There’s so much in that answer that I almost get lost in it all. Especially when I think back to her house yesterday, to the copious flower arrangements that popped up in nearly every public room and the extensive, manicured garden she spent hours being photographed in. Why have either if she dislikes them so intensely?
That’s the question I want the answer to, but something tells me asking it straight out will shut her down completely. And so I dance around it, addressing the simplest part of her answer first. “You really don’t like the smell of flowers?”
“Not most of them, no. The scent of roses actually makes me sick.”
Why? The question is right there on the tip of my tongue like so many others. And like the other questions, it’s one more that I don’t ask. Instead I clarify, “Don’t people send you roses all the time?”
She smiles a little then, but it’s all irony, no happiness at all. “They do, yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? You’ve never sent me flowers.”
“And now I never will.”
“I think it’s safe to say you weren’t planning on it anyway,” she says with the husky laugh she’s known for the world over.
She’s wrong, but I don’t bother to tell her that. I’m too busy trying to fit this newest piece of her into the puzzle.
Is it physical? I wonder. Her reaction to roses? Psychological? How far back does it go? Does she even know what its roots are or is it something that’s always been there?
She shivers a little, and I press myself against her, wrap her in my arms. She relaxes into me, lets me warm her for several long moments. Then, when she’s finally stopped trembling, she whispers, “Aren’t you going to turn off another light?”
Right, the game. This is all about a game. About information.
The reminder is what it takes to get me to pull away from her. To cross the room and turn off first one light, and then a second, because I sense that she was more honest with this question than she had any intention of being and she deserves the reward. And because with each moment that passes, my need to touch her—to be inside of her—grows.
There are only two lamps left to turn off in the room now, only two questions left for me to ask her. But as I return to her, there’s only one question that matters.
Grabbing her wrist, I tug hard, whirling her around to face me. And then I’m pressing her back against the glass, resting my hand on her collarbone as my fingers circle and stroke the delicate skin of her throat. Her eyes grow wide at the possessive hold, but she doesn’t try to shake me off. Doesn’t try to escape. Instead, she licks her lips. Swallows audibly. Stares at me with eyes gone the same night-violet as the sky outside my window.
It’s the first time our eyes have met since this whole thing began.
“Do you want this?” I demand, low and urgent.
She nods slowly, her gaze holding mine like we’re missile locked together. Still, “I need to hear you say it.”
“I—” Her voice breaks, her breath stuttering out in a rush.
I wait, but she doesn’t try to speak again. Her silence disturbs me even as it drags me closer to the ragged edges of my self-control and I slide my hand up her throat to cup her jaw, rub my thumb roughly back and forth across her lips.
“Do. You. Want. This?” I ask again, the words dark and strident in the tense silence of the room.
“I want you.”
It’s not an answer to the question I asked, but it’s enough for now. More than enough considering my willpower is in absolute ruins. My dick is throbbing with the need to make her come, my muscles burning from the restraint I’ve inflicted on them for so long.
I reward her honesty by slipping my hand inside her panties and sliding two fingers along her slit. She gasps, trembles, sighs, and I use my free hand to yank her tank top and sports bra over her head in one fell swoop. And then she’s naked in front of me save her tiny red lace panties and my mouth is watering, actually watering, with the need to lick and kiss and bite every inch of her smooth, perfect skin. I want it so much—want her so much—that for long seconds I’m paralyzed, unsure of where to start.
In the end, Veronica takes the choice from me as she cups a hand under one gorgeous, rose-tipped breast like an offering. It would take a stronger man than I to refuse, and I bend my head, pull her nipple into my mouth.
She moans at the first touch of my lips, arches her back. Her fingers come up to my hair, burrow in, tug and I bite down just hard enough to sting a little. At the same time, I pinch her clit between my thumb and forefinger and she goes off, her body clenching rhythmically around my fingers in an orgasm that I build higher and higher with each flick of my tongue, each stroke of my thumb.
When it’s over, when she’s come down just enough to release her killer grip on my hair and suck in a deep shuddering breath, I whirl her around, start walking her backward toward the bed on the other side of the room. But she only lets me take a few steps before she drops to her knees before me.