Stealing Rose (The Fowler Sisters 2) - Page 40

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I keep my gaze focused on the view, the billowing British flags snapping in the wind that top so many of the buildings spread out before us like a blanket. This city seems to go on forever, majestic and white and full of history and beauty. While I’m here, I should be out touring, wandering through museums and absorbing the history. Becoming inspired so maybe I, too, could one day have my own cosmetics collection like Violet.

Instead I’m having dinner with an impossible man who makes me feel impossible, wonderful things. It’s crazy. I’m crazy.

His hand settles on my knee, a casual touch that looks like nothing to anyone else who would happen to see but feels like everything to me. I keep my gaze purposely averted from his, watching the people mill about below, the music some kids are playing drifting up as they put on a performance for a handful of observers standing around.

All the while, Caden’s hand moves up. Skimming past my knee, along the top of my thigh, farther up, until he’s sliding it down to my inner thigh and I hear him say in that sexy, gruff command of a voice that’s barely above a whisper, “Open your legs.”

I do so without hesitation, my breath hitching in my throat when his fingers brush against my bare pussy. I close my eyes, my legs falling open even more when he slides his finger inside my body.

“Look at me,” he demands and I snap my eyes open, turning to face him. His eyes are hooded, his lips parted, the candlelight playing shadows upon his face, and I’ve never seen him look so sexy.

“Can I make you come right here in the middle of the restaurant?” He presses his thumb to my clit and I jolt in my chair, the little whimper sounding in my throat earning a stern look from him. “Be quiet, Rose. Don’t want to draw a crowd.”

No. I definitely don’t want to draw a crowd. But I do want to come. I glance around the restaurant to see that no one is paying us any mind, everyone too wrapped up in their own conversations, their own personal dramas. All the while, I have a man’s hand up my skirt, his finger buried in my pussy, trying his best to draw yet another orgasm from me.

He can do it, too. I have faith. My body responds to his touch, his words, as if he owns me. He steals words and thoughts from me so effortlessly it’s as if I have no control. I’m his to play with as he chooses.

“Come here,” he whispers and I lean closer to him, sucking in a surprised gasp when he presses his mouth to mine, kissing me right there in the middle of the restaurant, his fingers busy, his tongue tangling with mine, and I can’t take it. The orgasm sweeps over me, short and hot, just enough to send a shiver through me, my belly clenching, my inner walls grasping around his finger, wanting more before he withdraws his fingers from my body and breaks the kiss.

The satisfied expression on his face cannot be denied. He enjoyed that tremendously and I can’t lie, I did too.

“You’re flushed,” he says, his voice a lower murmur that prickles along my nerve endings.

“Do I really need to explain why?” My hands are still shaky as I grab my drink and drain it, the potent alcohol swimming in my veins.

He grins and brings his hand to his mouth—the very hand that had just been between my legs. “I already know why. What I’d like to know is did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

“Ever done anything like that before?” I swear he’s sniffing his fingers, sniffing me, and I want to melt. I want to take his hand and drag him off somewhere private so we can finish what we started.

“No.” I shake my head, all the breath leaving me when he licks the tip of his index finger, his eyelids wavering the slightest bit.

“Passion.” He rubs his fingers together and I see them glisten in the candlelight. “You’re still on my fingers.”

I don’t say a word. I can’t. He’s stolen my ability to speak yet again.

“And you taste pretty fucking amazing, Rose. Better than any drink or dinner I can get here.” He sucks his index finger into his mouth for the briefest moment before he withdraws it, reaching out to draw a line of dampness across the top of my forearm. “Marked.”

I feel like everything inside of me is being strangled. I can’t breathe right, I can’t think, I can’t hear or smell or see. The waitress is back but I have no idea what she’s saying to us, and Caden is chatting her up as she places his dinner in front of him, then sets my plate in front of me. I think I murmur thank you to her but I can’t be sure.

I’m not sure of anything anymore.

The moment she’s gone, I focus on Caden, see that he grabs his beer bottle with the hand that had been between my legs and rubs his fingers all over the surface, gathering up the condensation so he can clean his hands of … me.

That’s sort of hot.

He picks up his silverware wrapped in a pristine white cloth napkin and unrolls it, setting the napkin in his lap and placing the knife and fork on either side of his plate.

“Rose?”

I shake my head, my gaze refocusing on him to find Caden staring at me, concern lighting his eyes. “What?”

“Is something wrong with your dinner?” When I shake my head in reply he continues. “I gotta admit. I’m disappointed in your choice.”

“Why?” I glance down at my salad and grab my silverware, placing the napkin in my lap and pulling out the fork.

“You got a salad.” He says salad like it’s a dirty word. And not a good dirty word, either.

“What’s wrong with a salad?” I spear up a few pieces of lettuce and a chunk of chicken, then take a bite, my tongue doing the happy dance when the medley of flavors and the sweet and tangy dressing hit my taste buds. What the hell is Caden talking about anyway? This is a damn good salad.


Tags: Monica Murphy The Fowler Sisters Romance
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