CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
ROSETTE
I’m awakened by the sound of soft music playing. Then there’s a bird call, and slowly, dim light filters into the room.
Right. I’m at Vincent’s house. We fell asleep curled around one another last night after the most incredible sex of my life, where we did nothing more than missionary position. Damn.
Now I’m lying under the comforter, curled against Vincent’s side and partially resting on top of him, his chest rising and falling under my head with his deep, sleeping breaths. The music continues, growing louder as even more light filters into the room.
Oh. It’s… automated. The windows appear to be tinted but are slowly lightening, as if on a timer. I check my watch and sure enough, it’s exactly eight a.m., and the bird calls are growing in volume.
“Vincent,” I hiss, because he’s sleeping right through it. “Vincent, can you wake up and turn off the birds?”
His eyes fly open, and he scrambles to the bedside table to grab a remote. Abruptly, the music and the bird calls stop, and he rubs his eyes.
“Sorry,” he says, flopping back down on the pillow. “It takes a lot to wake me up. I like to be… eased into it.”
I stifle my laugh. He curls his arm around me and brings me back in to cuddle more, and I can’t say I mind. We lie like that for a long time as the room brightens, simply enjoying the feel of one another’s warm skin. His hand coasts down my side, and eventually, curls around my ribs so he can cup one of my breasts.
It’s not long before we’re feverishly kissing again, hands every which way, Vincent’s cock growing thick where it’s pressed between us.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
I flip over so my back is to his front, and helifts one of my thighs so he can get access to me. He feels marvelous from this angle as he slips inside me, remaining shallow as he brushes over my clit with his finger. He gives me just the tip like this, over and over, rubbing me more furiously as I approach my climax.
I’m about to orgasm, and he’s not even inside me yet.
“Fuck!” I moan as it rips through me, which is surprising this early in the morning. I’m not usually so sensitive. As my climax courses through my blood, Vincent thrusts in deep, and he groans with satisfaction.
“Milk my cock,” he whispers into my ear as he continues pushing through my clenching muscles. “I can’t wait to make you come again.”
And he does. He makes me come again so hard that I scream and my vision blurs. I squeeze his hand tight in mine, not remembering when we linked them together, as I come back down to earth.
We both lie there, panting, his cum dripping down my thigh. Eventually, Vincent withdraws and offers me a hand.
“Shower?” he asks, leaning down to kiss me.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
It’s a lovely, easygoing Sunday morning together. After a surprisingly chaste shower, where Vincent only kisses me under the warm spray, we towel off and he offers me some of his “smaller” clothes. I only need one of his massive shirts over me to act as, essentially, a dress, and his eyes rove over me with more hunger than I’ve ever seen on him.
“Something about that,” he says, fondling my tits through the thin fabric, “is incredibly hot.”
“Oh, wearing my boyfriend’s shirt?”
“You mean, your mate’s shirt.”
I don’t answer right away because, truthfully… I still don’t believe him. Vincent’s changed, but I don’t know if I’ve made the same leap.
Because I worry. I worry what this means for me. What it means for my job as his assistant, for my job at Octavio’s. What does being his mate really entail?
“We should talk about that,” I say, and his lips thin into a line.
“I see.” Vincent leads the way down the stairs to the kitchen, where he quietly starts pulling out a carton of eggs and a package of bacon.
“I didn’t think you cooked for yourself,” I say, watching him over a mug of coffee.
