So perfect.
So mine.
Heat spreads through my limbs, and I bury myself to the root inside of her as I flood her with my release. She whimpers into my ear, and we both pant heavily against one another aswe come down from the high. I don’t make any moves to pull out of her, the primal urge to keep everything inside winning over anything else.
I could stay like this for hours, just running my fingers through her hair. She melts into me as I comb through her locks, gently massaging her scalp in the process.
Aftercare is one of my favorite things. After everything is over, it’s the connection and checking on your partner that matters the most—making sure they’re okay and giving them the gentleness they deserve after a rough scene. I pepper Thorn with soft kisses along her temples and forehead, giving her my full attention as we bask in the bliss.
“You’re being very sweet…” She trails as she rests her head on my shoulder with her eyes closed.
I chuckle. “I can be nice. How are you feeling?”
She shrugs slightly. “It was intense.”
“Mhm,” I hum against her. “Are you sore?”
Her eyes open, shining brightly with so much warmth and light. “A little.”
Fuck. This woman could command me to get on my knees and bark like a damned dog, and I would do it without hesitation. Rosalie has such a tight grip on my heart that it’s overwhelming to think about. It makes my plan all the easier. She can handle Maddox, and she can handle me.
Now, Roman is going to be the hard part.
I brush her hair aside before grabbing her chin and pulling her lips to mine in a sweet, slow kiss. “How about I run you a bath?”
She smiles sheepishly. “Will you get in with me?”
Oh, Thorn. You have no idea the lengths I would go for you.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Roman
The dingy apartment complex my sources guided me to is wedged between a liquor store and a strip club. The outside is riddled with signs of age; the brick that was once vibrant is now muted and worn, and the cement steps leading up to the lobby have seen better days. It’s definitely not a place where a security guard, often employed by celebrities, would live, but word spreads fast. Our target has most likely been blacklisted since the recent break-in, forcing him to find something more cost-efficient.
“Unit two,” Maddox says as his car door slams. He’s flicking through the file our connection sent on his phone, rattling off the ex-guard’s description. “Thirty-year-old male who goes by Butch, but his real name is Vincent Brown. He’s six-two and two-hundred and twenty-five pounds with a distinct scar over the left corner of his lip. Before he was employed by Rosalie, he worked for a few other high-profile people—mostly socialites or heiresses.”
I nod, circling the information around my head until I’ve memorized it all. We waste no time hanging around. With Rosalie’s father not making any recent moves, it’s alarming. He could be anywhere, plotting his next attack. We have to be ahead of him.
Stepping into the lobby, an old stale smell hits me hard. There’s an overflowing trash can near the door, and the navy carpet beneath my feet is stained and dirty. The single, overhead light bulb flickers, a sign that whoever owns this building doesn’t care about the damage or repairs it may need.
We stalk down the first-floor hallway, stopping in frontof the second yellowing door. I glance over my shoulder at Maddox. “Ready?”
He nods as I rap my knuckle against the wood. There’s shuffling from the other side before the locks on the door slide, and it opens. The chain lock prevents the tenant from fully opening it. And prevents us from storming in.
A man who fits Vincent Brown’s description stands in the doorway, wearing a white tank top and baggy basketball shorts that hang to his knees. His hair is still wet from his shower as he scowls at me. “Can I help you?”
“Butch?” I question.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Who’s asking?”
“I have a few questions pertaining to Rose Beckett—”
He slams the door shut in my face, and I hear him slide the other locks in place. I roll my shoulders before rearing back and slamming my boot into the door. The frame splinters as I send the wood smacking into the opposite wall. Vincent scuttles back, snatching a knife from the block in his small kitchen. He holds it up to me, ready for a fight.
“Get the fuck out of my apartment!” He shouts.
“We could have done this the nice way, but you had to go and screw it all up.” I sneer. “Now, are you going to answer my questions or am I going to have to use force?”
