Chapter 22 Rosie
I nod, swallowing down my nerves, and do as I’m told.
My high heels dig into the countertop, steadying me as I lean against the cabinets. My head tips back, eyes closing, breaths coming in short gasps.
Spread eagle under the bright kitchen lights, there’s no hiding, no dim shadows to soften the edges of my vulnerability and lack of experience doing wild, untamed things like this.
Boone moves between my legs, his wide body taking up space, fingers trailing gently up my calves and steadying on my knees. His gaze drops, locked on my core.
“Fucking pretty pussy.”
His hands move downward, tightening on my thighs, firm and possessive, before they slide inward, agonizingly slow.
With my eyes shut, my other senses heighten—the scent of him, leather and cologne; just like his jerseys and gloves, the mingling rhythm of our erratic breaths; the electric hum of his touch as his hands inches closer to where I ache for him the most.
He brushes over my pussy first, teasing, before his fingers glide up to my clit. One light swipe there then another, back and forth. My hips jerk at the contact, and just when I think I can’t take any more of his teasing. His fingers dip lower, parting me before one slides inside.
“So tight,” he murmurs, his voice rough with approval. “I haven’t stopped thinking about this since I left your bed.”
He moves in slow, measured pumps, his fingers testing, coaxing, and every nerve in my body lights up feeling him. My nails dig into the countertop as I try to relax. There’s no chance in hell I’m eating any of that food he prepared for me now.
His palm hits my clit, a solid thump that sends a jolt through me. My hips buck upward, chasing more, and he gives it—pressing deeper, adding a second finger. I moan loudly, the sound like nothing I’ve ever made before.
For most men, two fingers would feel good—great even when I don’t get touched there often—but Boone’s hands are massive and rough.
Two fingers for him might as well be three or four for someone else and he’s stretching me wider. His hand cups my entire pussy like a glove, each stroke almost too much at this angle, overwhelming in the best possible way.
He twists his fingers, hitting that sensitive spot right at my opening and I swear I see stars.
“Boone,” I gasp, my hands flying to hold his wrist steady.
My eyes finally snap open. That’s when I realize he’s been watching me. His gaze is on my face, my eyes, my lips, my hair. His one hand is continuing to move inside me while the other darts out to cup my jaw tenderly. He brushes a finger across my lips.
“You’re beautiful, Rosie. You’re the only person I see when you’re around.”
I want to tell him that can’t be true, but something in his gaze tells me he’s being sincere. That I’ve captured his attention.
His hand moves from my chin down across my breasts before squeezing one of my thighs, steadying me as I arch into him, desperate for more. His fingers pump, twist and squeeze, edging me higher.
“Look at the mess you’re making,” he says as he drags his fingers out of my opening, the wet sound filling the quiet space between us.
And that’s when I notice it. On the hand that’s gripping my thigh and spreading me open.
A ring.
A simple, golden band secured on his ring finger.
He bought a ring? For himself?
When did he have time to do that? That was never part of the deal.
Boone brings his fingers to his lips and sucks them clean of me, his eyes locked on mine the entire time.
“So sweet.”
I’ve never seen something so sensual.
Then, without breaking my gaze, he drops to his knees between my thighs.
The position is so vulnerable, almost as if he’s proposing. Cold sweat breaks out on my neck, but it isn’t nerves, it’s something else. It’s the fear that I might like this more than I should.
That I might like Boone more than I should.
He slides the wedding band off his left hand, the cold metal glinting in the light, and rolls it between his fingers as he gazes at it before looking up at me.
“I bought this,” he says, his tone low, his eyes hooded, gaze focused on nothing but me. “Today."
I nod slowly, unsure of what to say. “I see…”
He doesn’t rush; his motions are calculated. He takes the ring and brushes it across my clit, the chill of the metal jolting through my core.
My breath catches, and when I squirm, his lips quirk into a knowing grin. He does it again, dragging the ring with perfect precision across the most sensitive and stimulated part of my body while cataloging every tiny reaction.
Damn if that doesn’t describe him perfectly. He’s attentive, intense, remembering, utterly consuming. I’ve never met a man like him.
“I want to do something,” he murmurs, his voice rough as he watches my face, “but I need your permission first.”
“Okay…” My voice wobbles, and I can’t tell whether it’s nerves because he bought a freaking ring or if it’s in anticipation of what he’ll say next.
That wolfish grin of his spreads. “I want to put this inside you—for just a moment.”
“What?” My chest heaves as I pant, trying to keep up.
“I want my ring coated in you,” he says, his voice dark and utterly unapologetic, “your arousal just for me. Your desire coating my fingers. So that when I wear it, I can always smell you on my hand.”
My eyes widen.
He’s going to put that where? And then not going to wash it?
It’s wild. Completely out of character for me. If you’d asked Rosie Prescott a year ago the kind of man she’d end up marrying, I’d have said someone safe, stable. Maybe a nice accountant or a lawyer who understands my demanding schedule but never expects too much from me.
Perhaps a guy like my co-worker Dierks. A bit grumpy, but career first minded and unsurprising with his bedroom preferences.
Definitely not a professional hockey player who wants to place his wedding band inside my pussy just so it smells like me when we’re apart.
He lowers his face to my opening, uses two fingers to part me, and inhales deeply.
“You are intoxicating,” he murmurs on a groan.
I’ve never met anyone like him. Someone who can dismantle everything I thought I found attractive in a single moment. Someone who can rewrite the rules of attraction, bend the laws of sensuality and desire, and leave me questioning precedents I was certain were settled.
And perhaps that’s why I’m attracted to him.
I nod, barely breathing.
“Words, Rosie. Give me permission to coat this in your fragrance.”
“Yes. You can… you can do that.”
He smiles. Slow, wicked, and deeply satisfied by my response. Then he slides the ring back onto his finger and without hesitation, pushes the entire digit inside me until I can’t see it anymore.
I draw in a sharp breath, my pussy contracts around him in a squeeze.
The sensation is different from before, the metal cool and foreign as it bumps against my walls, hitting every sensitive spot in ways I didn’t expect.
He works his finger in and out, unhurried, rolls it against the inside of my opening where it’s most sensitive. Each movement sparks new jolts of pleasure. Then he pulls it out, drags my wetness across my clit, and shoves it back in—this time with his middle finger alongside it.
My hips jerk forward, a desperate reaction.
“I need more, Boone,” I moan. Because I’ve never been more turned on and desperate to come in my entire life.
“Fuck, Rosie,” he growls, his voice like gravel, his free thumb brushing circles on my thigh as he keeps moving.
And for the first time in my life, my mind goes blank, and I stop thinking entirely.
Instead, I lean into his touch. Into the smell, the sound, and the feel of being desired.
I don’t think about work. I try not to focus on how my body looks twisted up into this shape I’ve never been in before. I just listen to his praise and relax.
“You’re so fucking perfect. You have no idea how beautiful you look right now spread open for my taking. It’s tormenting sleeping next to you and not touching you…”
His words fade into the background when he brings his face to my core and swipes across my clit before sucking it down between his lips in a satisfied groan.
“Boone…” I moan.
My fingers tangle in the strands of his hair, threading through as he pumps, sucks, and kisses all over my wetness.
His beard scrapes against the sensitive skin of my thighs, the delicious scratch of it pulling another moan from deep inside me.
I can feel the heat building, my orgasm rushing toward me too fast, too soon.
I try to hold on, to keep myself tethered to the counter, but he’s persistent in the way he’s demanding it from me.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against me. His tongue spikes inside my opening, curling before it drives back against my clit with a flick. “I don’t think there’s any way I can get a third finger in here.”
I shake my head, shuddering at the thought, imagining just how big his cock must be if his fingers feel like this. The anticipation coils tighter inside me, but then he does the unthinkable—he pulls his fingers out, and I whine in protest, the loss practically unbearable.
He chuckles darkly. “Don’t worry. You’ll come tonight. I just want you to come on my face, not my fingers this time.”
His tongue laps at my entrance, dragging his teeth and beard across my clit, his nose pressing deeper into me. He sucks shamelessly, loud and messy, like he’s savoring something precious.
I should feel self-conscious, I normally would. But I don’t anymore. Not with Boone. His satisfied groans and the way he devours me make me feel beautiful, sexual, and—finally—desirable.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m able to tap into my feminine energy that women always talk about having as I roll my hips into his face.
“I’m going to come,” I groan, my voice shaking when I reach the point where it can’t be held in any longer.
“Good. Let me feel it, baby.”
And I shatter.
My body shakes, nipples stretch, my pussy clenches around his tongue as the waves of a powerful orgasm crash over me.
My head thumps back against the cabinet as my release floods through me, leaving me relaxed and satiated. I’m unsteady now, slipping off the counter from the sheer force of it, but Boone is there to catch me.
One steady, strong arm holds me upright while his other hand grips me, keeping me anchored to the counter as I ride the most intense orgasm of my life.
When I finally catch my breath, he’s still there, still sucking like he can’t get enough of the taste of me, like he wants to savor every last drop of what I have to offer him.
I can feel my body start to swell again, another wave threatening to pull me under as my overly sensitive clit cries for both mercy and more. So much more.
But I need a moment. To think about what we’re doing. If not for my clit, for my head.
“Boone… I need a second,” I whisper, my voice barely audible in between breaths. “Please.”
He stops instantly, pushing up until he’s standing in front of me but close enough to still feel him everywhere. His hands brace on either side of my hips against the counter, not touching to give me space, but somehow that makes it worse.
His brown eyes are warm, edged with concern, and it undoes me. His bare chest is flushed, damp with sweat, rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together.
And suddenly my thoughts scatter, my pulse skids and my body becomes far more aware of him than it has any right to be.
What are we doing?
“What do you need from me?” he asks cautiously.
“I just need a second.”
His eyes study mine and then he nods before stepping back, giving me some space.
I drop my heels to the floor and slide off the counter, realizing with a jolt that I’m still completely naked only wearing my shoes, and for once, I’m not trying to cover up.
I don’t feel uncomfortable with his gaze on me. I don’t feel awkward in my body. I feel… beautiful, desirable, tempting, beddable, appealing, erotic.
“I just… I need a second. I’ll be right back.”
Without waiting for a response, I rush to my bedroom and head straight for the shower, desperate to gather myself and to collect the pieces of my mind and heart that are now scattered across my apartment floor.