Sweet Rome

Groaning in frustration, I dropped my head onto her shoulder, the scent of her calming me down, as it always did. Molly giggled lightly, reaching down to tuck my hard dick back into my jeans, stroking it teasingly, and whispered, “Let’s go, baby. Let’s actually have our date.”

Finding some inner friggin’ chi I didn’t know I had, I instructed, “You go out there and f**kin’ show everyone we’re together. You own this… us. Time to be bold, baby. Bring the f**kin’ rain.”

And she did, she never let go of my hand, dismissing the stupid blond bitch from earlier, and led me to the dance floor, completely proud to be on my arm.

I’d never been so damn happy as I was watching her relax and let loose.

A few hours later, Molly stopped dancing, her hands creeping up my torso, and stared up at me with a strange expression on her face.

“You okay?” I asked, cupping her cheeks.

She shook her head. Panic swelled once more, and I asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”

“I want to go home.”

“Are you sick? Is something wrong?” Her eyes had glazed and she was red hot to the touch. I worried it was a fever; she was acting so weird.

“What is it? Tell me,” I demanded, my patience quickly fading.

She took a shaky breath and replied, “I want you to take me home and put me to bed.”

“Okay, are you tired? It’s still pretty early.”

A small smile curved her lips and, rubbing up against my crotch, she leaned into my ear. “I want you to put me to bed… get in beside me… and make love to me.”

Spinning her around and pressing her against the wall, I asked, “Are you serious?”

Golden eyes fixed on mine with determination. “Deadly.”

Was she drunk? She’d had a hell of a lot of tequila. Sanity broke through for a second, urging me to declare, “I don’t want you to do anything you ain’t ready for. You’ve been drinking. I don’t want you to regret us in the morning.”

“I’m not so drunk that my feelings are untrue. I want you, Romeo, no regrets.”

Thank. Fuck.

“Then beg me,” I ordered, all my inhibitions gone. She knew me; she got me. I didn’t have to be afraid to be myself.

I could see that I had thrown her. “I told you I’d take you only when you begged me, when you wanted me like no other. If you’re at that point, Mol, you have to prove it to me. You have to beg.” Her eyes widened with lust. This was us, how we should be—me in control, her giving in to my instructions.

“Romeo Prince, I want you to take me to bed, I want you to undress me slowly, and I want you to make me completely yours. Please, Romeo, make love to me… tonight.”

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Molly stood before me in her room, breathless with anticipation, and I knew that after tonight, taking this last step, we would never be the same.

19

“Walk toward the bed and take off the boots.” Turning, Mol did exactly as I ordered, rewarding me with a view of her full ass in her tight black dress as she bent down, shucking off her boots.

“Turn around and face me.”

Christ, she was beautiful, meeting my eyes with hungry excitement, a small smile spreading over her lips.

“Take off your dress… slowly.”

Inch by inch, the black strapless dress revealed a toned, soft, tanned body, her lacy black underwear almost causing me to have a damn seizure. Then my gaze zeroed in on some tiny black script at the very top of her left hip. A tattoo?

I had to touch her; my fingers were itching to feel that silky skin again. Moving to where she stood, I waited for her to meet my eyes, and she looked up shyly through those long black lashes, her long brown hair hanging low over her br**sts. She was f**king… just… beyond.

Dropping to my knees, I rubbed along the fine inking and remarked, “A tattoo, Shakespeare? You surprise me. You’ve never let me see this before.” I watched her swallow and her breath began to stutter, her anxiety taking hold. Grasping her hand tightly to stop the panic, I read, “So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground,” and kissed along her soft skin.

“What’s this, baby? Why do these words take pride of place on this beautiful body?”

Wrapping her fingers in my long hair, tears filling her eyes, she whispered, “It’s William Shakespeare, from one of his love sonnets, number seventy-five.”

She wouldn’t tell me any more, no matter how hard I pushed, but I knew there was a deeper meaning to that story.