Page 51 of Pride and Privilege

“I bet because all you need to do is open your mouth and name-drop a few titles…and…and smirk a bit, that you’ve never really had to…you know…try.”

“Try?”

“Yes. I bet you really are just…woeful.”

“Woeful?”

“At everything.”

A beat. Roscoe looking at her, something devilish creeping into his smile. “I’m terrible in bed am I, Poppy? That’s what you’re suggesting?”

She shrugged one shoulder, affecting a casual disinterestedness, her brain screaming WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, POPPY? Honestly, she had no idea. She was thinking of those viral videos, of people stuck in the mud, slipping over every time they tried to get up, working themselves deeper and deeper into a horrendously embarrassing mess. That was her brain right now.

“No skills at all?” persisted Roscoe, the devil now very evident in his smile.

“Probably, I mean…”

“Just awful, inexperienced, inept fumbling…”

She shrugged again, very focused on making sure her bag was properly zipped up. “Yes, probably. Just…terrible.”

“OK. I see. Thank you for pointing that out to me.”

“No problem.”

“Maybe I should try to improve? Get a few pointers?”

“Sure. You know, buy a magazine. Cosmo or something.”

“I should look online, do you think? Find some videos?”

She nodded. “Yep. Good idea.” The zip on her bag was very definitely done up. But that meant she no longer had an excuse not to look up. She met Roscoe’s eyes. Saw the amusement there. The dark glow of it.

“Or you could help me,” he said.

“What…?”

“Just one friend helping another.” He stepped closer, cupped her cheek.

Her breath caught, heart stopping, then starting again with a painful kick.

He brought his other hand up to her jaw, cradling her face as he lowered his head, his eyes burning on hers—burning with wicked amusement.

“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers.

She made a noise she couldn’t quite describe, a sort of whimper. Then he grazed his mouth along her lower lip and she saw stars as her eyes fluttered shut. She lost sight of everything but the miraculous sensation of Roscoe’s mouth meeting hers, the warm, firm pressure of his lips. Even with her eyes closed she was aware of the size of him, the way his head bent to hers, his hands cupping her face as though every single thing in the world was pinpointed righttherein the seam of her lips. His mouth brushed over hers again, firmer now, catching her lower lip in the soft grip of his. His tongue followed, slipped over the hot, tender flesh just inside her lips, seeking, coaxing—as though she needed coaxing. As though she wasn’t already begging with every atom, moaning as his tongue found hers, stroked across it and set every part of her body blazing…

He pulled slowly away, hands still cupping her face, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Woeful, Poppy?”

And she said, “Holy fucking ketchup.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Roscoe laughed, savouring thefeel of her skin with one last brush of his thumbs before dropping his hands and taking a step back. Only Poppy Fields could make him out of his mind with lust and breathless with laughter at the same time.

“Did you just say, ‘Holy fucking ketchup’?” he asked.

She shook her head rapidly. “No.”

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