Fowler Sisters: Stealing Rose Part 25

"Will you come back to the hotel with me?" she asks.

"You don't want to talk about ..." My voice drifts. I can't even say it.

She slowly shakes her head. "No. I don't think there's anything left to be said."

There's plenty to be said. But if she wants to play it this way ...

I'm not going to stop her.

Chapter Twenty-two.

Rose

What I've done is wrong. I know it. Deep in my heart I can see the fault in my reasoning, but I tell myself I'm keeping my heart protected. I'm throwing up barriers and pretending that what I discovered doesn't really matter as long as I have one more night with him.

With Caden.

On the cab ride over to Mitch.e.l.l Landers's house I finally broke down and did a Google search on him. Surprisingly, there wasn't much to be found. Society page photos, Caden posing with groups of people, all of them smiling, covering a wide range of years, from a late-teenage Caden to Caden today.

Some of those people he's standing with I know. Most of them I don't, but I've heard their names. All of them are wealthy and of a certain social status he lost long ago when his father killed himself rather than face his punishment.

There were mentions of that, too. Of Carl Kingsley taking his life. Of the many wrongs he did to his clients. Not one mention of what Caden might do for a living; not one mention of him stealing from anyone, either.

Thank G.o.d. I was both relieved and confused. What's the truth? What are lies? I didn't know. I needed more answers.

So I called Ryder during that cab ride too-traffic was unbearable and I couldn't stand to be alone with my thoughts.

"Tell me the truth," I'd said to Ryder when he answered. "About Caden. Tell me everything you know."

And he proceeded to do so, hiding nothing, being brutally honest. So honest I flinched a few times, I felt tears come to my eyes, and at one point, I became filled with utter despair. He warned me at the end of the conversation that not all of the information he told me was confirmed, but he and Caden had some mutual friends. Friends who knew what Caden was capable of.

What he was capable of. Those words devastated me.

What would I do? How could I stand by this man when he's done nothing but steal for a living? He's not an honest man. He can't be a good man, can he?

"People can change," Ryder said to me before I ended the call. He was quiet. Thoughtful. Choosing his words in order to make the strongest impact on me, I could tell. "I think he cares for you, Rosie. I think he cares a lot. The love of a good woman can change ... everything. Trust me. I wasn't good for your sister at first. I didn't care. h.e.l.l, I wanted to hurt her. But she made me a better man. Her love is everything to me."

I couldn't believe what tough, dark, and dangerous Ryder McKay said to me. His words cracked my heart wide open and filled it with stupid, glorious, just-out-of-reach hope. Hope that crashed and burned to the ground the moment I walked into that townhouse and saw Whitney with her arms around Caden, her b.o.o.bs pressed to his chest and his hands on her waist.

I wanted to kill her. Pluck every bleached blond hair out of her head. And I saw it then. My reality. I knew there was no way Caden could give up what he does all for me. He might not be stealing for the best reasons-he is most a.s.suredly no Robin Hood, though he doesn't spend excessively, either-but he's been doing it for too long. How can I expect him to give it up for me? How can I expect him to change?

Do I matter enough to him?

What we share is good. So incredibly, wonderfully good ... but I don't think it's everything to him. The way he is for me.

I sit in a cab now, once again. This time with Caden by my side, his arm slung over the backseat, his fingers dangling and brus.h.i.+ng against my shoulder every few minutes as he s.h.i.+fts and squirms like a little boy. He's uncomfortable. I'm sure I shocked him when I told him I didn't want to hear what he's done. That I didn't want to talk about it.

Why put myself through that torture again? One last night is all I want. Then we can go our separate ways.

No matter how much it hurts.

Traffic again is awful, maybe even worse since everyone's off work and it's a Friday. The cabbie hits the brakes hard and smacks his horn repeatedly, cursing at the car in front of him when it comes to an abrupt stop. Caden's arm falls to my shoulders with the jolt and I b.u.mp against him, reaching out to rest my hand on his hard, warm thigh to brace myself.

"Sorry," I mutter, about to remove my hand when he places his free hand on top of mine, keeping it in place.

"I don't mind," he murmurs, his voice so deep it feels like he's touching my heart, my soul. "Keep your hand there."

Slowly I look up at him, his dark eyes filled with so much emotion, his hair falling across his forehead. He looks sweet. Lost. Nervous. Hungry.

I feel the same way.

His other hand streaks across my shoulder before lifting to toy with my hair and I scoot closer, resting my head against his chest, my hand gripping his thigh, never wanting to let him go. We sit like that for long, quiet minutes and I try to match my heartbeat to his, my breaths so that I'm inhaling and exhaling to his steady rhythm. Doing so helps me feel connected to him, like I'm a part of him. And when he leans into me, his mouth at my temple, his fingers playing with the neckline of my dress, I close my eyes.

And let myself fall under the spell he's so skilled at creating.

His fingers dip beneath the fabric of my dress, skimming along my collarbone. Darts of molten-hot pleasure shoot through me, and my breath grows shallow, my head dizzy. I swallow hard and lift my head to look up at him, only to find him already staring down at me. The hunger in his gaze is amplified and his lips part, as if he wants to say something.

But he remains silent, which is probably best. Words aren't necessary any longer. Empty promises would remain just that ... empty. Tonight is about connecting one last time before saying goodbye. For good.

My heart seizes at the thought, so I push it away.

Dipping his head, his mouth brushes mine and I breathe into him, the relief that floods me undeniable. I took for granted how delicious his kisses are, his taste, his tongue, the hum that sounds from deep in his chest when my tongue touches his. His fingers grip my shoulder; his hand clamps down over mine, which still rests on his thigh. But this is as far as I'll take it. I don't want to get out of control.

I'm done doing that. Being out of control only hurts.

So when I break the kiss first and pull away from him slightly, he doesn't protest. He doesn't try to keep me close, either. We resume our position from only moments before, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest. I can feel the rapid beating of his heart beneath my ear and it makes me smile.

He's just as affected as I am. I find that rea.s.suring.

It also makes me sad.

I slip the key card into the slot and the light blinks green. Pus.h.i.+ng open the door, I enter the room, Caden right behind me. He slams the door and turns the lock, the click loud in the otherwise quiet of the room, and I go to the dresser, setting down my purse before I step out of my shoes. I wriggle my toes, sighing with relief, and I hear Caden's chuckle.

A chuckle I've heard many, many times these last couple weeks. But somehow, this one is different. Deeper. Darker. I glance up to find him watching me, his gaze locked on my feet, his mouth curved in a faint smile.

"Hurting?"

Nodding, I hold my foot out and wiggle my toes again for his benefit. "I go a few weeks hardly wearing heels and I guess my feet have to get used to them again."

"Torture devices," he murmurs as he points at the bed. "Sit down."

I frown. "Torture devices? Men never protest when they see a woman in heels."

"Oh, they're definitely s.e.xy. I'm not denying that. But you must admit they torture your feet." He nods toward the bed. "Sit down, Rose."

"My grandma told me from a very young age that beauty is pain." I go to the edge of the bed and sit, surprised when he kneels in front of me, holding out his hand.

"Give me your foot."

I do as he commands, a gasp escaping me when he holds my foot in his hands and begins to rub. Good lord, that feels good. He presses hard, his fingers moving in circles across my heel, then the center of my foot. He pulls on my toes, each of them giving a little pop, and I'm surprised at how good that feels. He keeps ma.s.saging, his thumbs working my aching muscles, and I close my eyes, a low moan escaping me.

"Is this okay?" he asks hoa.r.s.ely.

I nod, unable to speak. His thumb moves slowly over the top of my foot, his gaze dark, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and heat pools low in my belly.

"Want me to stop?" His voice deepens, sounding like pure s.e.x. I had no idea a foot ma.s.sage could be so sensual. "Rose?" he asks when I don't say anything.

My eyes pop open and I furiously shake my head, making him smile. He carefully sets down my foot and grabs the other one, giving it the same luxurious treatment for long, delicious minutes until I feel like I could melt. His hands start to wander. Fingers circling my ankles, tickling the backs of my calves, behind my knees, making me giggle.

My skin grows warm when I feel his intent s.h.i.+ft. The air becomes thicker, heavier. His touch bolder as his breathing deepens. Mine catches in my throat and my eyes are narrowed into slits as I watch him slowly work his way up my leg. Until his hand disappears beneath my skirt and is touching my thighs. I widen them for him shamelessly, wanting him to slip those magical fingers beneath my panties so he can find out just how wet I am for him.

I'm completely soaked-my body aches for his touch. This moment is so charged, everything feels that much more intense, and I know why.

Because this is the last night we'll be together.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmurs as he trails one finger along the inside of my thigh, stopping just as he reaches the spot between my legs. My thighs are quivering; my breath leaves me in shaky exhales. I'm so aroused I can hardly take it, and it all started with him rubbing my feet.

But really it all started when he rushed to my defense at the party in Cannes. When he kissed me by the pool and then ran away. I was hooked. I wanted more. I wanted my adventure, and I got it in the form of Caden.

"Your panties are wet," he tells me, his deep voice drawing me from my thoughts as his fingers graze the front of my underwear. "You're always so d.a.m.n responsive, Ro."

"It's because you know just how to touch me." I brace my hands on the edge of the mattress, my breath hitching in my throat when he slips those magical fingers beneath my panties and touches my p.u.s.s.y. My thighs fall open as much as they can, though they're restricted by the skirt of my dress, and when he slips his long finger deep inside my body the moan that comes from my chest seems to rattle my bones.

"Lift up," he demands tersely, his other hand shoving at my skirt. I lift my b.u.t.t, reaching for the fabric so it bunches around my waist. My flimsy panties aren't much of a barrier and he tears into them-literally rips the fragile lace, and then he bends forward, his mouth on my p.u.s.s.y, his tongue las.h.i.+ng against my c.l.i.t.

His gaze directed on my face as he devours me.

"Oh, f.u.c.k." The words are a whisper of sound. It almost looks vulgar, how we're positioned. My legs are spread, the panties hanging in tatters, my skirt shoved almost to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Caden's nestled between my thighs, his mouth working my p.u.s.s.y, his big hands gripping my knees, holding me wide for him. I lift my hips, another cry falling from my lips when he sinks his tongue inside me.

I throw my head back, my eyes sliding closed as I concentrate on the feel of his wet, wide tongue swirling around my sensitive flesh. He licks my c.l.i.t, sucks it between his lips, his fingers digging into my skin as he braces my knees, and then his mouth is gone.

My eyes fly open and I stare at him. His expression is wild, his chin covered with my juices, his lips glistening as well. He's still fully clothed and I want him naked. I want to come. I want his mouth back on my p.u.s.s.y. I want it all.

"I want to watch you come," he tells me, his voice low and deep and making me wetter. "It's my favorite thing. Are you close, Ro?"

I nod and lift up so I'm almost but not quite sitting. "So close," I murmur.

His gaze flares with heat. "I want you to touch yourself."

I frown. "What?"

He smiles and darts out his tongue, flicking my c.l.i.t with just the tip. "Rub your c.l.i.t. Show me how you like it. And then I'll join in. The two of us can make you come hard. I know it."

Oh, G.o.d. He's probably right. But I've never touched myself in front of another man before. I've never felt comfortable doing that sort of thing because it feels so intimate. Private.

"Do it," he urges with a nod of his head. "Touch yourself."

My hand slides down my belly, tangles in my pubic hair, and then I'm touching my p.u.s.s.y. I reach with my index finger, pressing it against my c.l.i.t, and I hiss in pleasure.

"That's it, baby. Keep touching your c.l.i.t," he encourages just as he settles his mouth on my p.u.s.s.y once more. His tongue flicks against my finger and I press my lips together to keep the moan contained.

There's something to be said for containment, for prolonging the pleasure. He knows what I'm doing and he smiles against my p.u.s.s.y and continues to lick it. My pace increases as I circle my c.l.i.t again and again, my hips working, his tongue flicking against my flexing entrance before thrusting inside. I start to rub in earnest when I feel my o.r.g.a.s.m barrel down on me, coming at me faster and faster until it breaks me apart and I gasp out a hoa.r.s.e, "I'm coming," as a warning.

The shudders wrack my body with such intensity I buck against his face, my hand falling away from my c.l.i.t as I collapse backward on the bed, my eyes tightly closed as my body shakes. He lifts up and away from me, I hear him hurriedly shedding his clothes, and then he's looming over me, crawling onto the mattress, crawling onto me.

"Ro." His voice is a heated whisper caressing my flesh and I open my eyes to find him watching me with his dark gaze. Bending over, he takes my mouth, the taste of me clinging to his lips and tongue. I kiss him back without restraint, my hands sliding over his naked skin, and when he breaks the kiss I growl with frustration. "Let's get this dress off of you," he murmurs as he lifts himself off me.

Somehow, working together, we get me naked. We're both on our knees facing each other, his hard c.o.c.k brus.h.i.+ng against my belly, our hands in each other's hair as we kiss. I scoot closer to him, my hands sliding all over his smooth skin, across his chest, his pecs, down along his stomach. I curl my fingers around the base of his c.o.c.k and stroke him, smiling against his lips when I feel him shudder in reaction to my touch.

"You keep doing that and I'll come all over your hand," he mutters like a threat.

It's a threat that thrills me, though. I increase my pace, making him curse, and then he's grabbing me by the shoulders and tossing me onto the bed, my head hitting the pillows just as he positions himself over me. I spread my legs to accommodate his body between them and then he's buried deep inside me, to the hilt, his b.a.l.l.s brus.h.i.+ng my p.u.s.s.y as he holds himself there for long, delicious seconds.

I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss his jaw, his chin, his lips. Slowly he begins to move, hot and heavy deep inside me, my inner walls grasping greedily around his length with every slip and slide. He's lost all finesse, all sense of control, as he increases his pace and pounds inside of me. I take it. I revel in it. The sound of our skin slapping together, the wet sounds of my p.u.s.s.y as he dives in again and again, the moans and the creak of the bedsprings and his harsh breath, his words sharp as he declares he's going to come.

I love that he's lost all control. I hold his head to mine and whisper in his ear, encouraging him. Before Caden I would never have said any of these words, but he's taught me well.

"You feel so f.u.c.king good," I whisper. "f.u.c.k me harder, Caden. Make me come all over your c.o.c.k. I want to feel you come inside me. Please."

"Ah, s.h.i.+t," he chokes out, lifting himself so he's propped on his hands, which are braced on either side of my head. His hips work, his c.o.c.k slides deep inside of me, and then he stills. That telltale indication that he's about to come and there's no going back.

"Fuuuck." He draws the word out and slams into me one more time, just as I feel the first spurt of s.e.m.e.n inside of me. He grunts and thrusts, coming again and again, filling me completely before he collapses on top of my body with a shuddery sigh.

No condom again. How could we be so stupid? It's as if we come together and I can't even think. I hadn't lied when I said I was about to start my period. Any day now it would make its monthly visit, though I really should consider going on the pill ...

Why? Not like you and Caden are a permanent thing.

Ugh.

I wrap my arms around his back, slide my hands down to his b.u.t.t, and hold him there, savoring the throb of his still hard c.o.c.k deep inside me. I feel full of him, full of his c.o.c.k. He surrounds me, his come in my body, our skin sweaty and sticky, his mouth at my ear, our legs tangled.

"You're gonna kill me, Ro," he whispers long minutes later when he finally pulls himself from my body, the dribble of s.e.m.e.n that coats my p.u.s.s.y a foreign sensation.

"You're going to kill me too," I murmur, my eyes closed, aftershocks still coursing through my body. I reach for him but he's not there, and when I crack my eyes open I see he's standing beside the bed, his expression one of horror as he stares at me.

"I didn't use a condom."