Stealing Rose (The Fowler Sisters #2)(79)
His fingers dip beneath the fabric of my dress, skimming along my collarbone. Darts of molten-hot pleasure shoot through me, and my breath grows shallow, my head dizzy. I swallow hard and lift my head to look up at him, only to find him already staring down at me. The hunger in his gaze is amplified and his lips part, as if he wants to say something.
But he remains silent, which is probably best. Words aren’t necessary any longer. Empty promises would remain just that … empty. Tonight is about connecting one last time before saying goodbye. For good.
My heart seizes at the thought, so I push it away.
Dipping his head, his mouth brushes mine and I breathe into him, the relief that floods me undeniable. I took for granted how delicious his kisses are, his taste, his tongue, the hum that sounds from deep in his chest when my tongue touches his. His fingers grip my shoulder; his hand clamps down over mine, which still rests on his thigh. But this is as far as I’ll take it. I don’t want to get out of control.
I’m done doing that. Being out of control only hurts.
So when I break the kiss first and pull away from him slightly, he doesn’t protest. He doesn’t try to keep me close, either. We resume our position from only moments before, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest. I can feel the rapid beating of his heart beneath my ear and it makes me smile.
He’s just as affected as I am. I find that reassuring.
It also makes me sad.
I slip the key card into the slot and the light blinks green. Pushing open the door, I enter the room, Caden right behind me. He slams the door and turns the lock, the click loud in the otherwise quiet of the room, and I go to the dresser, setting down my purse before I step out of my shoes. I wriggle my toes, sighing with relief, and I hear Caden’s chuckle.
A chuckle I’ve heard many, many times these last couple weeks. But somehow, this one is different. Deeper. Darker. I glance up to find him watching me, his gaze locked on my feet, his mouth curved in a faint smile.
“Hurting?”
Nodding, I hold my foot out and wiggle my toes again for his benefit. “I go a few weeks hardly wearing heels and I guess my feet have to get used to them again.”
“Torture devices,” he murmurs as he points at the bed. “Sit down.”
I frown. “Torture devices? Men never protest when they see a woman in heels.”
“Oh, they’re definitely sexy. I’m not denying that. But you must admit they torture your feet.” He nods toward the bed. “Sit down, Rose.”
“My grandma told me from a very young age that beauty is pain.” I go to the edge of the bed and sit, surprised when he kneels in front of me, holding out his hand.
“Give me your foot.”
I do as he commands, a gasp escaping me when he holds my foot in his hands and begins to rub. Good lord, that feels good. He presses hard, his fingers moving in circles across my heel, then the center of my foot. He pulls on my toes, each of them giving a little pop, and I’m surprised at how good that feels. He keeps massaging, his thumbs working my aching muscles, and I close my eyes, a low moan escaping me.
“Is this okay?” he asks hoarsely.
I nod, unable to speak. His thumb moves slowly over the top of my foot, his gaze dark, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and heat pools low in my belly.
“Want me to stop?” His voice deepens, sounding like pure sex. I had no idea a foot massage could be so sensual. “Rose?” he asks when I don’t say anything.
My eyes pop open and I furiously shake my head, making him smile. He carefully sets down my foot and grabs the other one, giving it the same luxurious treatment for long, delicious minutes until I feel like I could melt. His hands start to wander. Fingers circling my ankles, tickling the backs of my calves, behind my knees, making me giggle.
My skin grows warm when I feel his intent shift. The air becomes thicker, heavier. His touch bolder as his breathing deepens. Mine catches in my throat and my eyes are narrowed into slits as I watch him slowly work his way up my leg. Until his hand disappears beneath my skirt and is touching my thighs. I widen them for him shamelessly, wanting him to slip those magical fingers beneath my panties so he can find out just how wet I am for him.
I’m completely soaked—my body aches for his touch. This moment is so charged, everything feels that much more intense, and I know why.
Because this is the last night we’ll be together.
“Your skin is so soft,” he murmurs as he trails one finger along the inside of my thigh, stopping just as he reaches the spot between my legs. My thighs are quivering; my breath leaves me in shaky exhales. I’m so aroused I can hardly take it, and it all started with him rubbing my feet.
But really it all started when he rushed to my defense at the party in Cannes. When he kissed me by the pool and then ran away. I was hooked. I wanted more. I wanted my adventure, and I got it in the form of Caden.
“Your panties are wet,” he tells me, his deep voice drawing me from my thoughts as his fingers graze the front of my underwear. “You’re always so damn responsive, Ro.”
“It’s because you know just how to touch me.” I brace my hands on the edge of the mattress, my breath hitching in my throat when he slips those magical fingers beneath my panties and touches my *. My thighs fall open as much as they can, though they’re restricted by the skirt of my dress, and when he slips his long finger deep inside my body the moan that comes from my chest seems to rattle my bones.