Kiss the Sky (36 page)

“What no more?” she asks softly, humor to her voice.

“It’s time to sleep.” I toss my belt on the floor and kiss
her reddened wrist. Faint bruises and marks blemish her naked body, and I can’t
wait to see what she thinks of them in the morning.

I place her hands gently by her side, and I carefully wipe
the spot between her legs with the towel. Rose cringes just slightly. She was
tighter than I expected, but she was also incredibly wet. Still, I didn’t want
to take her slowly. She’ll be sore in the morning. I grin as I imagine how
every time she aches and moves she’ll remember me inside of her.

Quickly, I throw the towel in the hamper and clean myself
off. I find another pair of boxer-briefs from my suitcase and pull them on
before I head back to bed.

Rose’s eyes have closed, but they open a fraction when I
slip underneath the covers next to her. She scoots closer, a gesture unlike the
guarded girl I know. I take advantage and grab her around the waist, tucking
her in my arms.

She rests her head on my chest and her lips softly kiss the
bare skin. She doesn’t say anything, and my hand falls to her round bottom. I
could get used to this vulnerable side of her.

“I think I understand how someone could get addicted to
sex,” she says softly.

“Yes, well, your sister doesn’t have sex like that.” I
stroke her damp hair, and my comment stirs her almost fully awake.

“And how would you know?” she combats, as if presuming I
slept with Lily.
And there goes that
vulnerable side
.

I smile. “Maybe we should take it slower next time,” I say.
“It seems all these endorphins and hormones have made you a little—”

Her eyes burst into flames. “If you say stupid—”

I kiss her lips, cutting her off. She settles down, probably
more out of exhaustion than true surrender. She is an awful submissive. But
that’s what I adore about her. She’s a challenge.
My
challenge.
  

I glance down at Rose and her eyes are barely open now. “I’m
glad I have you,” she tells me before her lids sink closed, and she drifts
asleep in my arms. But I’m the one who should be glad.

I had no one before Rose. No true friends. No family, not
really.

Now I have her. I have people I care about it. People that I
want to protect.

Now I have everything.

The only thing about having everything is that you can lose
it all.

[ 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.”