Текст книги "Kiss the Sky"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

[ 32 ]
ROSE CALLOWAY

I can’t walk. Literally. I am so fucking sore that the short trek to the bathroom had me moaning in pain, but when I think back to last night, I feel like a little school girl who can’t restrain a blinding, giddy smile. I used to glare at those girls, the ones who drooled over boys. But I understand now. Some things just make you overwhelmingly happy. Having sex definitely did it for me.

The aches are worth these unrestrained feelings. Plus, there’s nothing in the world like being pampered by Connor Cobalt.

He brought me breakfast in bed and alternated between kissing and biting my neck, a sensation that I have begun to love too much. I plan to spend most of the day on the couch or tucked in bed, but I had to go to the bathroom to at least do my hair, wash my face—half of my normal morning routine.

My robe hangs on my arms as I brush my teeth, careful to distance the sleeves from the running faucet. After I rinse, I wipe my lips on a cloth, and my eyes lock on the diamond collar. It’s gorgeous, even if it makes me look like his pet. I zip up my toiletry kit, and my robe falls off my shoulder. I go to lift it up, but I notice the outline of a bruise on my arm.

I inspect the rest of my body, some faint and some prominent marks all across my breasts, arms, legs, wrists, more reddened than anything. I drop my robe completely and spot the bite mark on my hip, Connor’s teeth imprinted. My fingers graze the tender area, and I smile.

I like these bruises.

They’re like my war wounds.

I survived wild sex.

I still can’t stop smiling, even as I grab my panties and step into them, my limbs protesting at the movement. Okay, now my smile has vanished. I grimace as the fabric sits against a sensitive place that wishes to be free of touch.

I stare angrily at the bra on the counter. My nipples hurt. The left one is red and raw, having gone through hell at the mercy of Connor Cobalt’s mouth. That bra might as well be iron spikes, and I haven’t even put it on yet.

Before I make this crucial decision, the bathroom door opens, and my arm flies to my breasts. Not Scott. Please not Scott.

I exhale as soon as Connor shuts the door behind him.

I drop my arm, and he peruses my body quickly. I focus on the bottle of lotion he carries. “Where did you get that?” It looks expensive and feminine.

“I bought it in New York before we left,” he says, almost in disinterest. “How do you feel?”

I draw my shoulders back in confidence and mask the pain from my face. “Fantastic,” I say, combing my fingers through my hair. “Ready for round…”  How many times did we actually do it last night? I’m so aggravated that I lost count. I don’t lose count of anything.

Shit. My thoughts are even pretentious.

Connor must be rubbing off on me. Or maybe I’ve always been this way.

“I’ll be the judge of when you’re ready,” he says, leaning an arm on the sink as he watches me.

I give him a look. “I think I know my body better than you.”

He raises his brows in challenge. “That’s debatable, and secondly, you’re stubborn and competitive. Two qualities that make you a terrible judge.” He uncaps the lotion and squeezes it into his palm.

“I can do it myself,” I say, regretting the words immediately. I’d much rather be indulged by him.

“But the wonderful thing about making these bruises is that I get to tend to them.” He (thankfully) ignores my statement and rubs the lotion onto one of the faint bruises on my shoulder, careful and tender, the exact opposite of his demeanor in bed.

A girl could get used to this.

He massages the bite mark, and only once does the pain intensify. I try to hold back my grimace, but I must be unsuccessful because he kisses the spot. Then he talks to me in French about everyday things. Calloway Couture. Cobalt Inc. What we’ll do when we return to Philly tomorrow.

Being taken care of has never felt so good.

When he finishes checking my bruises, he focuses on the spot between my legs. He cups my sex, and I clench my teeth, refusing to show how much it aches—and not in the “please fuck me” kind of way.

“These need to go.” He slowly removes my panties, sliding them down my legs. I hold onto his shoulders as I step out of them. He helps me slip my arms back through my robe, and he ties it at my waist. The silk gently caresses my skin unlike the cotton of my underwear.

Connor looks at my diamond collar, and reaches for the buckle.

I take a step back, possessively touching the leather at my throat.

His entire face lights up, and he holds in a laugh, rubbing his lips to stifle the sound. “So now you like it?”

“They’re diamonds,” I say like he’s insane. “And it was a gift. You can’t take it back.”

“I’m not going to return it,” he assures me. “I’ll keep it safe.” He approaches, and I don’t withdraw this time. He unfastens the buckle, my neck bare without the warm leather.

“Why can’t I keep it on?” I ask softly, eyeing his lips. I watch the way they move when he speaks.

“Because you’ll wear it when I play with you,” he says. “And today, I’m taking care of you.” He gathers my hair in his hand and rubs lotion where the buckle dug into my skin. His fingers dance so skillfully along the tender areas. I muster all of my willpower to stop from moaning and submitting like a drooling puppy.

He caps the lotion, pockets the collar, and leaves the bathroom without another word. I frown, confused at first. But then he returns with another black case, the same size as last night’s. Another necklace?

My eyes widen in excitement.

He doesn’t make me beg this time. He merely opens the box. “This one is for days like today.”

He untangles it from the box, and then he steps behind me, swooping it around my neck and fastening it in place. He’s given me jewelry before: a teardrop necklace when we first started dating. But this means more to me. Not just because a diamond pendant rests against my chest, but because it’s simple and refined, on a feather-light chain that I could wear with almost every outfit. He thought about that, I can tell.

I think I might cry. And I never cry.

I suppose it’s okay to shed tears over jewelry. That doesn’t make me more of an ice queen or a materialistic snob, right? Oh, who the fuck cares?

My tears are apparent.

“Thank you,” I say.

He kisses my lips and slides his arms over my shoulders. “Always.”

* * *

Connor and I spend all morning switching between the Discovery and the History channel, trying to avoid the reality shows in favor of the educational segments. (Yes, I realize this is a little hypocritical, but just because I’m on a reality show doesn’t mean I like to watch them.) We secluded ourselves to the bedroom, and when my sisters asked about me, he told them I wasn’t feeling well. They bought it enough to leave us alone.

His phone rings just as a piece on the Black Death begins to play. “You can’t leave now,” I tell him. “You’re going to miss all the pictures of pestilence and gangrene.”

He looks up from his cell. “Tempting.” He smiles to let me know he means it.

I think back to literature involving the bubonic plague, unearthing the knowledge I’ve stored from college, quiz bowls, and my own leisurely studies. “Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.” I quote Masque of the Red Death, quizzing him and distracting him in one sentence.

His eyes gleam in challenge, and his hand drops, ignoring the buzz from his phone. “Edgar Allen Poe,” he answers with ease and devours my bait in one swoop.

Connor slides beside me on the bed, his legs nestled against mine. He fingers my diamond necklace, smoothing the thin chain and inadvertently tickling the hollow of my collar. I clasp his hand before the sensation makes me squirm.

He stares at me deeply, whispering, “Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.”

One of my favorite quotes. I turn a fraction, just enough so that our lips don’t suddenly collide. “Shakespeare,” I breathe.

“Very good.”

 My thoughts migrate to my heart. A kiss is at a breath’s distance, and despite my sore body, I want a repeat of last night.

Love all. Love. I’ve accepted Connor for who he is, even his anti-love beliefs. But why the hell did he have to choose that quote?

“You can’t seduce me with Shakespeare.” I command my thoughts to return to my brain. Come back, Non-Gooey Rose. I put considerable amount of distance between our lips, scooting to the right. “Especially with a quote about love.”

“Darling, I don’t need to seduce you,” he says, “I already have you.”

His face blankets with lust as I narrow my glare. The more I glower, the more I arouse him. I’ve learned that fact over the years, and yet, I still can’t seem to bottle my irritation to win a round.

He licks his lips and delivers another quote. Only he recites the lines with heavy, bated breath. Almost like he’s making love to the words. “We know what we are, but not what we may be.”

Why is that so sexy? And why does intelligence turn me on more than muscles and taut abs?

“Hamlet,” I reply. I sit up straighter, leaning against the headboard, and I try to hide the fact that the spot between my legs thrums with newly lit passion.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

I internally grin from ear-to-ear. Our very first date, we saw this play together. “Easy. The Tempest.”

“All right Miss Highest Honors…” He sets a knee on either side of my waist, not straddling my lap. He stays above me like this, towering as he presses a hand to the headboard and stares down at me. He has sufficiently confined me in his muscular, tall cage. I can’t believe he’s my boyfriend. That’s literally all I can think right now.

“Love is merely a madness.”

It takes me a moment to process his words. “As You Like It.”

He lowers his head. He’s going to touch his lips to mine, but he tricks me, his mouth diverting to my ear. “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” He says each word with such conviction that my heart backflips.

Oh God.

Think. Think. I have to win. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

With one hand still on the headboard, he uses the other to caress my right breast, one that is vastly less sore. “What’s past is prologue.”

“The Tempest again.”

He tilts my chin up and brings his lips down upon mine, his tongue parting them and stealing my breath at once. My nipples pucker, and he retracts as he recites, “What’s done cannot be undone.”

I watch his hand fall to my neck, rubbing my tender skin. Then to my breast. To my arm. I can hardly concentrate on his words. I’m lost, and my arousal has built all over again. “I…” Shit. “…repeat it.”

“What’s done cannot be undone.”

Think, Rose.

He gives me a new quote from the same play. “Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

I squint as I faintly recall this one. “Did you abbreviate?” He hates abbreviating, and he must have done it to stump me.

“Maybe.”

I am about to call him a cheater, but he covers my mouth with his hand and says, “I didn’t have to give you a second quote to help you, Rose.”

True.

He kisses my forehead and then says, “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets this hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

“Macbeth.” I straighten in pride, and he actually shares it. Instead of sulking in the loss, he grins at my win.

But then he adds, “Time is but a fool as we are to the mercy of its hands.”

I frown. I don’t know this one at all. I glare, not taking this loss as well as he did.

“A Connor Cobalt original,” he tells me.

I throw a pillow up at his face, and he catches it before uncaging me from this spot. I’d be more than okay imprisoned on this mattress all day long by him, and only him.

But he climbs off the bed, his feet setting on the hardwood with his phone in hand. “I’m going to call Frederick back and then we can watch a city die together.” He jabs his thumb towards the television where the Black Death has begun to ravage Europe.

“Are you going to talk about me?” I wonder.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m going to gloat, so I think maybe I should go outside.” He motions to the patio.

“Tell him I said hi,” I say with a tight smile. I’ve met Frederick once, and he was pleasant but short, probably worried he might let something slip. He knows more about me than he lets on, that’s for sure.

Connor disappears out the sliding glass doors, and I find my own phone on the nightstand. I’m about to dial Poppy’s number when I remember it’s six in the morning in Philly. I invited her to the Alps, but she said she’d rather stay home with her daughter. Poppy is only four years older than me, but I feel like we’ve already grown decades apart.

She has her own family and has begun to distance herself from Lily, Daisy, and me in favor of Sam and Maria. Is that happens when you have children? You gain new family members but have to sacrifice the connection of others?

It scares me. The fact that the relationships I have with my sisters now could dissolve when we all get married and start “new” lives. Will this be the closest we ever are?

I hope not.

A fist raps against my door before it swings open to a crack. “Shhh,” Lily hisses. “She could be sleeping.”

I fold my hands on my lap and cross my ankles like a lady, waiting for them to enter, my smile peeking through. If we part ways in a few years, I might as well enjoy this now.

“No…I see her. She’s awake,” Daisy says, craning her neck above Lily’s to look into my room.

Lily opens the door wider, and Daisy slips in front, holding two mugs with marshmallows floating on top.

Lily cups her own red mug in her hands. “We made you hot chocolate.”

“We thought it might help your migraine,” Daisy adds.

She hands me a dark blue mug while they plop on the mattress by my legs.

A migraine? That was Connor’s lie? He could have done better, but I suppose he didn’t want to worry anyone with a fib.

Lily nods to the television where dead bodies are being thrown into big ditches. She looks mildly horrified. “What are you watching?”

I smile into my cup. “The Black Death.” I take a long sip and then feel Daisy’s hand drift to my neck, examining the diamond pendant.

“Is this new?”

I nod. “A gift from Connor.”

“Pretty,” she says with sincerity, delicately placing it back against my chest, but I see a lingering sadness behind her eyes. She tries to conceal anything out of the ordinary by twisting her hair into a giant knot with one hand.

“What’d I miss?” I ask Daisy.

“Besides Scott being a douchenozzle, nothing,” she says easily.

My eyes narrow. “What’d he do?”

“He’s not the douchenozzle,” Lily says, giving Daisy a strange reprimanding look that she rarely produces.

My mouth falls. “Are you defending Scott, Lily?” Did Connor fuck me to another dimension?

She reddens. “No,” she says quickly. “I mean, Scott is still an asshole. He keeps whispering slut when he passes me in the hallway. But…” She shrugs. “…I’m learning to ignore him like everyone else.” She sets her sisterly glare back on Daisy.

I stiffen. “What is it then?” I connect the dots faster than Daisy forms words. “It’s Julian, isn’t it?”

Daisy shakes her head, but Lily nods and points a finger at her. “He put his hand down your pants, in front of Ryke. That’s not nothing!”

“And I took his hand out of my pants,” Daisy says in a hushed whisper. “No harm done.”

Lily clues me in on the rest. “Ryke almost punched him.”

“I bet,” I say before sipping my hot chocolate.

Lily’s eyes form tiny slits as she scrutinizes me. “You’re calm about this.”

“Julian has been marking his territory since we arrived in the Alps. I’m not surprised he chose to do it by grabbing her ass.”

“Underneath her jeans,” Lily clarifies.

“I’m right here.” Daisy waves her hand.

“You are,” I say. “Where’s the pepper spray I bought you? If you don’t scald his eyes, I’d be happy to do it.”

“He’s my boyfriend. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Is he really your boyfriend, Daisy?” I ask, a little too icy. But I can’t help that.

“Yes.”

“Then describe what it’s like to kiss him.”

She cringes.

Lily points another finger at her. “Aha! You don’t like him.”

Daisy’s shoulders fall. “I’m working on it.”

“Promise me you won’t always be working on it,” I say. “He’s older, and he shouldn’t be trapping you in a relationship.”

“He’s not. I promise. I can get out at any time. I’m just waiting for the right moment to strike.” She pats my leg, dodging quickly. “So how are you feeling, anyway?”

I’ll take her distraction this time, only because that conversation was going nowhere, not until she can reject Julian. And if she can’t, I have absolutely no problem stepping in and burying his face in the fucking snow.

I clear my throat and straighten my neck. “So…I have news…” A few months ago, I made a promise to Lily that I’d tell her when I lost my virginity, only if she agreed not to make it a big deal in return. I try not to smile as I say it. “I had sex.”

“Ahhhhhhhh!” Lily’s excited squeal sounds more like a frightened scream.

The bedroom door flies open in response, unsurprisingly. Both Loren and Ryke rush in while the patio door slides for Connor’s quick entrance, his phone still in his hand.

“What the fuck happened?” Ryke asks first, looking between the three of us girls who have gone utterly quiet. Daisy acts like she’s enthralled with a marshmallow in her hot chocolate.

Lo’s cheekbones sharpen the longer he stares at Lily in concern, trying to figure out what’s going on like his brother.

The silence must eat at Lily because she grabs the throw blanket, pulls it over head, and hides.

I’m about to explain, but Brett tries to maneuver his camera through the door frame to capture a view of the bedroom—an area off-limits from filming. His intrusion annoys Ryke enough to slam the door on his face.

I hear the oomph! and the cameraman stumble in the hallway. I’d be more upset if it was Savannah or Ben. Otherwise, I don’t care so much by Ryke’s bout of aggression.

When I look at Connor, he raises his brows, and a smile plays at his lips. He knows I told my sisters.

Loren sidles to the bed and prods Lily’s blanket-covered body. Even shrouded, I can tell she looks ready to melt into my mattress.

“What’s going on, Lil?” Lo asks. He rubs her back.

She shakes her head and then shifts her body so she faces me. I think. Her nose sort of sticks out. I’m not sure how that helps since I can’t see her beneath the plaid flannel.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” she says. “I was just happy for you.” It’s like some blanket monster apologizing to me.

“It’s fine, Lily,” I tell her. “I don’t really care.” They were bound to find out one way or another. I’m sure Connor would have told them eventually. This current situation may be a little odd, but welcome to my life.

“You girls need to work on your fucking happy noises,” Ryke says angrily. “They shouldn’t sound like someone is being assaulted.”

Loren pulls off Lily’s blanket, and her hair sticks up from the static. “What are you happy about?”

She goes silent and a little pale. For Christ’s sake.

“I had sex,” I blurt out for the second time.

All eyes immediately fixate on Connor, who has been very quiet. His phone is gone and his hands are in his pockets. “Yes, it was with me,” he answers the non-existent question. But it relieves some of the awkward tension in the room.

“Really?” I feign confusion. “You were there?”

“Je te rappellerai plus tard.” I’ll remind you later. Words sound so much sexier in French.

“And that’s my cue to fucking leave.” Ryke disappears through the door, careful not to let any cameras in.

“Congrats, sis,” Daisy says with a huge smile. She gives me a hug and follows Ryke’s footsteps.

That leaves Connor and me with Lily and Loren.

I wait for Loren to hit me with some insult. He’ll probably talk about “becoming a woman” now as if having sex makes me older and wiser. It doesn’t. It just makes me a little more experienced. So what?

He rubs the back of his neck before he says, “I’m happy for you two.”

I wear my shock, and Lo rolls his eyes. “What? I can’t be nice for once?”

“It’s weird,” I admit.

He nods to Connor. “You sticking around then?” He still thinks Connor might ditch me now that he’s had sex with me?

“Yeah, Lo,” Connor says, his eyes tightening with a flicker of hurt. I’m surprised he allows Lo to see it. “I’m sticking around.”

Lo nods again as he tries to absorb this as truth. “Congrats, man, for a second I was worried Scott was going to beat you to it.” He flashes a dry smile.

“The only thing he’s beaten me at so far is—”

“Rose,” Scott says, slipping into the room with his cellphone in hand. He holds the device out to me, but I don’t make a motion to crawl from my lady-like spot on this bed.

I have just announced my deflowering, and of course he’d find this as an appropriate time to interrupt. He clearly wants to cut Connor down from his highest achievement, and mine too.

But then he says, “Your mom is on the phone. She wants to talk about the seating arrangements for the wedding.”

Connor steps between the bed and Scott before the producer reaches me. My boyfriend’s eyes heat with malice that I haven’t seen before. He snatches the phone out of Scott’s hand.

Before he presses the receiver to his ear, Scott adds, “Be sure to tell Samantha thanks for the hour-long chat. I loved hearing about her day. It was…informative.”

He’s fucking with him.

My mother is pliable, easily manipulated by sweet-talking men with money. Hell, she likes Loren Hale, who is only nice when he wants to be. I didn’t think any parent would shove him on their daughter, but she’s been praying for a marriage between Lily and Lo even before they were together.

I am starting to wonder how much the reality show has warped her mind. If the rest of the public hates Connor with me—which they do since he’s been snippy on screen and edited as a pretentious ass—then her friends won’t support my relationship. They’ll vote for Scott, and my mother usually goes with the majority.

Just lovely.

“Samantha…” Connor says as he puts the phone to his ear, eyes never leaving Scott as he does so. “She’s unavailable…yes…of course…” He drops his gaze and glances at Loren, silently asking him to stay in my room. He nods, and then Connor seeks privacy on the patio again to talk with my mother. The sliding door shuts, and I consider moving my pained muscles to join him.

“Get out,” Loren immediately says to Scott.

The producer raises his hands in defense, but his smarmy gaze zones in on me, descending to my breasts, the tops visible in my low-cut nightgown. “You’ve definitely left the nunnery, Rose Calloway.” He lets out an amused laugh. “I’ll see you all later.” He pauses in thought “And you know, you and your sisters should all put on that…gold top that Daisy wore at Valentino’s. Great ratings with that episode.” He whistles. “You should see how many people reblogged that picture. Side-boob sells.”

I am going to kill him. I picture myself crawling on all fours towards his body and springing like a lioness, a wild cat, something feral that will claw the eyeballs right out of his sockets. But then I imagine him smirking at the perfect view of my cleavage during the assault. So I regretfully stay seated. Like a lady.

“Get. Out. You shitty fuck,” Loren says slowly like Scott’s a moron.

Scott raises his hands in defense, but he still acts like he holds all the cards. Maybe he does. He owns us and the townhouse we live in. And he has footage to tamper with. We’re just marionettes in his play.

The door shuts. But the tension never leaves. I don’t think it ever will.

Not until the cameras finally stop rolling.