“I’ve been wanting to do this to you since the last time I saw you,” I whisper close to her ear just before I nibble on the lobe. My fingers never leave her pussy. I’m working her into a frenzy, my hand busy beneath her skirt, her legs still spread, her mouth falling open.
“Oh God,” she chokes out, her entire body going still.
So does my hand.
Her eyes pop open and she stares at me, her expression full of agony. Full of pleasure. “Please,” she whispers, and I know exactly what she wants.
But I want to hear her say it.
“Please what?” I ask innocently.
“Don’t—don’t stop.”
Slowly, I slide my middle finger through her folds, flicking it against her clit. “Don’t stop what?”
Surprisingly enough she laughs. “You know what.”
“Are you saying you want to come?”
She nibbles on her lower lip again—does she know how sexy that is?—before she answers with a soft, “Yes.”
I kiss her cheek. Cup her face with my other hand and turn her so I can drink from her lips. “Ask for it,” I say against that tasty, plump mouth.
“What?” Her voice falters. I don’t know what’s possessed me, but I love talking to her like this. Treating her like this.
“I want to hear you say the words, Rose.” My hand goes still once more and the whimper of frustration that falls from her lips sends a surge of satisfaction rolling through my veins.
I’m a sick fuck tonight. I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but there is something very dirty about getting Rose Fowler off with my fingers in a public restroom, demanding that she tell me exactly what she wants from me.
“I want to come,” she says, her voice strong, her gaze still on mine. “Please, Caden.”
It’s the way she says my name. It’s the use of the word please. Would she ever beg for her pleasure? I’d love to hear her. I’d love to see her down on her knees, my cock in her mouth, her tongue teasing, her fingers stroking …
Fuck. I can’t let myself get distracted. That’ll have to happen another time.
Without a word I increase my pace, sliding my fingers inside her body, my thumb pressing against her clit. She never looks away from me, not once, as her breathing increases, her mouth works as if she wants to say something, and again her body goes rigid.
But I don’t still my hand this time. I keep moving, keep fucking her with my fingers, keep teasing her clit with my thumb, and then her entire body is quaking, a gush of wetness bathes my fingers as her shaky moan lets me know without a doubt I just made her come. Her gaze is still on mine and I can’t look away, I can’t say a thing. I can only watch as she falls apart and then just as quickly pulls herself back together.
She licks her lips as I remove my hand from between her legs, her fingers working on the front of her dress, doing up the buttons. I step away, running my hand over my hair as she straightens her dress, then combs her fingers through her hair as she turns toward the bathroom mirror.
I just stand there like a dumbass, watching her. My cock strains against the front of my jeans and my fingers are wet. I rub them together, bring my hand up to my face, and take a sniff. They smell like her pussy and still I can’t move. Go to her, what the fuck?
“Did you just smell your fingers?” she asks incredulously.
I don’t answer her. Just continue to stare as she washes her hands and shakes them in the sink before she runs her damp fingers through her hair one more time. Then she grabs a hand towel and dries them off. A boring little ritual I’m oddly fascinated with. Finally she turns and looks at me, a pleasant smile on her face. Like we’re old chums versus newfound lovers who just messed around in a bathroom like sex-crazed lunatics.
“Um, thanks. That was … interesting,” she says as she starts to walk past me.
I’m not about to let her get away that easily. Reaching out, I grab hold of her arm, stopping her. “Interesting?”
“And satisfying,” she adds, that smile still on her face.
“I’m sure,” I say dryly, earning another laugh from her, surprising me. She’s treating this encounter so casually. I should like it. Prefer it. Most women would freak out or expect more. Not this one.
And I’m oddly disappointed.
“I need to get back out there before Violet starts looking for me.” Without another word, a glance, a thank-you, nothing from her, she walks away, head held high, a hum emanating from her as she unlocks and throws open the women’s bathroom door, exiting the room.
Shit, fuck. I need to get the hell out of here before someone else finds me. I dash out of the women’s bathroom and go into the men’s, thankful I’m alone. The reflection in the mirror reveals the same old me, but I feel different. Stupid, I know, but I can’t help it. I am not the same man I was before that encounter with Rose. I appear calm on the outside but inside, I’m rattled. Thrown. Turned on.
Jesus.
Turning on the faucet, I splash cold water on my face, hoping it’ll slap me back into reality, but it doesn’t. My head feels like it’s in a fog.
A Rose Fowler–induced fog.
I wash my hands, fighting the bitter disappointment of replacing the scent of Rose’s pussy with the sterile disinfectant smell of the liquid soap. I dry them and take a deep breath, counting to ten before I exit the bathroom, making my way back to the table. Rose is sitting there between Violet and Whitney, her cheeks still rosy, her hair tucked behind her ears, showing off that beautiful face. She doesn’t so much as look at me when I sit in my chair on the other side of Whitney. I grab my beer and polish it off with one swallow.