Blue Roses(29)

I bend my legs, clutch my knees in my hands, and beg him to take me.

He takes his time, teasing me with each stroke. His body is my jungle gym, and I wrap my legs around him. I just want to be as close as possible, a part of him.

We move together, coaxing out more and more pleasure.

I wonder if I’ll ever get enough.

He warns me that he’s coming. I hang on tight as he plunges into me, harder and faster. In a flash, time seems to hold still for a moment, and pleasure pulses through me like a sonic boom. Time starts up again, and he’s so huge inside me and on top of me, everywhere at once. His body tenses, and I feel him pulse with pleasure.

When he slows down and rolls off to the side, we’re both gasping and trembling.

I’ve never felt so thoroughly satisfied.

In fact, I don’t know if I ever need to have sex again, because this has been immensely satisfying.

I roll over and tell him this.

He starts to laugh. “What are you talking about? I’ve ruined you for sex?”

I stroke his chest lazily. “Not ruined me. I just mean… that one was perfect, and I can’t see how it could possibly get better.”

He’s still laughing softly, and pretends to wipe tears from his eyes. “I’d be insulted if I didn’t feel the exact same way.”

“I know, right? It’s like you just ate Thanksgiving dinner, and you think you’ll never be hungry again.”

“You say that, but then after a few hours, you’re rummaging in the fridge to make a sandwich.”

I shake my head. “I can’t even imagine.”

“You can’t?”

I’m on my side, facing him. He reaches up and strokes down the side of my body, from my shoulder to my hip.

His fingertips send warm shivers through me.

“That feels nice,” I whisper.

“Don’t laugh, but all that talk about Thanksgiving dinner is making me hungry. What do you say to a late night snack? Dessert is still waiting in the fridge.”

My skin is cooling now. I grab the blankets and slide under them.

“Can I eat dessert in bed?”

Luca pretends to be horrified. He gets up and excuses himself to go take care of things in the bathroom.

He comes out a few minutes later with a robe on.

“Stay right there,” he says. “You can have dessert in bed if you promise to be really careful.”

“Of course.”

Shaking his head and muttering about me being a bad influence, he leaves the bedroom.





Chapter 18





Graffiti.

I’m at the flower shop, and I’m not happy.

It’s Monday.

Over the weekend, some little jackweed has tagged the front of the shop with lime green spray paint.

With a few curse words, I open the store and head to the back room for the supplies. I could spend a few hours trying to remove the paint with chemicals, or ten minutes painting over it. I grab the paint.

Out front again, I give the paint can a shake, then get to work with a brush. People walking by find this fascinating. I’m not sure why me applying paint to the bricks is so much more interesting than me out here setting up the flower display, but it is.

People stop to say hello and ask what I’m doing. I think it’s rather obvious, but I patiently explain.

The ten-minute job is threatening to take an hour, with all the people who stop by to chat.

I’m just over halfway done when Mr. Jackson, the owner of the pub, stops to chat. He’s harmless enough, just old enough to think he knows everything, but young enough to try to flirt with me.

“You’d better stock up on paint, Tina,” he says. “Things are sliding downhill around here, and they’re liable to get worse. I’m getting a new safe put in, for the cash. It’ll be on a timelock. And I’m getting metal bars on the back door.”

I look up from my work.

He’s staring intensely at me.

I check myself to make sure I don’t have any visible cracks for Mr. Jackson to look down.

“Why all the security?” I ask. “Has there been some crime wave I don’t know about?”

He points to the graffiti with the toe of his black loafer.

“This is just the beginning.”

I return to dabbing fresh paint over the graffiti.

“We get tagged once a year. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’m sure you’ll be under protection,” he says, his voice ominous.

I turn and look up again. I can see from his face that he’s begging me to ask him to explain.

I’m so out of touch. There’s probably a lot going on here on Baker Street that I have no clue about these days, because my mother’s been doing her Eat Pray Love thing. She used to keep up on all the local business gossip.

Mr. Jackson raises his eyebrows higher and higher, waiting for me to bite. Finally, he says, “Because you’re dating the biker, obviously.”