REDEEMING THE ROSE: GILDED KNIGHTS SERIES BOOK 1 Read online

  “Favorite?” I scoff. “It’s a black shirt. Literally, black fabric.” I toss it aside when it clears his head and messes his hair on the way, then I grab the hem of mine and do the same. “There’s nothing distinguishable about your shirt in any way. How can it possibly be a favorite?”

  “It’s not about the design on the front.”

  He pushes back to sit on his haunches, then snaps the button on his jeans so my eyes drop down to the movement with dizzying speed. His hands are large, heavy, and predominantly covered in ink. But then I catch sight of his chest—now shirtless—and covered in…

  “A wolf?” I push up to sit, legs splayed wide open, my tits out for him to see, but my attention is all for the designs on his chest. “You have a wolf?”

  I bring the very tip of my finger up to trace the animal’s muzzle, his eyes, green like Mitchell’s, his fur, distinguished and sharply drawn. The wolf’s eyes stare deep into mine, but they’re angry, on the edge of attack, and around that, a geometric design that begins as fur, and ends in rose petals.

  “For your family,” I murmur of the florals. “Roses. Rosa.”

  “It had to be done,” he answers a little breathlessly.

  “A tiger on your arm.” I continue my explorations. “And an eagle. You have an entire jungle on here.”

  “Symbols of strength,” he rasps and tries, fruitlessly, to draw my attention back to orgasms and sex. “Can we—”

  “Hush.” I scoot a little closer, peek up into his eyes, then I bring my lips to the tip of the wolf’s nose. It’s wrinkled into a snarl, his teeth bared and ready to tear a throat out. I feel like I should be afraid. It’s a warning, surely. I should keep away. But I smile and press my lips to the mean wolf, I show my bravery, then I move on to the roses. “You must’ve spent days on these. Thousands of dollars.”

  “Don’t have anything else to spend my money on. Can we just—”

  “I have ink too.” I stretch back to rest on my elbows, then grin when his gaze shoots down to the design I had transferred to my stomach when I was twenty-one and fancy-free. “I thought soft belly would be way less painful, ya know, as opposed to tattooing over bones.”

  Snorting, he lowers down to study my work. “Soft flesh hurts so much more, silly girl.” In a role reversal, he now runs the tip of his finger over the lines of my sweet baby bird. “A canary?” His eyes come up to mine. “A symbol of… gossip?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, jerkoff. Freedom. Happiness and joy. Not being bound anywhere, to anyone, least of all your own ego.”

  “I think your artist fucked up.” Lowering, he presses a gentle kiss to my stomach. “You’re the most egocentric woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Shut up!” I hit him, slap his shoulder, and laugh when he pins my hand above my head and stares into my eyes with a grin. “You know nothing about me,” I argue on a pant. I can’t help myself. He’s pinning me down, we’re mostly naked, and I’ve been on the edge of orgasm for too long. “I’m not proud, nor am I stubborn. I’m a sweet little free-bird who enjoys no roots, and no reason to be home in time for dinner.”

  “Mm.”

  Grunting in the back of his throat, Mitchell holds both of my wrists with one hand, and with the other, he reaches into his back pocket, snags his wallet, flips it open, and tips it up until the contents spill out onto my bed. Cash, coins, a bank card that makes me want to smack him for making this all seem like a business transaction.

  I’m certain it’s unintentional, but still, there’s cash on my bed now, and my feelings are getting hurt.

  Finally, two condoms fall to my silver-gray covers, flip apart, and pull a wolfish grin from Mitchell’s plump lips; plump because of my teeth and tongue.

  Pushing back to his haunches, he snatches up one of the two condoms and tears the packaging open. The metallic wrapping is immediately tossed aside, to my floor—something I’ll find a week from now when I vacuum beneath my bed.

  Mitchell pushes his jeans down, since I neglected to do it, shows off a deep, deep V that is a map straight to the place every woman wants to go. Then he pulls his pulsing cock from black boxer shorts so my eyes drop to the head, purpling from excess blood, and dripping pre-cum like it knows what’s coming.

  Setting the rubber on the tip and hissing at the feel, Mitchell slowly begins rolling it down. His eyes come to mine as I eagerly watch on, only for him to shatter the spell when he asks, “Not allergic to latex, are you?”

  I blow out a desperate laugh. “That’s a very Mitchell-the-medic thing for you to ask.” But I shake my head, because I’ll die if he stops this now. “No, not allergic. You allergic to quality pussy?”

  He snorts and shoves me back until I flop against my bed and the covers puff up. “Shut up, weirdo.”

  Shuffling forward until the front of his thighs touch the back of mine, he stops and brings his gaze to mine. I was wrong to label him as a Viking. So very wrong. The wolf in him, the one inside his body, in his blood, not the one on his skin, stares deep into my soul as though to ask if I’m ready. Power swirls in the air. It becomes thicker, denser, until my lungs struggle to draw it in and out.

  But who cares? When Mitchell Rosa stares at a girl the way he’s staring at me, oxygen drops down on the list of things required to live.

  Instead of speaking, shouting, demanding he hurry before I chicken out and run away, I merely nod my permission, then exhale and flop back when my strength wanes. I lay back amongst the covers and, when he lowers over me, amongst all things Rosa. Then his stubbled chin glides over my jaw, my throat, my collarbone, and his dick presses to my opening.

  He needn’t ask; he already has my permission. He needn’t warn; I see what he has, and how much it might hurt. He knows I’m here with him, as ready as he, so he begins sliding in, only to let his control slip, and bury his face in my hair when I squeeze him tight.

  “Fuck, Reynolds. Jesus.”

  Despite my easy actions tonight, my ‘egocentric’ personality, I’ve not spent my adult life jumping from bed to bed. So it’s a tight fit, a war of his heat versus mine. But we’re also desperate, and I’m wet, so he pushes on, past the pressure trying to bar his way, past the quickening of my breath when the pinching ache breaks through the fog, and past my nails scoring his back, no doubt bringing him pain.

  Hurt for hurt, passion for passion.

  He bites me while he slides in, then soothes the ache with his tongue in apology. Mitchell’s hips move with a little more speed, a little more pushing power, so when he slides all the way in and seats himself so deep that I’m certain I feel it in my stomach, he pulls out again until it’s constant movement. Constant heat.

  Our panting breaths race each other, our hearts, too. Together, we create warmth and sweat, humidity and hunger. After only a slide or two, my pinching pain makes way for hunger and ecstasy, so my nails stop digging into his back, and instead hold him close.

  His shoulders and back are so broad, so thick and ropy with muscle, that I have to reach around to get a good hold on him. Each time he slams deep inside me, my grip is broken, and I have to try again.

  His thighs are hard, the hair there creating friction against my skin. His body is heavy, so the bed dips where his knees touch my mattress, which means I slide into the dip, only to be shoved out again when he pushes forward.

  Each time he slams home, I cry out, he bites, my nails dig in, and I slip along the bed. So many moving pieces. So much going on around me, and yet, I close my eyes and merely feel.

  Mitchell’s fingers dig into my thighs, so powerful, so painful that I want to weep. But the pain brings just another element to my pleasure. It’s like fire and ice, love and hate, all wrapped up into one ball of intensity.

  But I think, if I gave myself more time to know this man, I would find that’s exactly who Mitchell Rosa is: a ball of contradictions. Love and hate. Hot and cold. Dismissal and protection.

  Mitchell gives me no words now but the occasional swear. No promises, no platitudes. He doe
sn’t even do what a majority of the male population does and ask, ‘are you there yet?’ He doesn’t worry himself over impressing me. Rather, he lives in the moment, the pleasure, the chills and heat. And by bringing himself closer to the edge, he brings me along with him.

  “Fuck, Nadia.”

  His hair tickles my jaw, my throat. But his tongue does things powerful enough to distract me.

  “Mitchell,” I pant out and twist my ankles together. “I’m gonna—”

  No, I’m gonna nothing. Because he throws himself to the side without warning me, drags me over despite my startled scream, then he forces me up to ride him.

  His expression changes from carnal hunger to smug satisfaction, then his hands come up to massage my tits. “Still look like a porn star,” he says in a mocking tone. “Hell if I haven’t pictured you like this a hundred times since last week.”

  “Not very complimentary,” I drawl.

  And yet… I glide over him, because it feels too good to stop. My long hair falls forward when I rest my hands on his chest, my breasts feel heavy, even though his hands hold them up. His thumbs brush over my nipples and send licks of pleasure racing to my toes, only for it to bounce back and ping around inside my stomach.

  “No woman wants to be told that, you know? You’re very rude.”

  “And still, you’re here with me.”

  He pushes up to sit so his chest crushes mine, then he wraps his arm around my hips and controls my movements. He lifts me, then slams me back down again until a cry escapes my throat without my permission. He lifts again, and grins when our eyes meet—his are smug and cruel in one, disassociated and unemotional.

  It doesn’t take a professional brainiac to know he’s removing feelings from what we’re doing. This is a one-night stand and nothing more. But that’s all I wanted coming into this too, so I relax and feel, I give no thought to the way my heart races, and all of my energy to the way my pulse beats between us.

  His hands grow rougher, his breath faster, until the fire in my belly expands into my every pore. Electricity pulses in my fingertips, and the whooshing of my blood makes my vision turn darker. My lungs forget how to work, and my brain can’t quite catch up to fix it. But then I explode, I cry out, and scream when Mitchell twists us again, slamming my back to the mattress.

  The fear of being flung through the air again brings my orgasm to a crashing halt. But then on one single thrust when he’s back on top, it reignites, hotter and meaner than before. I come, violently and without restraint. My core squeezes until Mitchell is dragged to an almost standstill, and when I look up, all I see is the underside of his stubbled jaw.

  If he was a wolf, this would be him howling at the moon.

  His powerful thighs work to push him forward, drag him back. His breath races, and his heart beats in his throat. I see it, I see how fast it runs.

  “Fuck!” he grunts, and juts forward so the condom fills between us. The warmth I can feel, even through the rubber.

  My orgasm goes on and on. Electrical pulses that shoot into my gut and reduce me to a whimpering mess. My breath is shallow, not nearly enough to sustain life. But enough to sustain this.

  My vision swims, black dots encroach on the edges of my world. But my grin notches up.

  Take me away, I don’t even care.

  “That was amazing,” I mumble and snicker in one. Giggles, and exhaustion. Semi-consciousness, and embarrassment. “Jesus, Rosa.” My voice is husky, when I’m not sure I’ve ever sounded that way before in my life. “Shit.”

  Instead of speaking, Mitchell merely leans to the side and drops face-first to my mattress. He groans, from pleasure, or pain, I’m not sure. He buries his face against my pillows, and leaves me, star-fishing my bed and messing up the covers as I stare up at the ceiling.

  “Fuck.”

  That’s all he says. One word. One syllable. A million implications.

  8

  Mitchell

  One of a Million

  In my dreams, Nadia and I aren’t done yet. I’m inside her tight warmth. Her arms are wrapped around my shoulders. Her legs are around my hips.

  I slowly come to, and find myself humping the mattress. But instead of being frustrated, I smile in the morning darkness. Because she’s here right beside me as she sleeps and breathes by my ear.

  We share one pillow, one side of the bed. My side of the bed.

  I lay on my stomach, my arms under our pillow, my face turned away from hers, and she lays half sprawled on me, so her leg rests on the backs of my thighs, her arm draped heavily across my back.

  She acts like a dude, the way she hogs the bed and takes up my space. But I can’t say I mind. Her skin is like silk, her hair smells like honey.

  My dick is hard, weeping and ready, and in my half-awake phase, I slide my hand across the sheets and onto her hip.

  But then a deep, annoying vibration sounds from the opposite side of the room. A phone on a wooden surface. The reason, I realize now, I woke in the first place.

  It’s still dark outside, though the sun is working its way toward the horizon. It’s cool outside the sheets, which makes Nadia’s bed-hogging the perfect thing to wake up to. But then that phone begins again.

  Bzz. Bzz. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz. Over and over and over a-fucking-gain.

  My smile turns to a growl, and eyes I’d opened wide so I could see Nadia’s luscious body draped over mine now narrow and squint at whoever woke me.

  Bzz. Bzz. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  “Fuck.” I groan and press my face against my pillow, and when that doesn’t help, I bury myself in the hollow of Nadia’s neck so her hair acts as a curtain, her soft snores a type of white noise, until the buzzing stops.

  Finally, when the phone turns silent, my bunched muscles relax. I had no clue they’d tightened in the first place. The deep wrinkles in my brow smooth, and my dick makes itself known again.

  I shouldn’t be here. I sure as shit shouldn’t have stayed in this bed all night. But honestly, what’s a man to do when Nadia fucking Reynolds tosses her naked self over him and snuggles in to sleep? That’s once-in-a-lifetime stuff, right? Never to be found anywhere else, never to be repeated.

  Or so we’ve agreed.

  “No tomorrow.”

  That annoying phone begins again. It’s a deep, demanding buzz. A ‘get the fuck over here and answer me’. A ‘you’ll do as you’re told, or I will continue to fuck with you’.

  Why, when I can’t even see the screen, am I already pissed and certain it’s a dude calling for a middle of the darkness visit?

  Why do I think it’s any of my business?

  Bed-humping forgotten, hard dicks and soft skin ruined, I slide out from beneath Nadia’s serpent-like grip, place her hand down gently—rather than let it flop into the space I was laying a moment ago—then I stand in the darkness of her room, buck-ass naked, and clueless about my next move.

  Again, the phone buzzes.

  Bzz. Bzz. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  And for every demand, my heart grows colder, my lips, thinner.

  I snatch my jeans from the end of her bed and stab my legs inside, then pull my shirt down over my head. I sit on the end of the mattress, and despite the odd anger that courses through my blood, I’m careful not to sit on Nadia’s foot and wake her.

  Sliding my feet into my boots, sans socks and without tying the laces, I push up to stand again and search the room for the rest of my things. Phone. Keys. Wallet.

  I stay on my side of the room, the side I slept on, but the more I wake, the more I recall dropping my phone over there… near hers.

  Stay away, Mitchell. Stay the fuck away.

  But I can’t. I can’t just leave my stuff here and expect her to bring it back to me. That would be a move someone who wants a second round would do. It’s a… well… sorry, ladies, but it’s a chick move. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve had to follow a woman outside, only to hand back her purse, lipstick, library card—true story—so that I wouldn’t get the dre
aded ‘Oh dear, I forgot shit. Please bring it to me’ phone call a few hours later.

  When Nadia’s phone falls silent once more, I make my move, dash across the room, and snatch up my stuff. I’m careful not to let my keys jangle and make noise, and thankful that Nadia’s screen is black. For as long as I don’t touch, I’ll never have to know who—

  Drew leaves a voicemail. Drew!

  Who the fuck is Drew?

  But it gets worse, because as I let my eyes scroll her lit screen, Arlo is also there, also demanding my g—Nadia’s attention.

  “Fuck.”

  For as long as Nadia’s screen remains lit, my eyes scan; Drew wants her to call. Arlo wants to know where she is. Drew wants to know why she stopped texting. And Arlo wants to know if he can visit soon.

  They’re guys from her old town. Flames who likely don’t know the other exists.

  My stomach warms and balls, bunches and threatens to rebel. But then David texts, despite the early hour, and joins the fray.

  “Call me, sweetheart. I just want to talk.”

  Fuck this.

  I turn away from a phone that somehow has the power to hurt me, scan the room one last time to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, then I walk to the door and try my damnedest to ignore the beautiful blonde laid out on her bed. So soft, so warm and inviting.

  But this was one and done. That’s all we’ve agreed on. It’s all either of us wants. And now she has a line of others waiting for their turn.

  Gross.

  Pushing through the bedroom door, I ignore the new buzzing of her phone, and instead work on navigating the dark hallway. My laces slap the floor with each step I take. The heels clomp down, since they’re not fastened to my feet.

  I reach the top of the stairs and head down, but then I catch movement… just the tiniest amount. Fast like a shot, black in the night, and my instincts scream intruder! My hand whips to my hip, despite knowing damn well I have nothing there. Then I grab my phone instead, and switch the flashlight on.