Page 27 of Rooke
“I know how things work,” he says. “It’s my job to know.”
Awkwardly, I feel like this is exactly what he has done with me: taken one long, curious look at me and figured me out. The way he studies things, including people, is quite disturbing. He looks beyond the surface, beyond what you might want others to see, and he delves deeper. I’m not sure that I like that. There are parts of myself I’ve worked hard to keep hidden. Parts of me that should never see the light of day.
Rooke pushes the door open, standing back so I can enter first. He’s a gentleman, I’ll give him that. However, as soon as I make my way into the hallway, I’m shoved roughly up against the wall, my purse falling to the floor with a thud, and I’m quickly reassessing that thought. Rooke leans against me, hands on my hips, fingers grinding into my skin, his mouth so, so close to mine.
“Have you ever been fucked in this hallway?” he growls.
“I—no. I haven’t—”
“Are you on birth control?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He cups the side of my face in his palm, and then he’s kissing me. It’s not a subtle kiss. It’s a kiss wrought from fire and iron. It’s a savage kiss that steals my breath and a part of my soul right along with it. I open my mouth, allowing him in, and his tongue skates over mine, tasting me like before. I work my mouth against his, and he groans under his breath. “Goddamn, Sasha. You kiss like we’re already fucking,” he pants.
I could say the same of him. I don’t have the breath to do it, though. I’m winded by the intensity of the moment, of the way his hands feel as they travel all over my body. I can feel how turned on he is. His erection is pressed firmly up against my stomach, and the material of my dress isn’t very thick. I’ve never been so intimidated in all my life. He feels…big.
Rooke’s hands move smoothly down, until he’s kneading and squeezing at my breasts. I’m not wearing a bra, so it feels like his hands are already on me, working over my skin. He ducks down, kissing my jaw, sucking my ear lobe into his mouth, then going lower still, until he’s kissing my neck.
I’ve seen women in movies before losing their shit over a guy kissing their neck. I’ve always wondered what they were feeling. When Andrew thought to kiss my neck it was like bird pecks, hard and not particularly pleasant. With Rooke…
God…
My body feels like an electric current is running through it, sharp and furious. I can’t stop shivering. He bites down, fastening his teeth over my skin, and I moan, my entire body going limp.
“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.” He lifts my skirt, and for three long seconds both his hands are on my thighs, running over the sheer material of my stockings. He looks down, apparently fascinated by the fact that I’m even wearing them, a faint look of surprise on his face, and then he’s tearing at them, fighting to unfasten them. He unclips the silk, and then drops to his knees in front of me.
Slowly, with deep concentration marking his forehead, he removes my pumps, left first, then right, and slides the stockings down my legs one at a time. I can’t seem to get my breathing under control. My hands won’t stop shaking. I can’t even—
He cuts off all thought when he pushes my thighs apart and buries his face between my legs.
“Oh…my…god.” I’m still wearing my panties, but that isn’t stopping Rooke from going to town. His teeth rip and pull at the expensive lace I’m wearing, and my head literally spins.
“You’re fucking amazing,” he growls. “Fuck, Sasha. You smell like…”
I cringe. I don’t want to smell like something. Smelling like anything isbad.
“You smell like sex,” he finishes. I want to object, to stop him there, but he’s gripped by something I can’t comprehend. His shirt strains across his back as he bends down lower, and then he’s pulling my panties aside, his fingers exploring me, rubbing, pushing inside…
“Fuck!”
“We’re getting to that part,” he growls. “Patience, pretty Sasha. Patience.”
I don’t want to be patient. Patience is for people who have sex every day and are bored with it. This is a whole new experience for me. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, for a guy to touch me, make me feel the way Rooke is making me feel, and waiting another second for him to be inside me is a goddamn crime.
He slides his fingers further inside me, curling them a little, and my whole body bucks as he hits an unfamiliar, sensitive spot that makes my toes curl. “Oh,shit! Holy fucking—” He stops what he’s doing, and I almost punch him in the head. He rips my underwear down my body, though, forcefully lifting my legs so he can toss the lace aside, and then he looks up at me, his mouth open slightly, his tongue wetting his bottom lip, a scandalous smile spreading across his face, and I’m stopped dead in my tracks. The man is sex. Pure, unadulterated, unfiltered sex. From the way he walks, to the way he wears his clothes, to the ink that marks his body… everything about Rooke Idlewild Blackheath screams, “FUCK ME!”
Slowly, and with the most unbelievable look in his eyes, he extends his tongue and traces it in a sweeping upward motion between my legs. It feels like I’ve been struck by lightning. I’m no longer myself. I’m no longer even inhabiting my own body. I feel like I’m floating on top of an endless, bottomless sea that stretches on and on forever in every direction. I feel like I have to stay absolutely still otherwise I’ll drown. His mouth works over me, his tongue flicking and licking at my clit in an expert way—he must have had an awful lot of practice at this—and my legs feel like they’re about to buckle out from underneath me. I need to steady myself. I need to hold onto something.
I bury my fingers into Rooke’s hair, shamelessly grinding myself into his mouth. He groans—not the sound of a guy simply enjoying something. The way he groans is the sound of someone completely lost to a moment of pleasure, so swept away by it that they don’t even realize they’re making any noise in the first place. My skin breaks out in goose bumps.
Rooke’s a huge guy. He’s built like he could take on Connor McGregor. His skin is a network of tattoos that say, “don’t mess with me.” When he opens his mouth to speak, a litany of arrogance and charm spills from his lips. I never gave myself permission to imagine a moment like this, I never in a million years imagined I’d let it happen—but if I had imagined it, I would have pictured his back pressed up against the wall with me on my knees, pleasuring him with my mouth. I would never have dreamed that he would be so focused on makingmefeel good.
Andfuckdo I feel good.
My dress is still bunched up around my hips. Rooke pushes it even higher, then slides his fingers back inside me again. He uses his tongue and his fingers at the same time, and I can’t keep myself together any longer. I need a release. I need to come or I’m going to rip the guy’s hair right out of his head.
I can feel it building…
