Kiss the Sky (Calloway Sisters #1)(90)

She rests her head on my chest and her lips softly kiss the bare skin. She doesn’t say anything, and my hand falls to her round bottom. I could get used to this vulnerable side of her.

“I think I understand how someone could get addicted to sex,” she says softly.

“Yes, well, your sister doesn’t have sex like that.” I stroke her damp hair, and my comment stirs her almost fully awake.

“And how would you know?” she combats, as if presuming I slept with Lily. And there goes that vulnerable side.

I smile. “Maybe we should take it slower next time,” I say. “It seems all these endorphins and hormones have made you a little—”

Her eyes burst into flames. “If you say stupid—”

I kiss her lips, cutting her off. She settles down, probably more out of exhaustion than true surrender. She is an awful submissive. But that’s what I adore about her. She’s a challenge. My challenge.

I glance down at Rose and her eyes are barely open now. “I’m glad I have you,” she tells me before her lids sink closed, and she drifts asleep in my arms. But I’m the one who should be glad.

I had no one before Rose. No true friends. No family, not really.

Now I have her. I have people I care about it. People that I want to protect.

Now I have everything.

The only thing about having everything is that you can lose it all.





CHAPTER 32





ROSE CALLOWAY





I can’t walk. Literally. I am so fucking sore that the short trek to the bathroom had me moaning in pain, but when I think back to last night, I feel like a little school girl who can’t restrain a blinding, giddy smile. I used to glare at those girls, the ones who drooled over boys. But I understand now. Some things just make you overwhelmingly happy. Having sex definitely did it for me.

The aches are worth these unrestrained feelings. Plus, there’s nothing in the world like being pampered by Connor Cobalt.

He brought me breakfast in bed and alternated between kissing and biting my neck, a sensation that I have begun to love too much. I plan to spend most of the day on the couch or tucked in bed, but I had to go to the bathroom to at least do my hair, wash my face—half of my normal morning routine.

My robe hangs on my arms as I brush my teeth, careful to distance the sleeves from the running faucet. After I rinse, I wipe my lips on a cloth, and my eyes lock on the diamond collar. It’s gorgeous, even if it makes me look like his pet. I zip up my toiletry kit, and my robe falls off my shoulder. I go to lift it up, but I notice the outline of a bruise on my arm.

I inspect the rest of my body, some faint and some prominent marks all across my breasts, arms, legs, wrists, more reddened than anything. I drop my robe completely and spot the bite mark on my hip, Connor’s teeth imprinted. My fingers graze the tender area, and I smile.

I like these bruises.

They’re like my war wounds.

I survived wild sex.

I still can’t stop smiling, even as I grab my panties and step into them, my limbs protesting at the movement. Okay, now my smile has vanished. I grimace as the fabric sits against a sensitive place that wishes to be free of touch.

I stare angrily at the bra on the counter. My nipples hurt. The left one is red and raw, having gone through hell at the mercy of Connor Cobalt’s mouth. That bra might as well be iron spikes, and I haven’t even put it on yet.

Before I make this crucial decision, the bathroom door opens, and my arm flies to my breasts. Not Scott. Please not Scott.

I exhale as soon as Connor shuts the door behind him.

I drop my arm, and he peruses my body quickly. I focus on the bottle of lotion he carries. “Where did you get that?” It looks expensive and feminine.

“I bought it in New York before we left,” he says, almost in disinterest. “How do you feel?”

I draw my shoulders back in confidence and mask the pain from my face. “Fantastic,” I say, combing my fingers through my hair. “Ready for round…” How many times did we actually do it last night? I’m so aggravated that I lost count. I don’t lose count of anything.

Shit. My thoughts are even pretentious.

Connor must be rubbing off on me. Or maybe I’ve always been this way.

“I’ll be the judge of when you’re ready,” he says, leaning an arm on the sink as he watches me.

I give him a look. “I think I know my body better than you.”

He raises his brows in challenge. “That’s debatable, and secondly, you’re stubborn and competitive. Two qualities that make you a terrible judge.” He uncaps the lotion and squeezes it into his palm.

“I can do it myself,” I say, regretting the words immediately. I’d much rather be indulged by him.

“But the wonderful thing about making these bruises is that I get to tend to them.” He (thankfully) ignores my statement and rubs the lotion onto one of the faint bruises on my shoulder, careful and tender, the exact opposite of his demeanor in bed.

A girl could get used to this.

He massages the bite mark, and only once does the pain intensify. I try to hold back my grimace, but I must be unsuccessful because he kisses the spot. Then he talks to me in French about everyday things. Calloway Couture. Cobalt Inc. What we’ll do when we return to Philly tomorrow.