Love Her or Lose Her (Hot & Hammered #2)(72)

Dominic nodded, his gaze running over every inch of her face. “Good. Let’s call her.”

Rosie made a sound of agreement, positive she might explode into a million tiny pieces. Not only did she seem to have her marriage back and improved, but the silver lining she’d been reaching for was now closer than ever. And with her husband on her side, she felt as if she could do anything. “Yes, we’ll call. After.”

He tucked his tongue into his cheek. “After what?”

Rosie spread her legs wide and watched Dominic’s jaw slacken as gravity ground his hips down into the juncture of her thighs. “Would you rather . . .” she whispered, forcing him to lean closer to hear her, “finish with my ankles around your neck, or lay back and watch me ride?”

His breath released in a rush, warming the side of her face. “You’re right. You always did win this game.”

Their low laughter was warm, intimate. “I see your memory has been jogged.”

“Thoroughly.”

She freed her wrists from where he’d been keeping them stationary above her head. She slipped her hands down his back, into his briefs, and dug her fingernails into his rock-solid ass. “How do you want me?”

Before she could finish phrasing the question, Dominic rolled them over, his brown, tattooed skin beneath her on the crisp, white sheets, forming the most beautiful contrast. His pupils were dilated, his breath coming in short pants that shuddered in and out of his huge chest. While he shoved down the waistband of his briefs and took out his arousal, Rosie captured handfuls of her curls and lifted her breasts, making him moan in the quiet hotel room. She bumped her hips side to side, dancing seductively in the morning light, before leaning down and bracing her weight on his shoulders. Letting their sexes mold together and dragging her wetness up and down his length, glorying in the sight of his clenched teeth, his strained neck muscles.

“Fuck me, Rosie.”

Her nails speared into his shoulders. “Oh, I plan on it.” She reached back and took his thickness in her fist, guiding it home and impaling herself inch by painstaking inch. Enjoying the rare occasion of having Dominic underneath her, Rosie savored it, taking him deep, grinding lightly, and teasing herself back up to the tip. “Do you like that?”

His punctuated laugh was rife with frustration. “You know I fucking live for it.” Their eyes met. “That I live for you.”

With an emotional tide rising in her chest, Rosie reached up and gripped the headboard and rode her husband hard. His mouth fell open, hands flying to her hips and gripping tight. Yanking, pushing, shoving, bruising. After a handful of minutes, her thighs started to burn, but she didn’t cease the rough marriage of their lower bodies, even when the wet, smacking sounds blurred together and he shouted her name, his abdomen knitting in that telltale way. “Come with me, Rosie.”

She was close. So close. So close—

“Changed my mind,” Dominic said hoarsely, flipping Rosie onto her back, her head at the foot of the bed, his body covered in a sheen of sweat. “Your husband knows what gets you off. Get those ankles around my neck.”

“Yes.” One brutal drive of his hips and Rosie screamed, Dominic swooping down to eat the sound with a filthy kiss, his lower body pounding down again, again, until his face screwed up and he came apart along with her, holding his hardness in the deepest recess of her body and shuddering violently.

They collapsed side by side into the bedsheets a moment later, their heads turning at the same time, eyes locking. Their hands slid toward each other, fingers locking. And they smiled.





Chapter Twenty-One


Rosie checked her appearance for the tenth time in the store window. Smart jacket. Boots. Skinny black jeans. Did she look the part of a restaurateur? Or even an aspiring one?

She rolled her shoulders back and exhaled, a small smile curving her lips.

Yes. She did.

Fine, she was about to make a seriously lowball offer on this restaurant, but she watched enough HGTV to know that people did it all the time. It was practically expected. She just wanted her offer to be considered seriously enough to make it to the negotiation stage—and it would. What would her mother say if she were here, witnessing Rosie doubt herself?

Not much, probably. But she’d convey a well-meaning rebuke with a raised eyebrow that said, They should be nervous about meeting us, Rosie.

Rosie closed her eyes a moment and breathed. She was here, she wasn’t an imposter, and her faith in herself was intact.

Grateful for the ride on a bubble of confidence her mother’s memory gave her, Rosie looked at the time on her cell phone and refused to panic. The realtor was late to show her the commercial space, but that didn’t mean she’d found her unprofessional over the phone or didn’t take her seriously. Briefly, she’d entertained the nightmare that the realtor and Martha belonged to the same knitting circle and had ruined Rosie’s chances of buying the space—it wouldn’t be so far-fetched in the small town—but she remained optimistic.

And wasn’t that nice?

Rosie tilted her head to one side and let the cool October breeze sweep along her neck. It was Saturday afternoon and she could still feel the Friday-night whisker burn there from Dominic’s unshaven jaw. A pulse fluttered between her legs and she took a shaky breath. Rosie wasn’t an expert on marriage or sex. She wasn’t an expert on anything, really, except maybe the amount of garlic to put in her chimichurri sauce. However. She was reasonably sure married couples didn’t usually have the best sex of their lives ten years after the wedding. Just a hunch.