REDEEMING THE ROSE: GILDED KNIGHTS SERIES BOOK 1 Read online

  I look down when Nadia’s breath catches. “My boss doesn’t consider his staff the way Abby does. To Abby, you’re already family. To my boss, I’m an asset… or a liability. Right this moment, while the dude is squawking, I’m a liability, because I’m making him look bad.”

  “I think I know who you’re talking about.”

  “My boss? Yeah, Best by name, but sure as fuck not by wor—”

  “No, the case,” she interrupts. “The deceased. A little girl, right?” Nadia forces us to stop again, steps in front of me before my body completely halts, then makes me catch her when we bump together and she almost falls to her ass. “It was a little girl. I met her mom.”

  “You… what?”

  “Today. This woman came into the shop looking to buy flowers. She was haggard and sad. She was a mess, and clearly grieving. It only took me a minute to get a handle on what was going on, so instead of leading her toward the typical flowers for grief, I sold her a bright bouquet. Something to cheer her up maybe. And if not her, then maybe the child. I, um…” She looks away and shakes her head. “I recently had a family member pass away too, so I told the woman to tell the child to maybe look out for Aunt Tracey.

  “It’s weird and silly,” she rushes on as a tinge of embarrassment fills her cheeks. “But I believe in that sort of stuff, and really, it can’t hurt. I gave her the flowers, told her to speak to her child, since I believe people who’ve passed are still hanging around, then I went out back and wanted to run my head into a brick wall for being so stupid and insensitive to this woman.”

  “Abby didn’t let you hurt yourself?”

  “No!” Nadia’s watery gaze comes up to me. “No, she said I was sweet and kind and blah blah blah. She said I did good, and that I helped the mother. But that’s why I’m Monday-drinking. This mom needed help, and I keep wavering and wondering if I helped or made it worse.”

  “Your intentions were pure.”

  She scoffs. “Doesn’t mean it was received that way. I might have done a lot of damage, all because I stuck my nose someplace it wasn’t welcome.”

  “You mean like how you followed me out of the club tonight, even when I asked to be left alone?” Smirking, I reach up and push a strand of hair off her face when it catches in her lashes. “Seems you’ve learned your lesson, huh?”

  “Hush. I seem to enjoy annoying you. You’re so easy, and really, I figured nothing could compete with a grieving mom, so whatever was bothering you would be easy in comparison.”

  “Till you found out our sucky Mondays were one and the same?”

  Nodding, she swallows so my eyes are drawn to the movement of her neck. “I might have done a lot of damage to that poor woman today.”

  “I went by her grave this afternoon before work.” I study the golden flecks in Nadia’s eyes. The swimming greens. The sparkling blues. “Her name is Cady, by the way. She was four.”

  “Oh god.”

  “And when I got there, I was awestruck by the beautiful display of daises sitting in a vase by her headstone.”

  “What?” Nadia pushes back to meet my gaze. “You’re lying to make me feel better.”

  I scoff. “You’ll learn quick enough that I don’t lie. At all. Least of all to soothe an ego.”

  “The flowers were really there?”

  I smile when her eyes lighten with relief. “They were honestly there. They obviously caught my attention, seeing as how the likelihood of them coming from my sister’s shop was high. They were the brightest spot in the entire cemetery, acting as a type of beacon, even for people who were there to see someone else.”

  “I helped?” Her voice catches for a moment, cracks and shows the vulnerability this woman hides beneath sass and beautiful looks.

  “I think you did. Otherwise, she’d have thrown them away, right? She’d have tossed them into the trash and gone to the store for a ten-dollar bunch of something boring.”

  “Right.”

  In the moonlight and beneath the stars, Nadia and I stand chest to chest, her hands pressed to my biceps. Alcohol or grief or familiarity—or perhaps all of them—has us standing closer than is proper. Her hips, somehow, rest beneath my hands. Her chest, supple but firm beneath mine. Her lashes kiss her cheeks each time she blinks. But her lips… they sparkle and tempt.

  I’m only a man, and for the first time in a long time, I have spare time on my hands and no one to hold me accountable.

  Bewitched. I think that’s what they call this. It fits, seeing as how she’s a type of witch; a wanderer, readying to run with someone else’s riches.

  “My, uh…” She clears her throat and tries again. “Um… my extroverted side and your introverted side means we’re completely and utterly incompatible. We’d send each other insane after an hour together.”

  “Pretty sure you’ve already accomplished that.” Somehow, I find myself leaning closer. Closer. Until the sour-sugar flavor of her drink plays on my tongue. “I’m standing here in the middle of the fucking road with someone I don’t like.”

  “And I’m standing here with someone who might be the reason my boss fires me, then kills me. I’m surprisingly, but validly, afraid of how violent your sister will be. She won’t be kind about it.”

  “So, hypothetically speaking, if I were to spend a little more time here in this street with you, it would be best if we kept it to ourselves… right?”

  “Right.” She swallows and lets her eyes flicker between mine. “For the sake of my job and safety, it would be best we don’t speak of this.”

  “Plus,” I lean a little closer. “If it’s inevitable that we’ll hate each other, and eventually stop standing in this street together, then there’s no point announcing to the world that we’re here.” My brows come closer together. “Right?”

  “Right.” Her tongue comes out to tap her bottom lip. Moisten. Prepare. “We, uh… This doesn’t have to be known. Privacy, and all that. I like having it.”

  “Right.” My neck stretches, and my shoulders bow in as a type of defense. A way to wrap her close without actually winding my arms around her body. Because wrapping her with my arms would be crazy. Wrapping her with my arms would be a hug, and that’s not… we’re not… Crazy. “Every person I know, except my boss and colleague, thinks I’m at work. I won’t be expected anywhere until tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s convenient for you,” she rasps out. “And no one checks on me. Like, ever. So that works too.”

  My heart jumps just once. “No one?”

  Shaking her head, she lets her lips quirk up into a playful grin. “Christmas is way cheaper now that I’ve killed everyone off. And with the savings I make on that, I buy myself gifts. So my birthday is no sad affair or anything.”

  “Convenient for you,” I reuse her words. “My Christmases are expensive as hell.”

  “So, uh…” She clears her throat. “I’m obligated to say that I don’t usually do this, but, uh… we’re only like a block away from my house. I spent all weekend updating and painting and such. So if you wanted to look at—”

  “I’m going to be painting my place soon, so maybe I could check out—”

  “Right. For proactive painting education reasons.”

  “Exactly. It’s the smart thing to do.”

  “Of course.”

  7

  Nadia

  Proactive Painting Education

  From a walk that began as me following and him telling me to go away, to us now running. Hand in hand, laughter in the air, and perhaps a little liquid courage, we each pretend alcohol can be used tomorrow as an excuse for tonight’s hasty behavior.

  We know this is a mistake, and yet, we willingly make it. Two souls who’ve had a bad day, we’re drawn together, and now we’ll help the other forget.

  It takes only a minute to close the space between where we were and my front door. Up the front steps, and onto the not-yet-fixed porch that still has the hole in the end.

  “Ignore that,” I rush out when his
eyes stray to the gaping darkness below. “It’s on my to-do list.” I fumble my keys, and curse the past version of myself for forgetting to turn a light on.

  My neighbors are locked away and quiet. My house appears the same. But then I get the stupid key in, the lock released, and I shove the door open to reveal my living room, lit only by the TV I guess I forgot to switch off.

  Mitchell’s hand, wide, strong, and decorated with ink I’m dying to explore, wraps around my hip and anchors me close so my ass rests against his junk if our timing is off and his steps are faster than mine.

  In a desperate hurry before I lose my courage, I yank the key from the lock, step inside, and move aside to wait for Mitchell to come with me, then I slam the door again and allow him to push me up against it.

  I was hoping he would. I was hoping he’d take the lead and not make this awkward.

  He pushes me so hard that I lose my breath when I hit the hard surface, but my breathlessness takes on a whole new level of danger when he follows me in, presses his body to mine, and slides his hand along my ribs.

  “How do you need me to be?” He doesn’t kiss me yet. Doesn’t touch but for that one hand on my ribs. “I know nothing about you,” he grits out. “I don’t know if you’re hiding from someone, and that’s why you’re here. I don’t know if you’re damaged and need gentle hands. I don’t know if you need romance or carnality.”

  “The last one.” My breath races with my heart. “I’m not going to freak out. I have no deep, dark past with a man who scares me. And if you happen to bite, that would be okay too.”

  “Fuck.”

  He dives in fast, buries his face against my neck, and takes, takes, takes. His lips buzz along my skin, then his teeth follow until my knees turn weak and the hand on my ribs changes from caress to support.

  “I caught a whiff of you the other day at the shop,” he mutters against my skin. “I haven’t been able to let it go since.” He slides his tongue along my neck, and grinds his hardened cock against my core when I angle forward in search. “You taste better than you smell, and I was really hoping that wouldn’t be the case.”

  Laughing, though it comes with a desperate crackle, I wrap my arms over his shoulders, and reach up to slide my fingers into his hair. It’s longer on top, almost shaved to the skin on the sides. It’s somewhat military, but with a bad boy rebellion that does things to my blood. “Why are you mad I taste good?”

  “Because I’m gonna want to keep coming back.” He pulls away, but only far enough to catch my eyes. His dark green ones meet mine and appear as though they should be kind, but beneath that is a savagery. A barbarity.

  Mitchell Rosa can be a mean, dangerous man when provoked.

  He dives forward and rewards me with what I truly want. Kissing is special; it’s intimate, perhaps more so than sex. To be so close, to slide lips on lips, and tongues against tongues, to me, takes more trust and care than sex ever will. And for a moment, when he chose my neck instead of my mouth, I worried he wouldn’t let me get close.

  But now he does. His lips slam against mine with such force, such power—and perhaps anger—that his breath races into my lungs, and my legs give way so that he’s forced to hold me up. His tongue duels with mine, and while it does, his hands drop to my ass and lift.

  In an instant, he takes all of my weight, and crushes me between his body and my door. His shoulders are broad, heavy, and block out everything but him. I can’t look around even if I tried. I can’t escape him, even if I wanted to.

  Cinching my legs around his hips, I let him control me, dominate me, and use me up. Because what he takes, he gives back with animalistic potency that sets me on fire.

  “Door or bedroom?” he asks. “Where am I allowed to go?”

  I break away from his steely hold for just a moment and clamor for air. “Mi casa,” I pant, “es su casa, and all that shit.”

  Snorting, he pulls me away from the door and carries me through the dark living room and toward the dining space. “Upstairs or down?”

  “Up.” I slide my tongue along his neck, graze my teeth over the hot flesh, and bite down each time my pulse thumps in my panties. “The main is downstairs, but I didn’t like it, so I chose a smaller room upstairs.”

  “Up.” He moves toward the stairs, then up, so when I look over his broad shoulders, my eyes bulge and my slight fear of heights makes itself known.

  “Jesus,” I clasp to his shoulders now, not with passion, but desperation. “Don’t you dare trip and drop me.”

  Chuckling, he shows off by releasing one of my ass cheeks, only to slide his hand back over it again, but this time, inside my panties, fiery skin against fiery skin. “Won’t drop you. Promise.”

  But then he crests the top of the stairs, walks into the first bedroom, which just so happens to be the correct one, and drops me onto my bed so that I squeal with a mixture of fear and delight.

  “This doesn’t count.” Following me down, he slides his knee between my legs, and doesn’t stop until his thigh touches my core and my heart lurches. “Dropping you onto the bed doesn’t count. I didn’t break a promise.”

  “Promises are important to you.”

  I stretch my neck back until my eyes go to the wall behind me, then I’m reduced to a whimpering mess when Mitchell goes to work on my jeans. Unsnapping the button. Tearing the zipper down. Dragging the denim along my sensitized flesh and pulling a keening cry from somewhere deep inside my chest.

  “They’re important,” he grits out in a low timbre. Though his hands prove that he’s taking charge, his voice reminds me that he’s just as hungry for this as I am. Just as desperate. “Do you need romance?”

  I gulp for air, clamor to fill my lungs, and shake my head when his words register in my mind. “No.” I lift my hips and help him rid us of my jeans. “Just put your tongue on my clit for a second. That’s all the romance we need tonight.”

  “Deal.” He tosses my jeans aside, dives forward, and buries his nose between my legs.

  My panties are on, black lace and cute, see-through panels, but the money I spent at a lingerie store goes completely unappreciated as Mitchell battles his way past with rough hands and rougher teeth. His fingers slide past the lace without so much as a shake or tremor, and touch the fiery hot skin at the top of my thighs. Then he plunges a digit in and growls in the same breath that I cry out.

  One finger, thick and skilled, works me from the inside, while his other hand massages my thigh, my hip, my stomach. He fucks me without fucking me, slides his hand beneath my shirt, and up to grab my boobs, and though a part of me wants a second to catch my breath, he doesn’t allow it.

  When my orgasm teeters on the edge from one finger alone, he tears my panties aside, snaps threads, and tosses the pair somewhere I’ll have to search when he leaves, then he buries his tongue deep inside my core and groans from the pleasure.

  “Fuckkkkk,” he growls. “Fuck, Nadia.”

  “God,” I whimper. “Oh god.”

  Mitchell’s tongue is long, and feels almost hard enough to be the real thing as he works me into a frenzy of sensation. He pulls back to sample my clit, suckling, biting, then soothing when I want to shoot through the ceiling. His fingers dig into my skin, bruising and desperate, but the feeling is like electricity in my veins.

  My hips move without my conscious effort. I ride his face and search for my peak. But each time I step up to the ledge and willingly prepare to dive off, Mitchell changes his pace. He drags me away from the edge, over and over again, until my groans of pleasure turn to growls of frustration. Until my fingers in his hair turn to sharp nails against his scalp urging him to do as he’s friggin’ told.

  He pulls away just as my orgasm begins, succeeding in stopping it once again.

  “Mitchell! Dammit.”

  Chuckling, he only swipes a hand over his sparkling mouth, cleans away the mess I left there in an effort, I suppose, not to look like a beast. But when he glances up from between my legs and our eyes mee
t, his grin drops away, just as my frustrations go forgotten.

  His gaze locks onto mine with a type of violence that makes me think of bloodshed, wars. Vikings.

  He’s a Viking warrior, and I’m his captive, whether I like it or not.

  My chest lifts and drops with desperate speed. My stomach hollows and fills, hollows and fills. My legs quiver, though I suspect that’s because he’s between them, and has nothing to do with my ability to stand up.

  “This is all about fun, right?” My voice quivers from fear, from desperation, from the pain of what’s to come if his answer is no. “Right?”

  He nods first, quickly, without really thinking. Which is a blessing, I guess. It means his natural instinct is in tune with mine. “Fast fuck,” he utters with a distinct huskiness to his voice. “Definitely.”

  “Two people having fun and screwing away the stresses of life.”

  “Yup.” He leaves my core behind, crawls his way along my body until his hips rest on mine, his elbows stop on each side of my head, and I’m reminded how strong he is, how utterly broad and heavy he is. “I don’t have a— I can’t do the—” He shakes his head. “I don’t want—”

  “No tomorrow.” I reach up and hook my arm around his neck, then I pull him closer until our lips feather and touch. “Promise?”

  “Yeah.” His hot breath scorches my throat and leaves me parched, but instead of water, I seek him.

  I pull his lips to mine, and reward him with my tongue. I wrap my legs around his hips, and cinch him closer until his steely cock rests against my hipbone to the point of pain. His zipper pinches into my skin, his weight pushes the oxygen from my lungs. But his tongue plays with mine, dueling and dominant.

  I grab the back of his shirt when I crave his skin on mine. It’s like an actual ache, a hunger for closeness. Yanking the fabric up so fast that threads snap, I snicker as petty revenge is achieved; he rips my panties, I rip his shirt.

  My laughter washes away a little of the intensity from a moment ago, so when Mitchell’s eyes meet mine now, he’s smiling, they sparkle, and his lips quirk into a grin that makes me pulse harder. “Think you’re funny, huh? You like ruining my favorite shirt?”