to hold him in my hand and feel him thicken and release the same way that he felt me come apart.
My tongue darts out, lapping at the underside of his crown a few times, teasing. He tastes like clean skin and smells good.
I grip him in my hand tighter, watching how the skin bunches at the base as I stroke him from root to tip.
“Fuck,” he grumbles his head falling back against the kitchen wall to steady himself. His other hand moves to the back of my neck, threading through my hair and holding me in place.
I lick a line from his base up to the crown then flick a few times, before I put the whole tip of him inside my mouth, and suck downward. The skin on his cock is soft and smooth. I run my tongue around it in circles while hollowing out my cheeks.
“Rosie, shit. You’re so good,” he praises.
I smile around him, watching his thighs tremble and then push my way down further, breathing hard through my nose and trying not to choke like a rookie. When I get as far as I can, my hands pick up the slack with a firm pump.
I pull back a little, lick on the sides again then find his balls, those two massive things that just make sense with the rest of his build, and cup them before dragging a nail between the seam.
“Do that and I’m coming.” His voice sounds strained and when I look up at him, I don’t miss the way he’s looking at me. Eyes hooded and full of want.
Then I put his whole cock back into my mouth and suck down as far as I can go, huffing, humming and breathing while trying not to gag.
“Fuck, Rosie, swallow me. I want to feel your throat squeeze me.”
I pull back slightly then start again, all the way until I can’t take anymore and feel like I’m suffocating.
I force a swallow and end up gagging and choking around him. A tear runs down my cheek that he tracks with his thumb before sliding it into the side of my mouth that’s full of him.
“Just like that, beautiful,” he groans. “Taste it. Choke on it.”
I do it again. And again. Until I see his legs falter, his control unraveling and feel his fingers tightening in my hair until he’s pulling it.
There’s a heady satisfaction in knowing I can do this to him—make him come undone the same way he had me trembling beneath his touch this weekend. I’m silently grateful to the high school boyfriend who my dad hated but gave me plenty of practice.
“Just like that, baby. You’re taking me so good,” he rasps, voice hoarse. The praise sparks something reckless in me. My pussy throbs and clit aches to be touched. And when I let out a moan around his tip, sending vibrations against him, his reaction is immediate.
His gaze locks on mine, dark and searing, and the groan that leaves him is my name, ragged and desperate. “Rosie.”
Hot and thick, he spills into my mouth without any warning.
I choke, swallow and try to keep up. The heat of his seed fills my mouth. And just when I think he’s finished, a groan and another pulse hits.
I suck him harder, lick and swallow, determined not to let any go to waste. And by the time he’s done, we’re both breathless.
When I finally pull back, my lips are tingling. I glance up to find him staring down at me with a softer expression. We’re both panting but I know this isn’t over yet.
“You…,” he says as he shakes his head and drags his thumb across his bottom lip. “That wasn’t what I had planned for tonight.”
I start to stand, but his hands are on my shoulders before I can fully straighten, firm and commanding as they hold me in place, forcing me to look up at him. His fingers fall to my chin and cup it gently.
“Rosie… I…”
For a moment, I think he might kiss me. It’d be our first kiss. And despite how ridiculous that sounds—after two lap dances now, me coming all over his hands last weekend, and then giving him a blow job—it still feels like a line that we aren’t supposed to cross.
A kiss would be intimate. Too intimate. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
His eyes fall to my lips, then flick back to mine, and it’s as if he knows what I’m thinking. Like he’s reading my mind, seeing the hesitations that I’m trying to bury stupidly around a simple kiss.
He knows this thing between us is complicated, undefined. And maybe, like me, he knows we can’t go there tonight.
“Get on the fucking counter,” he growls, his voice deeper now.
“What?” I blink up at him, stunned by the shift in his tone.
“The counter. Sit on it. Now, Rosie.”
I hesitate, glancing toward the marble countertops in my tiny, upscale apartment. My body moves before my brain can catch up, obeying his tone even as my thoughts spin wildly around us.
He follows close behind, his boxers and sweatpants back in place and his T-shirt pulled down, hiding those strong abs I’d memorized days ago.
I stop in front of the counter, completely unsure how to get up on it. The tight pencil skirt I’m wearing doesn’t scream “ready to go climbing,” and the thought of trying feels ridiculous.
“I’m not sure how to do that,” I say.
He takes his time, watching me from a step away, his dark eyes dragging over me like a predator sizing up his prey. Then, finally, he closes the distance.
“Turn around,” he orders.
I place my palms against the cool countertop, my breath catching in my chest. His hands move to the zipper of my skirt, and I swear I can feel every tug of the teeth of it unravelling as he drags it down slowly, shattering all my defenses.
He pushes the fabric, along with my underwear past my hips, until my bare skin is exposed to the warm air of my apartment.
And him.
It’s good that I’m not facing him right now. My cheeks are burning with vulnerability, and my eyes are sealed shut.
Last weekend, in the dark cover of my home in Brookhaven, I’d had his shirt clothing me, a layer of protection between his gaze and my body. But now there’s no hiding. The kitchen lights are bright and I’m completely at his mercy.
I flinch when his hands connect with the bare skin on my waist, causing him to pause.
“Rosie,” his voice softens, and I can feel his hesitation, his care for my comfort. “If you want me to stop, please tell me. I won’t do anything that you’re not ready for.”
I nod, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip. Slowly, I force myself to turn and face him, my breath coming faster. His eyes are molten as they roam over me, full of heat and hunger, and somehow that look alone is all the reassurance I need to not let my insecurities win.
“I don’t want you to stop. Keep going,” I whisper.
Something shifts in him, and he steps closer. His hands move to the single button of my blazer, unfastening it with deft precision. He slides it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap of fabric.
Then he reaches for the delicate, silk camisole that’s underneath. He lifts my arms and pulls it over my head in one smooth motion, leaving me in nothing but my bra.
“Take it off while I get your dinner ready.”
“W-what?”
I’m completely naked from the waist down, only my bra clinging to the last shred of my sanity. But he’s already moving, tugging his shirt off and tossing it to the floor.
And damn him for it because whoa.
It’s like he was in the other room doing push-ups while eavesdropping on my conversation with Dierks. His abs are strong and taut, and his shoulders are like two massive boulders, carved away from the bone. His back flexes as he opens the fridge door, every muscle moving in tandem.
How is it possible for a man to be this muscular and yet quick on the ice?
I draw in a deep breath and decide to say screw it. Reaching behind my back, I unfasten my bra and let it fall to the floor with the rest of my clothes. When I bend to take off my heels, his voice comes out in a rough growl.
“No. Leave those on.”
Then he turns, fills up a plate with food from the fridge and warms it in the microwave for a few seconds before bringing it next to the counter where I’m leaning, waiting, naked.
My chest tightens when I realize it’s the food that I saw in the fridge—pancit and lumpia, from that tiny spot in Brooklyn that I mentioned in passing to him once.
He went all the way there to get it. Just for me. He listened. He remembered.
It’s gestures like this that completely mess with my head and have me wondering what we’re doing.
Rhianon’s voice creeps back in, her advice to just have fun, and try to focus on the perks of having a temporary husband is flooding my thoughts. And why shouldn’t I?
Why don’t I deserve a little pleasure for my sacrifice?
Why shouldn’t I fall into bed with the guy my dad basically conned me into marrying—for his benefit and, fine, mine too?
This is the least I deserve, to be fed my favorite food and brought to orgasm on occasion for faking this whole thing outside of billable hours.
He points to the food. “Eat,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument. Then his hands are on my hips, strong and steady as he lifts me effortlessly and sets me on the countertop. “While I eat.”
The words barely register before he hooks a hand under one of my knees and starts to lift it. My knees slam shut on instinct, my cheeks flaming.
“Um… what are you doing?”
His gaze is dark, borderline angry. “Putting your heels on the counter so that I can have a look at my wife.”
My lips part in shock with the seriousness of his tone. The casual way he says it leaves my brain scrambling as I try to imagine how this will work.
Me, perched on the counter, heels propped up, legs spread open and completely at his mercy.
The problem isn’t that I can’t get into that position, years of ballet drilled flexibility into my hips. It’s not a mobility issue. It’s an exposure issue. An exposure to some of my deepest insecurities.
The truth is that I don’t feel attractive most of the time. I’ve never really felt connected to my femininity, or to my sexual side. Maybe it’s because I was raised by men, surrounded myself with them in law school, and now work alongside them every day.
And maybe all that testosterone, all that locker room talk, hearing what men really like, settled into something deeper. Something that turned into insecurities I’ve carried for as long as I can remember.
They’ve followed me my whole life, keeping me stuck in my head every time my clothes come off with someone else. I’ve tried to shake them. That night at the club with my law school friend was an attempt, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel completely confident in my skin.
“Boone…”
“Do you trust me?” he asks. His eyes are pleading now.
“I… I do, but this is…like… I don’t know.”
Heat floods my face as my lack of self-confidence comes rushing back. Too awkward, inexperienced, not nearly enticing enough to hold a man’s gaze, let alone this man’s.
I'm happy with my body, grateful, even for it, but knowing how to wield it to draw attention, nope, don't know how to do that at all.
“You should trust me when I say you’re not seeing yourself how I see you,” he says, his voice sincere. “What you see in the mirror, is not a male perspective. I see nothing but beauty when I look at you.”
I twist my hands together in front of me and take a deep breath.
“Now,” he hooks his hand underneath my knee again and begins to lift, “get your heels on the counter so that I can eat. I know you can, ballerina.”