Stealing Rose (The Fowler Sisters 2) - Page 14

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“I needed a vacation.” Not too far from the truth. Considering the bills are taken care of, I’m allowed a pit stop in London before I head home. My friend Mitchell, owner of the private jet, already planned to go to London and I decided to hitch a ride. Though I might end up staying longer, depending on what I find around here.

I need a change of pace, new scenery. Not only to get away from New York but also to lie low. I’d worked like a motherfucker the last few months, getting more daring with every job. To the point where I was probably starting to look suspect, so I reined it in. Went to parties and actually didn’t steal a damn thing before I up and disappeared for good.

A new place means new people. New valuables. New jewels. Considering London is fucking full of old money, this should be a field day. A summer in London sounded rather profitable. Don’t know why I never thought of it before.

“Well, yay for vacations. You’re always so busy. You never come to my side of the pond.” Whitney smiles and plops on the couch beside me, snuggling close, her head against my chest. She has no idea what I actually “do” and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m pretty sure she thinks all I do is fuck around all day, which is fine. That’s all she does too. She lives off her daddy’s money. “I’m excited that you’re here.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say, my words sounding hollow. I’m glad to be here, thankful for Whitney’s hospitality and friendship. She doesn’t normally put conditions on it, but I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to fuck her for a bed to sleep in.

When she rests her hand on my cock and starts rubbing, I know she expects me to fuck her for a bed to sleep in.

“Whit.” I grab her hand and clasp it tight in mine. “I’m tired. I need to sleep before I can even think of doing … that.”

She smiles, flashing me her brilliant white teeth. “Exhaustion never stopped you before. I remember nights of getting high, getting drunk, and fucking for hours.” Her throaty laugh is telling me she enjoys those memories.

I remember them too. Fondly. “I’m not high and I’m not drunk. I’m just worn out.”

“Too much alcohol usually deflates a cock,” she says, like she’s making some major observation.

“Not mine.” I let go of her hand and trail my finger across her cheek but she jerks away from my touch, her lips pushed into a pout that usually works on me.

But not this time. Instead of sucking up to her and letting her get her way, I rise from the couch and stretch my arms above my head with an exaggerated yawn before I settle my hands on my hips. “Where’s your bathroom?”

She waves her hand toward the short hall to my left, her gaze not meeting mine. She’s mad, but she’ll get over it. “Down there, first door on the right.”

“Got extra towels?” I go to the front door and grab my duffel bag. I always pack light so it’s easier to make my escape if necessary.

“Of course,” she retorts with a huff. “What sort of hostess do you think I am?”

Going to the couch, I place a quick kiss to her forehead and cup her chin with my hand, forcing her to look at me. “A great one,” I murmur with a gentle smile. I don’t want her on my bad side, but damn it, I’m not interested in a summer full of screwing Whitney, either. We’re rarely together for a long period of time, so having a quick one-off is normal for us.

Spending weeks on end together? Not so normal.

Her mouth twists into a wry little smile. “Go take your shower. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Hell. She’s not going to let this go until I get her off at least once.

Locking myself in her bathroom, I flick on the light and take in the room. It’s white, with chrome towel bars and handles, a three-tiered chrome-and-glass shelf right next to the white pedestal sink, the shelves overflowing with fluffy white towels. I go to the tub and turn on the water, shedding my clothes with quick efficiency before I slip into the shower, pulling the curtain shut and letting the water pour over me in a steady stream.

It’s warm and the pressure is high, the water beating against my skin in pulsating jets. I wash my hair and then lather up, scrubbing my body clean, smoothing my hand over my cock. Closing my eyes, the image of a naked Rose Fowler pops into my brain. How wet her skin was, her hair slicked back from her angel face, the taste of her, warm and wet and with a hint of Champagne.

My cock lengthens, hardens. She’s been my beat-off material for the last few days. I have Whitney with her hands all over my dick and I barely react. I merely think of Rose and I’m hard as steel.

Leaning against the smooth white-tiled wall, I wrap my soap-slicked fingers around my cock and start stroking. My eyes are closed, imagining wet and sexy Rose kneeling before me, that pretty, innocent face staring up at me just before she lowers her thick lashes and leans forward, her perfect, lush mouth wrapping tight around my cock.

Jesus. I jerk hard, the orgasm coming at me fast. I can feel it forming at the base of my spine, like billowy clouds that grow dark and turbulent, heavy and swollen, eager to release the buildup of stormy rain.

This is me. My cock. Ready to fucking explode at any minute.

It slams into me, hard and fast, a little groan escaping me as my semen spurts out in long, ropey streams, hitting the wall before it’s washed away. I slump against the wall, my exhaustion taking over. Combined with the brief satisfaction I gave myself, I’m ready to collapse into bed.


Tags: Monica Murphy The Fowler Sisters Romance
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