Sweet Rome (Sweet Home, #1.5)(37)

Arms fidgeted and she tried to break loose, but I held on tight, causing her to murmur, “No, Rome, this is just… just…”

I’d well and truly had enough of this back-and-forth shit.

“I want to be with you,” I snapped, losing my patience, arms like a vise around her waist. “Come on, Mol. I need you. Tell me you get me. Tell me you’re as f*ckin’ into me as I am you.”

Caramel eyes closed, and any remaining shreds of resistance left her rigid body. Then two words from her mouth changed everything. “Come inside.”

Exhaling a long, pent-up breath, I could only respond in the best way I knew how—with a sincere and a heartfelt, “Fuck. Yeah.”





12





The minute we’d stepped into her room, I was on Mol—hands roaming on her tight body, fisting her nightgown—and I slowly backed her toward her bed. Our mouths meshed furiously, tongues thrashed together as we hit the mattress, and I set to doing what do best.

Molly gripped my shirt hard, moaning and groaning into my mouth, and when her hands met the bare skin of my back, it was the green light I’d been waiting for.

Breaking from her mouth, I slipped my hand up her thigh, working toward her core, when she slammed on the breaks with a tight hold on my wrist.

“I-I can’t. It’s going too fast.”

Tipping my head back, I almost screamed out in frustration. I was so damn turned on I was almost blind with need. Molly released an embarrassed whimper, and seeing her flushed face, I instantly felt like an ass.

“Don’t do that,” I said, holding her face in my hands.

“Do what?”

“Feel bad for stopping. Never feel bad for that. When I have you, it’ll be when I have you writhing in need, begging me to f*ck you. Never feel bad for stopping. When you give yourself to me, you’ll be so wet you can’t f*cking stand it.”

Her pupils dilated and her lips parted. “When I give myself to you?”

She was so friggin’ cute.

“When you give yourself to me.”

Shifting slightly away, she said, affronted, “You’re confident. I might refuse you.”

She wouldn’t. Yeah, I may sound like an arrogant dick, but the way her eyes devoured me, my body, there was no f*cking way she’d hold out long.

She was still staring at me, waiting for me to speak, so I said, “We’re going to happen. We both know it’s true, and I’m counting the days until I get inside you and make you come… over and over again. Fuckin’ counting the minutes…”

Lust took her over and she almost pounced on me there and then, but I pushed her back to the mattress. She was the one girl I didn’t want to just f*ck and leave as soon as it was done.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you. You’re not ready.”

“You didn’t. It’s just… It’s just that… I’m… not very experienced… and I…”

I sat up, reality hitting home. “Shit, are you a virgin?”

Shifting before me, she blushed and confessed, “No, not a virgin, but I’m not exactly skilled in all things… seductive. I’ve only ever slept with one person and only one time, this past year.”

And just like that, I really f*cking wished she was a virgin, jealously over some unknown douchebag taking hold.

Some unworthy f*cker’d had my Mol.

“When did this happen?” I asked through slightly gritted teeth.

“When I was at Oxford. Oliver and I—”

“Oliver?” I interrupted.

Her eyebrows drew together and she said, “Yeah, Oliver Bartholomew.”

I couldn’t help it, but I laughed, my anger put aside for a minute. The way she said that f*cking pompous-ass English name was comical. Bartholomew? Fuck, and I thought Romeo Prince was bad enough.

“What?” she questioned, seeming pretty pissed at me.

Clearing my throat and trying my damndest to hide my smile with my hand, I said, “Oliver Bartholomew? Very… British.”

Her eyes narrowed behind those thick lenses and she stressed, “He is British! As am I! Quit making fun!”

With a frustrated groan, Molly turned her back to me, causing me to swallow my friggin’ laughter and pull her back into my chest. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

She shook her head in admonishment, but when she threw a small smile, I knew we were good.

“So Oliver, was he your boyfriend?” I asked, suddenly in that weird state of mind where you don’t want to know the answer but desperately need it at the same time.

“Yeah, I suppose. I tried to have him as a boyfriend anyway.”

“Tried?” I questioned at the strange response.

Her lashes fluttered as her eyes quickly met mine, and she said, “Yeah. I… I don’t really get close to people. I tried with him, but in the end, I just couldn’t do it. We’d been sort of dating for a few months—coffee dates, study partners, that type of thing—and I decided to just take the next step, just get it over with. He wanted it badly. I was indifferent. So I thought why not? Olly was sweet to me and I liked him well enough. The sex—not so much.”

“What? You didn’t like sex?” I almost shouted. How could anyone not like sex?