Rose grins, her brows popping high on her forehead. “Ollie?”
“Yeah.” I place her back on her feet, steady in her stance, and then I let her go and lift my hands away.Fuckkkkkk. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. “We can try it again.”
“Great.” Excited, she turns and backs her ass up—there may as well be abeep-beep-beepsound playing over the speakers—then docking against my cock, she takes charge and grabs my arm, wrapping it across the front of her neck and pushing it tighter until I feel her swallow. “You have to grab me tighter for this to work.”
“Grab her tighter, Ollie.” Leering, Fox palms Chris’s cock instead of hammer-fisting. “Focus, so we know she’s got the steps right.”
Chris whips her a step to the right, forcing her to stand in front of his crotch and hide what we know she does to him.
But I don’t have the same luxury. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I close my eyes and attempt to eat my whole fucking face. Because Rosebumpsme back and feels it. She feelsme.
Gasping, she peeks over her shoulder and hits me with her stunning brown stare, her cheeks fiery and pink and so fucking pretty, they take my breath away.
“Bump, people!” Eliza marches back to Troop and drags his arm over her shoulder. “We breathe, bump, knock them the fuck out, destroy their family jewels, and then we run. Why are there no men writhing in pain on the floor yet?”
I’m writhing in pain. Inside. Silently. And in my mind, I might even be curled on the floor.
“I’m so sorry.” I search Rose’s playful eyes and keep my words low. So fucking low, they barely register in my own ears. “If you wanna partner with someone else, you can?—”
“It’s okay.” Her eyes drop to my lips. Her tongue comes forward to wet her own. She’s a mermaid in the sea, and I’m… willing to drown, if it means having even a minute more with her. “It happens,” she murmurs. “I’m going to elbow you in the face now, okay? You ready?”
Ready as I’ll ever be.
ROUND TWENTY-SEVEN
ROSE
We arrive home way later than we’d planned, almost three whole hours after we got to the Love & War gym. But if Ollie’s upset about the delay, his easy demeanor and happy eyes don’t show it.
“It’s getting late, so instead of cooking a whole big thing, I figure we could do something easy.” He holds the front door open and allows me to move into the warmth of his living room, closing up behind himself and flipping the locks, before he wanders past, his lips curling up on one side.
He doesn’t grab my hand or pull me along. He doesn’t even slow his steps and wait for me. Instead, he crosses the living room and into the hall, and a mere second after he disappears from sight, the kitchen lights flicker on. “Rose?”
“Yeah.” I follow the scent of wood and soil andOllie, passing the fireplace where the flames from earlier are reduced to nothing more than red glowing coals. Moving into the hall and dragging the long sleeves of my hoodie down to cover my hands, I come into the kitchen and find him on the other side of the large stone counter.
Ollie is a man who enjoys cooking. It’s as simple as that. He likes creating, and, more importantly, he likes feeding. So he flips the tap on and washes his hands, his dirty blond hair falling forward to tickle his forehead, and while he rinses the soap suds off, he brings bright, teasing eyes up to mine. “I was thinking we could make omelets. Nice and easy, high protein, low in all the nasty crap, and it’s fast.” Turning off the tap, he grabs a towel and dries his hands. “That okay with you?”
“Sure.” I stroll to my stool at the corner of the counter and pull it out,careful not to scrape the floor with the steel legs. “That sounds great. Can I help?”
“You don’t have to. You can just sit and relax, if you wanna.” He tosses the towel and turns to the fridge, juggling eggs, milk, cheese, and bright vegetables. Onions. Peppers. Carrots. “You want a drink or something? We have juice or water.” He places everything on the counter and shrugs. “Wine.”
Curious, I reach back and rub the tender section of my skull. “Am Iallowedto have wine?”
“If we were at the hospital, I’d tell you no, since, ya know, patients really shouldn’t be drinking in the wards. But you were discharged, and this is just…” He snags his trusty chopping block and a sharp knife. “This is the real world now, so if you feel okay, then I say go ahead. If you have a headache, double vision, or simply don’t feel well, then absolutely don’t drink.”
“I think…” Frowning, I lower my hand again and lay it in my lap. “I’ll pass for tonight.”
He stops and swings his eyes to mine, from friendly to fierce. “Are you feeling unwell? Headache?”
“No, I?—”
He sets his things down and tears open a drawer, grabbing something and slamming it shut again. Striding around the counter, he spins me on the stool until my knees tap his thighs, then he produces a penlight and flashes it into my eye. “Double vision?”
“Ollie—”
He pulls the light away, then brings it back again. Away. Back. Then he switches sides. “Did things get too rough at the gym? Do you feel nauseous?”
I hook my hand around his wrist and drag it down slowly. “I feel fine. The gym was fine. Everything is fine.” I meet his eyes and smile. “Three hours of sweating inside the gym means I probably should have water, though, right? It’s getting late, and you have to get up early for work again.”
