REDEEMING THE ROSE: GILDED KNIGHTS SERIES BOOK 1 Read online

  “Ha.” My tightened stomach relaxes, fractionally, at Mitchell’s clear discomfort. “A party bus, a dozen dudes, booze, and a demand that you, Mitchell, the introvert, smile for several consecutive hours. Sounds like heaven, huh?”

  “Sounds like fucking torture,” he grumbles. “Kari texted a date and time, which means tomorrow, I have to ask Best for the night off.”

  “He’s gonna make you earn that time off.” Now that Mitchell’s hands have loosened, I turn back to my stove and stir my boiling pasta. “You’ll be asking for something, and from what I gather about his type, Best loves holding shit over those he considers inferior. He’ll make you beg for that night off.”

  “Pfft.” He blows warm air with such force, my hair whips forward. “I don’t beg anyone for anything, ever. I’d rather die.”

  “Pride.” My lips quirk into a smirk. “Want me to suck your cock before dinner, Mitchell?”

  His dick hardens, just like that. It presses to the small of my back and makes my breath quicken.

  “I mean,” he clears his throat, “if you insist.”

  “I don’t insist.” I flip the switches on the stove and turn everything off. Then, spinning in his arms, I wrap my hands up over his shoulders, and twine my fingers in the hair at the back of his head. “Beg me for it.”

  “Ha.” He brushes off my words even as he cups my ass with a steely grip. “I don’t beg.”

  “Wanna bet?” I stand on my toes, and feather my lips across his.

  For every second this goes on, my stomachache lessens. It’s the power imbalance. When Mitchell is in charge and talking shit about his heart, his family, centuries-old recipes, and weddings, my stomach aches and my hands sweat. But when it’s him off-kilter, when I’m the one calling the shots, then the ache is gone, and my smile is back.

  “Let’s play a little game of ‘how long does it take till Mitchell Rosa sings?’” I wrap him up close, and revel in the feel of his strong hands taking at least half of my weight. “Let me play with you.”

  Bringing my hands down, I slide my fingertips over his naked chest. It’s broad and muscled, inked and dangerous as his sentries watch over the land—or, well, me. His wolf twitches when I touch, and the tiger would growl, I’m certain, if it could.

  I lower to flat feet, but pepper gentle kisses along his fiery hot skin. There’s a woman hidden in his ink—a witchy type, with messy hair and hooded eyes. “Who is this?” I trail the tips of my pointer finger over her nose. Her thin lips. “Lorraine from high school?”

  He barks out a breathy laugh. “Karma.” He allows me to move him to the side, two feet to the left of the stove, and then against the counter, so his hands go down to the edges, by his hips, and away from my body. “She’s Karma, and she’s the nastiest woman on this planet.”

  “Only if you’re a bad person.” I pepper kisses over his pecs, his eagle, the roses that litter his skin, but I give a wide berth to Karma and her scowling ways. “The universe returns what we put out. So if you’re a nasty, mean person your whole life…”

  “You mean like me?” He chuckles and opens his legs as I make my way lower. My lips work over his abs, my hands over the button of his jeans. “I’m the nasty one?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I bite the firm skin surrounding his navel, and grin when he hisses. “I’m saying that, so long as we’re good people, we should not fear Karma.”

  I drop to my knees, lower his zipper, and grin when he throws his head back and groans. But I have my own reasons to pant, my own reasons to throw my head back, as I’m greeted with that sexy V of muscle that leads from his stomach down into his boxer shorts. Pubic hair, trimmed neat but not all gone, teases the top of his shorts, shadows his already olive skin, and leads me toward what we both want me to expose.

  “Karma will take care of us,” I murmur and tug on his jeans. One delicious inch at a time, I drag them down, and fight his thick thighs when they make it hard to do so. “Karma has taken care of me so far.”

  “You think?” Mitchell’s words are hard, but his voice is broken with pants. “You’re in a town away from everyone and everything you know, with a guy whose middle name is Grump, and ignoring a thousand phone calls a day from family who want to harass you for money they’ve yet to earn.”

  “Or…” Once I have his jeans around his ankles, I pretend his cock isn’t rock-hard and just inches from my mouth. I ignore the slick between my legs, and the thrumming of my heart. “I’m in a beautiful town that I kind of love, with new friends, and a sexy man in my bed most nights. I have a lovely home that is transforming and becoming more mine with each new change I make, and each of those changes are because of my own grit and strength, making the win that much sweeter. I have a job I love, and friends I don’t want to be without anymore. And I’m far, far away from those people who call me a thousand times a day. A call, I can ignore. It’s a hell of a lot better than us being in the same town, and them walking into my workplace all day long.”

  “That’s not Karma, that’s perspective.” He grunts when I wrap my hand around his cock, thrusts forward so the skin rolls against my palm and his breath quickens, but when I bring my lips to his hipbone and not around his dick, he groans and leans back against the counter. “Fuck, Nadia. Fuck.”

  “Beg me for it.” Smiling, I bring my lips around to the tip of his cock, taunt him with what’s so near, and slide the end of my tongue over the bead of pre-cum that sits on the end. “Say please, Mitchell, and I’ll make all your filthy dreams come true.”

  “You’re on a power trip,” he moans and tries, I’m certain he does, to control the movements of his hips. “Mooch. Just suck my—”

  “Aww, you’re calling me Mooch again. Means you’re cranky.”

  I open my mouth, circle my lips around the very end of his cock, and stay exactly there. So close, but not at all satisfying. His hips thrust forward, he attempts to fuck my mouth and take the power back, but he won’t win. He can’t.

  “Say please,” I taunt, “and I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “Fuck, Nadia,” he cries out, whimpers, and tries again to thrust forward. “Just fuckin’ do it.”

  “Close,” I snigger, and circle the end of his cock with my tongue. “But no dice, Rosa. You gotta say please. Put that pride aside, and do as I ask.”

  “Please!” The word bursts free on an exhale, but then his hands go to the back of my head, and we both get exactly what we want.

  I take him to the back of my throat, ignore the way my eyes water, and groan when his pleasure brings me pleasure. My panties soak through, my fingers itch to touch, and when Mitchell continues to control my head, I do exactly that. I use one hand to circle his cock, and drop the other, sliding my fingers into my underwear to relieve the ache that left my stomach and slammed into my core.

  The second ache is much, much better.

  “God.” I speak around his cock, work him with my hand, work myself with the other, and open my eyes when he makes sounds I can’t ignore.

  I peek up and along his body, past the ridges of his stomach, and over the bulges of his pecs, until I’m met, not with his face, nor his eyes, but with the sight of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the skin. His stubble stretches halfway down his throat, only to taper off somewhere in his ink, so I can’t tell where one begins, and the other ends.

  “Fuck, Nadia. Fuck!”

  His hands are rough, pulling my hair and controlling my moves. He takes back his power in other ways, and proves to us both who is the strongest. Please and begging aside, he controls me, body and soul until, when my own breath quickens, and my self-induced orgasm races closer, he pulls back before I can demand he come in my mouth.

  Reaching down and grabbing me under the armpits, he yanks me up, and plops me on the edge of the countertop. His hands are frenzied, his fingers bruising, but he gets my shorts and panties down, then he’s lined up at my opening, fiery hot and steely hard.

  “Let me in,” he pants bre
athlessly. “You’re on the pill?”

  “Yeah.” My throat is desert dry. “On the pill. I’m clean.”

  “I’m clean,” he repeats. “Let me in?”

  “Yep.” I wrap my arms around his neck, and then I’m lost to him, to this moment, when he plunges deep inside and steals my breath.

  And possibly, my sanity.

  “Fuck!” Mitchell cries out and arches his neck back. But his hips piston, fast as a machine and just as smooth.

  The cabinet doors, built somewhere in the sixties or seventies, bang shut with each thrust, so our lovemaking is punctuated with each rhythmic slam. If anyone were to approach this home, even standing on the outside, they’ll know what we’re doing. They must. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the timing of the cupboard doors.

  “Bedroom.” My voice is hardly more than a whisper. My word, a cracked plea for reprieve. “Mitchell. Bedroom.”

  “Shit.”

  He reaches around, slides his hand between my thighs and the countertop, then he scoops me up and walks just a few feet before slamming me against the wall. His jeans are around his ankles, his cock buried deep inside me. His rough movements leave me breathless, my lungs emptied after hitting the wall, but instead of allowing me time to catch up, his lips fuse against mine and steal whatever I’d hoped to swallow down.

  “Bedroom.” I say it again, giggle when he cries out at the unfairness, then I hold on tight when he pulls me away from the wall and steps into the hall.

  “Downstairs,” he insists and heads toward the room I noticed on my first night here. The room I suspect was the main sleeping quarters until I changed things up.

  I left the bed here, changed out the sheets and covers to rid myself of the time-capsule look, then I declared it a guest bedroom… or, ya know, a second bed to fuck in.

  Mitchell stumbles his way toward the room, slams the door open so it bounces off the wall, then he tosses us onto the mattress, more comfortable than it appears, and takes my mouth without remorse. His hips piston, fast and unforgiving, and his tongue probes, demanding and mean. But it’s all so good, so potent, like lava in my blood.

  I let him use my body, I let him fuck us both sore, and when my orgasm reaches the edge and prepares to dive into the ether, Mitchell races with me. His thick biceps sit on each side of my face, providing my teeth the perfect place to bite down instead of releasing a scream at the pleasure he brings. His thrusts become more powerful, more frantic, more demanding. Then my orgasm freefalls, and with it, Mitchell dives too. He buries his face against my neck, bites down, and lets himself fill me up. Hot streams of cum coat my insides, unapologetic and untamed.

  “I love you, Mooch.” Mitchell’s words, his declaration, is muffled against my skin, but I still hear it—my heart hears. And then my freefall somehow turns into me clambering up a cliff’s edge.

  He doesn’t mean what he says. They’re the result of a good lay, and not because of real feelings.

  “Fuck, Nadia. Fuck.”

  My orgasm falters as I stare up at the ceiling. Mitchell’s shoulders dwarf my body and attempt to eclipse my view, but with each thrust, I’m able to catch a glimpse of the water-stained ceiling. We’re beneath the bathroom, my circling brain insists. Perhaps there was a leak in the shower. Something I need to look into, and when that problem is resolved, I can repaint this ceiling, cross it off my to-do list, and focus on something other than the L-word Mitchell stupidly let slip.

  My orgasm has washed away. I was so close to the end, so close to satisfied, but right before I could claim completion, it rushed away, leaving me dry and sad. Scared of dependence on someone I hardly know, and terrified of who I could become if I allow this to go on.

  I’m not my mother. And I refuse to allow myself to become her.

  When Mitchell is finished, his body still clamoring for air, his breath, hot and racing against my neck, I tap his shoulder in silent request that he rolls off me. And he does. Because his brain is still thinking about orgasms and riding me without protection.

  I mean, I’m protected by the pill. But still, no condom, for a man, I suspect is kind of special.

  That’s why he said those words, my brain insists. That’s why he fancies himself in momentary love. Because I let him in without a condom. Yeah, that’s it.

  I roll off the bed, and past a window cracked open to allow fresh air.

  “Where are you…” Mitchell flops flat against the unmade bed. “Where are you going?”

  “Bathroom.” I fake a smile—not that it’s necessary. Mitchell’s eyes aren’t even open.

  Turning out of the room and into the downstairs bathroom, I plop down on the toilet, and experience what may be my first ever crisis.

  I press my hands to my eyes and groan at something that, I try to convince myself, isn’t a big deal.

  He said love.

  While having sex.

  He’s hardly the first guy in the history of the world to do that. Add in that I sucked his dick first and initiated this whole thing, a guy can be forgiven for letting his mouth get ahead of his brain.

  “It’s fine.” I say it for me. For him. For the sake of my damn sanity.

  I pee, wipe up, and when I stand and attempt to pull my pants up, I sigh at their absence. They’re in the kitchen. On the floor, where Mitchell tossed them.

  Pants-less, classless, I flush the toilet and wash my hands, then I pass the room Mitchell still occupies, and head into the kitchen to collect my clothes. My eyes scour the mess we made. The empty pasta packet. Grandma Patsy’s empty sauce jar. I spy the wooden spoon on the counter, the sauce that sits on it, and the spilled sauce that drips from the end.

  My eyes shoot toward the back door and the space where there used to be an ugly curtain. I got rid of that nonsense the day after I moved in, and I’ve yet to replace it; though a sheer lace curtain is on my to-buy list.

  Walking to the door and flipping the locks, I glance to the living room doorway when Milo sidles up to the framework and rubs his back against the wood. He meows to verbalize his displeasure at what Mitchell and I just did…

  And I continue to do everything, anything, to avoid thinking about love and relationships and dependencies on a man who makes my heart flutter and my stomach hurt.

  “Nadia?” Mitchell calls out on a gruff, tired voice. “You coming back?”

  “Yeah.” I cast one last glance to our half-eaten dinner on the stove, then to Milo, and point a finger in his direction. “You stay off the counters, and leave that food alone. Grandma Patsy and I slaved over that meal.”

  Meow, bitch. Get out the way.

  Flipping him and his golden eyes off, I move to my fridge and snag two bottles of beer, then slamming it shut again, I head toward the bedroom and step in to find this man, this sex-on-legs, sprawled out on the bed in what some could describe as a porn-worthy look. My head is panicking over that love shit, but my loins can appreciate the muscle in Mitchell’s back. The dimples above his ass. The thick thighs, and olive tan that covers him from top to toe.

  He lays on his stomach, his arms under the pillow, which only succeeds in making his shoulders larger. His eyes remain closed, but I guess he senses me here, because his lips quirk up into a goofy grin that helps even my jaded ass shake off the last tendrils of doubt and allow me to relax.

  Sure, he said love, but what he meant was your pussy is tight and makes me say stupid shit without thinking.

  “You look like a god laid out on that bed, Mitchell Rosa.” I make my way into the room, set the bottles of beer on the bedside table, then lower and sit on the edge of the mattress.

  I’m playing shy, hard-to-get, even. But predictably, Mitchell snakes an arm out with lightning-fast speed, wraps it around my stomach, and drags me to him.

  I squeal with delight, then groan when his lips slam to mine and steal whatever wall I was frantically trying to build.

  “You made me beg,” he rumbles on a gruff voice. “You made me say please.”

  �
�I made you set your pride aside,” I counter. “It was pleasantly easy to do.”

  He peppers playful kisses on my lips, my chin, my cheekbone. “Sometimes, for some people, pride is easy to put aside.” He kisses my nose, then my eyelids. “I didn’t know that about myself until you.”

  Don’t say love. Don’t say love. Don’t. Say. Love.

  “Dinner?” he suggests. “I’m suddenly starving.”

  “Yup!” Shooting straight up in bed, I fix my top that Mitchell somehow almost got off me in the last minute, then I dive off the bed and toward the door. “Get your pants up before coming to dinner,” I tease. “It’s impolite to do otherwise.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  His chuckles follow me into the hall and to the kitchen. And my stomachache, for now, moves aside and makes way for something lighter, something much lovelier. It makes way for the anticipation of a night spent with Mitchell Rosa.

  He’s on night-shift starting tomorrow, which means we can sleep in tomorrow morning. We can stay up late tonight, watch movies and eat bad food. We can go back to bed a little later, and I can find my own release, but without the side of weirdness and self-deprecation. I can fall asleep with my head on his chest, my leg splayed over his strong thighs.

  I can go to sleep, and continue telling myself that I’m not already in love with him.

  Fuck him for making me care, and fuck him for turning me into my mother.

  I’ve spent a lifetime practicing how to be fake—from pretending my mother’s toxic dependence on her continuous boyfriends didn’t bother me, to pretending that I actually liked my cousins and uncle, all so I could have a seat at my aunt’s table. I pretended to like my business degree. And I pretend every damn day that I know what I’m doing when I speak to lawyers and bank directors. I pretend to know how to install an oven—though I guess, technically, that worked out in the end—and most of all, I pretend that I don’t still have squatters helping themselves to my home while I’m at work. Or, well, while I’m simply not looking.

  If I can do all that, and not one single person has called me out on it yet, then I sure as shit can pretend that I’m not in love with my boss’ brother. I still get to spend time with him, I get to live out my fantasies of being with a Portuguese friggin’ Adonis, and he still gets to make me come. Best of all, I get to enjoy all of that without the labels and commitment, and I can use Abby’s baseball threats as a handy excuse to lock it all away and not worry about Mitchell forcing us into the public eye.