“I thought you said it wasn’t yours,” he says.
“Oh, fuck off.”
I stomp away to flop on my sofa, secretly pleased that they get on so easily, but a bit jealous too. Why doesn’t the cat snuggle with me like that? And why do I wish I was the one in Ro’s lap instead?
The cat finally has enough of Ro’s attention and wanders off, freeing Ro to pester me again.
“Are you pouting?” he asks, a hint of flirtatious delight in his tone.
“I don’t pout.” I bite my words off so they come out more sharp than I intended.
“Ah, of course,” Ro says, placating.
I start to bristle, but he plops onto the couch next to me. A wave of his scent washes over me, something along the lines of a wood-burning stove, but with a more dangerous undertone. Welcoming in a daring way, so cozy you risk being smothered without realizing it.
I try to resist my instinct to suck it as deep into my lungs as I can. It’s futile, as there’s no escaping him. Especially because it’s not a big couch, a loveseat at best, which means we’re now shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. His warmth presses into me and I stiffen. This is more physical contactthan I’ve had in ages, considering the dry spell I’ve been going through.
Not because of him. I just haven’t found anyone I’m interested in enough to sleep with lately.
I shift, trying to put distance between us, but all it does is sink me further into his side. Ro angles his body so I’m leaning into the cushion by his shoulder, then snags my legs under the knees and throws them over his lap.
I gasp. It slips out despite my mortification, but Ro doesn’t react.
No making fun of me, no smirk, nothing. He runs his fingers lightly down my legs, from my knees to my ankles. His eyes follow the path his hands take, and he wraps his fingers around my ankles, squeezing once before loosening and coasting his palms back up. He brushes over my knees, leaving one hand there while the other grazes the top, then outside of my thigh.
My breaths are shallow, with every inch of my awareness focused on his lingering touch.
Ro’s fingers flex on my hip, and he slows even more as he lightens the contact. His eyes are hooded, still fixed on his hand as he touches me. He pauses for the longest second as his eyes dart up to mine.
I’m frozen. I don’t think I’m even breathing as I wait for his caress to continue.
He searches my eyes, and I stare back at him, waiting.
Waiting.
Finally, his eyes flick back down, and I follow his gaze, watching as he moves his hand up again. His palm sears into the bare skin at my waist, and tension throbs through me.
I think we both suck in a breath at the contact, but I can’t be sure; too much of my focus has narrowed in on the heat of his palm.
Our eyes fly back to each other and when our gazes collide, every thought of denial dies a sudden, scorched death at the heat in his gaze. He is pure want, evident in the rigid lines of his body. His neck is taut, the tendons standing out in sharp relief where they meet his shoulders. His hands keep clenching and unclenching where they grip my calf and waist. The muscles and veins in his forearm flex with every movement, and each breath he sucks in is labored.
“Ro,” I whisper, his name leaving my lips without my permission as my eyes fix on his mouth.
He shudders, his lips parting. That damned lip ring taunts me, and in that moment, I decide it’smine.
Mine to lick.
Mine to fiddle with.
Mine to bite and tease.
I crash my mouth to his, ignoring his surprised grunt as I throw myself at him.
13
“JUST THIS ONCE”
Ro
