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His movements become jerky before he half-screams, half-roars, the sound ripping from somewhere deep inside him. “I’m coming. I’m coming so hard for you, Rose … like the flower. Fuck yes.” When he stills, he folds over me, his torso settling against my back as he struggles to catch his breath. It takes him a good minute before he finally speaks. “You should probably get yourself a glass of water, sweetheart. You’re going to need to stay hydrated, because I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

I don’t say a word, but I’m glad he can’t see my face because the smile spreading across it is downright shameful.

Chapter 16

Rose

I sit on the edge of the bed and slip my feet into my baby-pink heeled wedges, crisscrossing the ribbons around my ankles. It’s Sunday, and today I’m meeting Bronson’s mother. I’m both nervous and excited.

This week has been a whirlwind. We’ve somehow managed to keep things PG at work, if you don’t count the endless dirty texts and those longing, I can’t wait to get you home and fuck you senseless looks Bronson constantly throws my way.

I’ve fallen hard, and I’m pretty sure he has too. He’s been leaving work at 5.30 pm every evening with me, driving me home, and coming up to my apartment. As soon as we make it inside, it’s on like Donkey Kong.

We greet Polly, cop an earful of abuse, and begin stripping out of our workwear as we head straight for my bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothes in our wake.

I’m yet to stay over at Bronson’s because of the wretched bird, but I’ve been there a few times while he collected clothes or changed. We’ve also christened his shower, the dining room table, and the stairwell. Fun times.

I stand and walk over to the full-length mirror, smoothing out my pink dress. It has capped sleeves, a fitted bodice and a flirty skirt that stops mid-thigh. It’s prettier rather than sexy, but I’m meeting his mother, so I’ve gone for sweet rather than anything too daring.

I have a light dusting of makeup on, and I’ve slicked my hair back, sans bangs, tucking the longer strands behind my ears. I can’t help wondering what Bronson will think when he sees me.

He left here an hour ago to return home, shower and change. And should be back to pick me up any tick of the clock.

Pushing up on the tips of my toes, I rummage around in the top of my wardrobe for my pink clutch before heading into the kitchen. A loud wolf whistle comes from behind me, and when I turn, I find Polly eyeing me from his perch, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Polly wants a cracker.” Squawk. Reaching into the jar on the countertop, I pull out a water cracker and move towards his cage. He bobs up and down as I approach. “Fuck off … fuck off.” Squawk.

“You have the manners of a baboon,” I tell him as I slip the cracker between the bars of his cage. He grabs it between his claws and leans down to take a bite. At least when he’s eating, he’s not offensive.

I don’t even make it two steps before I hear the knock. I woke up this morning with Bronson’s face between my legs, and when he was done, I took him so far down the back of my throat I gagged. But that knowledge still doesn’t stop the butterflies from taking flight as I head for the door.

I suck in a breath and hold it as I turn the handle. Bronson stands on the other side, looking like he’s stepped off the cover of a GQ magazine, with a bunch of roses in one hand.

His eyes track over my face, then slowly travel the length of my body, as a low growl rumbles in the back of his throat. “Fucking hell,” he groans. “How am I going to get through lunch without touching you when you’re dressed like that?”

He holds out the bouquet of flowers to me, and I take them, bringing them to my nose. “I’m sure you’ll manage.” I step back, giving him room to enter, and the moment he kicks the door shut with his foot, he closes the distance between us and slips a hand under the hem of my dress, palming my lace-covered butt cheek. “Easy access,” I say, with a cheeky grin.

“Can we skip lunch?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because my lady parts need a timeout.”

A smile tugs at his lips as his beautiful whisky coloured orbs lock with mine. His eyes, framed by thick, inky lashes—which should be illegal on a man—give me a look I can’t quite decipher. “What are you doing to me, Rose … like the flower?” he asks.

I frown, not understanding what he’s trying to say as I glance down at my dress. “Do you want me to change?”

“I’m not talking about the way you’re dressed. I’m talking about the way you make me feel.” He pauses for a moment. “I think I’m falling in love with you.” He shakes his head. “No, scrap that. I know I am.”

Bronson’s hand is clutched in mine as we enter the restaurant. We cross the dining room towards the table where his family sit, Violet, Callum, and an older lady whom I assume is his mother.

Violet’s eyes lock on our conjoined hands as we approach. She’s the first to stand when we reach the table. She hugs her brother, then moves to me. “Love the outfit,” she says. “Those shoes are super cute.”

“Do my legs look bowed?” I ask, soft enough that only she can hear. Because I’ve had so much sex this week, I’m walking like I’ve spent days in the saddle.

“In those shoes?”