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.”