I didn’t want to waste another moment. So even though the rain was still drizzling down, even though it was beyond brisk out, even though it was past midnight, I threw a puffy coat over my nightgown and stuffed my feet into galoshes and ran the half mile to Rose’s apartment.
I probably should have taken a cab or something, but all logic had fled my brain. When you’ve denied yourself something for so long, denied that you even wanted it in the first place . . . well, finally allowing yourself to soak in that want so fully feels like a whole sheet-cake of petit fours has just been set in front of you. I was ready to fucking gorge myself.
I skidded to a stop in front of Rose’s apartment building and rang the bell—perhaps a bit too enthusiastically for the late hour. A few moments later, Rose flung the door open, her face a mix of confused and aggravated. Giddiness surged through me. The fact that I could make Rose Rorick, master of stoicism, look aggravated must mean she felt as strongly as I did, and the fact that I could finally admit I felt so strongly made it all the better—
“Lucy.” Rose’s authoritative cop lady voice snapped me out of my reverie. “What are you doing here? And why are you . . .” Her brow creased, concern overtaking her face. “You’re soaking wet.”
I looked down and realized she was right—I hadn’t bothered to zip my puffy coat, and my lacy Victorian nightgown was now clinging to me in wet patches, water dripping into my galoshes. As if on cue, I started to shiver.
“Never mind that, darling,” I said firmly. “I’ve come here because I have to tell you something, I—”
“Lucy. Oh, for . . . come inside.” Rose took me by the elbow and guided me into the narrow hallway of her apartment building. I cast a sidelong glance at her as she led me to her door. She was clad in what must have been her sleepwear—a tank top and boxer shorts. But the tank top was immaculate—spotless, wrinkle-free, pristine white. The shorts were similarly unrumpled.
I desperately wanted to rumple her.
We finally reached her apartment door, and she led me inside. I’d been there before, was familiar with the sharp angles and clean design of her small open space loft, her perfectly made bed sitting innocuously in the corner. But being here now—with Rose in her sleepwear, so late at night, the place illuminated only by a single bedside lamp . . . It felt more intimate. Calliope, her ancient, cantankerous cat, glared at me from her windowsill perch.
I swear to god, Calliope, if you ruin this big, dramatic moment I’ve planned . . .
“Okay,” Rose said, her demeanor brisk and business-like. “Take off your coat and those boots and I’ll get you a blanket. And some warm socks. The central heating in here is garbage, but I’ve got a space heater I can fire up that works pretty well—”
“Rose.” I tugged the hem of her tank top. “Please. I came here to tell you something, and I’ve prepared the most beautiful speech. It’s sort of like the confession speech the murderer always gives at the end of one of my British murder shows, only obviously I didn’t murder anyone, but it’s still just as elaborate, I thought about it all the way over here—”
“Lucy.” Rose shook her head, pushing my wet coat off my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. She rubbed her hands up and down my arms, trying to warm them. “Honestly. Can you hold off on the speechifying until we get you warm? Or are you really that determined to catch pneumonia?”
I bristled with indignation—why did she keep cutting me off when I was trying to tell her something so vital?! I opened my mouth to respond, but was suddenly struck by the fact that Rose had slowed her rhythmic stroking of my arms, her eyes wandering downward . . .
Oh. My flimsy nightgown was clinging to my chest, the soaked fabric perfectly outlining every aspect of my breasts. I flushed, warmth flashing through my freezing body as I realized that Rose Rorick was totally staring at my nipples.
“Rose,” I whispered.
Her palms stilled against my arms.
“Lucy.” Her voice shook, and I felt a stab of desire so potent, I was inspired to cut my prepared speech short. Quite short.
“Right,” I said. I reached out and cupped her face, gently lifting her chin so our gazes met. “The thing is just this, darling: I’m desperately in love with you. I’m also terrified of really feeling anything because I’m scared of getting hurt thanks to my myriad of issues, which I’m happy to detail for you at a later time. Although the truth is, even without that information, you already seem to know me better than anyone ever has. And you still seem to care for me. Which is perhaps the most terrifying thing of all. But I guess the long and short of it is—I’m ready to be terrified.”
And with that, I slid my non-injured hand to the nape of her neck—that soft, sweet spot I’d fantasized about touching for so long—and pulled her to me.
Our lips met and her arms went around me, bringing us even closer. Our moment in the back room had been one, long, sustained kiss—both of us unsure, neither of us wanting to end it. Now we were kissing over and over, kissing with purpose. I nibbled at her lower lip and slid my tongue into her mouth, a thrill surging through me when she moaned. My fingertips skated down her back and underneath her tank top, her skin so warm and gorgeous and silken—
“Lucy.” She broke our kiss, both of us breathless. “I . . . god.” She looked like she was trying to school her features into their usual stoic expression and failing miserably. “We still need to get you warm.”
“That’s what we’re doing,” I said, giving her a pert look.
“Why . . .” She shook her head, and I could tell she was trying her hardest not to let her gaze wander to my (increasingly stiff) nipples. I thrust my chest out, trying to entice her. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”
“That’s also what you’re doing,” I insisted. “And I want to take care of you, too.” I brought my palm to her face again, running my fingertips down her cheek, trying to soothe her worry away. “You can let yourself be as soft and vulnerable and real as you want with me. I want to see all of you.” I pulled her closer, my breasts brushing against hers, and was gratified to hear her groan low in her throat. “But . . .” I frowned, a thread of uncertainty worming through me. “Rose, I just said something quite important to you. Do you feel the same?”
I don’t know if I can properly put into words the expression that overtook my beloved Rose Rorick’s face just then. It was like every single emotion—those deep, beautiful feelings she never showed—came rushing to the forefront all at once. Her eyes sparked with shock and exasperation and joy and it was the best thing ever.
No matter what happened next, finally telling her how I truly felt was worth it, just to see that marvel of an expression on her face.
“Oh, Lucy,” she said, her voice coming out like the longest and sweetest of sighs. “Of course I love you.”
Then she pulled me tight against her and kissed the living daylights out of me.
She urged me back toward the bed, her hands sliding over the wet fabric of my nightgown and sending tingles dancing across the flushed skin underneath. We fell on top of the immaculate covers in a tangle. I managed to kick off my galoshes.
“Is this what you wear to bed,” she murmured against my mouth, plucking at my nightgown’s lacy neckline.
“Sometimes.” I pulled back and arched an eyebrow. “And sometimes I wear nothing.”
“Jesus Christ.” She braced herself on her elbows, looking down at me. “You’re going to kill me.”
I smiled, really taking her in. Her tank top was somehow still pristine, not a wrinkle on it. But I could now see that it was also very thin and her full breasts—so round and soft and glorious, tipped with beautiful dark nipples—were on tantalizing display.
“For now, I’ll settle for mussing you a bit,” I said, reaching up and pulling her neckline down. Her breast slipped free and I took her nipple in my mouth, swirling my tongue around it. I couldn’t stop marveling at how soft her skin was. I was certain I would never be able to get enough of it, of touching her everywhere.
She moaned, her fingers tangling in my hair, and I drew her more deeply into my mouth. I put my hands on her hips and shifted her onto her side, so we were facing each other. I kept my mouth on her and slid my hand lower, slowly tracing the muscles of her stomach, and finally slipping underneath the waistband of her boxer shorts.
She was more than ready for me.
I stroked her with my tongue and my fingers, thrills racing through me at every cry that escaped her. I still couldn’t quite believe it was Rose, my buttoned-up Rose, making all those needy little sounds in the back of her throat. I couldn’t believe I was making her react that way.
When she finally came apart against me, it was superlative.
“Woooow,” she breathed afterward, melting into the bed. She gave me an amused look and touched my cheek. “And somehow, I still haven’t succeeded in my task of getting you out of those wet clothes.”
“Do it now.” I parted my lips, fluttered my eyelashes at her coquettishly, and tried to subtly push my chest out again. The wet material of my nightgown shifted against my aching nipples and I gasped.
Rose gave me the most wicked smile then—full and sly and loaded with meaning. My heart skipped a beat and heat flashed low in my belly. There were certain expressions, I realized, certain smiles, that she saved just for me.
She eased the covers of her bed down, and we both slid under them. Despite her desire to get me out of my clothes, I managed to get her naked first, then buried my face in her neck, luxuriating in her vanilla-citrus scent. She pulled back and kissed me—long and slow and delicious. Her mouth moved to my neck and she nibbled her way down, her fingertips brushing lightly over my collarbone. She eased my wet nightgown down my shoulders and off my body. My skin felt flushed and tingly all over—alive.
“God,” she murmured, her lips finally moving to my nipple. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”
Her tongue slid over my delicate tip and I cried out, my voice hoarse and needy.
“Sensitive,” she whispered against my skin.
“Wait,” I said, pulling her back up. She met my gaze, her eyes searching. There were things I wanted to tell her, but the words got caught in my throat.
With sex, I’d always been so determined to show off my prowess, to give my conquests more pleasure than they could handle. But I tended to shy away from letting them reciprocate too much. I told myself it was because I was so focused on showing them a good time, but maybe . . . maybe it was because I simply couldn’t bear the thought of being that intimate with someone. Of allowing them to see me at my most vulnerable, losing control.
“Lucy.” She brushed a thumb over my lips, a gesture so tender it brought tears to my eyes. “I’ve got you—I’ve really got you. Okay?”
It was something we said to each other all the time. But now, her looking at me with that super serious Rose Rorick gaze . . . I saw that she truly meant it. In every possible way.
We gazed at each other for a long moment, telling each other everything we needed to without saying a word. Just as I’d told her she could be real with me . . . I could be real with her, too.
I could let her see all of me.
“Okay,” I finally whispered back.
She kissed me again, then allowed her mouth to move lower, planting gentle kisses on every single bruise the rogue mic cord had inflicted on my body. My cries grew more desperate as she moved lower still, and the tears in my eyes threatened to overflow.
I couldn’t wait to give her more pleasure, to draw even more of those sounds from her throat. To feel Rose Rorick coming apart against me over and over again. But as she smoothed her hands over my thighs and stroked her tongue between my legs, finding that perfect spot that drove me wild, I realized how incredible it was to be with someone who wanted to do that for you, too. Who you let do that for you, too. Who you trusted with your body and soul.
And when I finally came apart against her, tears streaming down my cheeks, it was one of the sweetest things I’d ever felt.