Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(89)
Bash shakes his head. “The team name.”
I watch West process, moving his lips silently, trying it on for size before breaking out in a grin. “Hell yeah, boys. Welcome to The Ball Busters!” He claps once. “Let’s get practicing. This is gonna be an every-other-week thing. Get us in fighting form. Bust Stretch’s balls.”
I straighten and scoff. “I’m not practicing every other week. That amounts to bowling weekly.”
West’s lips pull back and he hisses like he’s about to break some bad news to me. “Oof. Sorry. It was the last requirement to date my baby sister.”
Bash shakes his head and turns toward our now-empty lane, waving our new angry teammate along. “Let’s go, new guy.”
When I pick my beer up to follow, I glance at my best friend. He looks so excited that it’s damn near impossible to be annoyed.
He claps me on the shoulder as we follow the others to the floor and tips his head toward me as he drops his voice to say, “I’m so fucking happy for the two of you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ROSIE
Rosie,
Reminding you that the fundraiser is tomorrow. It’s black tie, so I took the liberty of having an outfit delivered to the hotel in Emerald Lake for you.
—Ford
Good morning, Mr. Grant,
Your emails without all the formal shit are substantially less entertaining. If you ever want to get in my pants again, I require you to be witty and borderline mean.
What did you order me? What if I don’t like it?
All my best,
Rosalie Belmont
Reality Check Manager at Rose Hill Records
Ms. Belmont,
You mostly wear skirts. So, I’m not bothered by that statement. I’ll just bend you over and fuck you in that.
And I ordered you a dress and a pair of heels. You often wear fuzzy socks with Birkenstocks, which only proves that you have poor fashion sense and can’t be trusted to dress appropriately for an event of this caliber.
Have a miserable day!
Ford Grant
CEO and Fashion Police at Rose Hill Records
Mr. Grant,
I’ll wear the dress. But you can pry my socks and sandals from my cold, dead hands.
All my best,
Rosalie Belmont
Dick Manager at Rose Hill Records
Ms. Belmont,
I’m heading to the office from school drop-off. I expect you to be down on all fours sanding that paint stain when I arrive.
Have a miserable day!
Ford Grant
Overlord at Rose Hill Records
When Ford walks in, I am, in fact, not sanding the floor. Since yesterday, I’ve cleaned up the tray and drop sheet as best I can, but I’m not doing manual labor in my lace skirt and silky blouse.
He can go fuck himself if he thinks that.
My expression must be a dead giveaway because he takes one look at me, scowling at him from behind my desk, and smirks.
“Figures,” he says as he strides toward his desk and drops his bag on the chair. He proceeds to the mess of blue paint on the floor and props his hands on his hips, staring down at the stain on what were perfectly polished floors. “You ruined my floor, Rosie Posie.”
“Sorry, obedience isn’t my strong suit,” I needle him from my desk as I lean back to watch him.
His head tilts, and he gives me a dry glare. But the way he moves with such fluid grace is disarming. A simple head tilt exudes power and I feel myself shiver as his eyes trace my body.
“If I wanted someone obedient, I wouldn’t be chasing after you.”
I flush, not accustomed to comments like that. Comments where he speaks so freely about wanting me. It’s a thrill. An addiction.
It makes my stomach flip and my head flustered. So, I change the subject.
“What time are we hitting the road tomorrow? My car or yours?”
Now he’s back to smirking. “We’re not driving, Rosie.”
I hold a finger up as he prowls toward me. I left his bed mere hours ago, but I’m not sated. I already want to go back. Feel his weight on top of me. His teeth on my skin. His cock stretching me.
I lick my lips and swallow before crossing my legs and wondering how I went so damn long being oblivious to the way he looks at me. Ten years of living, ten years of perspective, and now it feels like the most obvious thing in the world.
I went from a man who barely glanced up at me from the cat videos on his phone to one who can’t look at anything but me.
“Oh.” I try to recover. “Are we going to ride there on the Death Star?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The Death Star is a space station, not a ship. But we are going to fly.”
My brows furrow. “There’s no airport here.”
“Not a public one.”
I pause as I work it through, my eyes widening as I realize what he’s saying. “Oh my god, you really did jack off while thinking about a private jet.”
“Maybe to thoughts of you on my private jet. And now you will too.” He smiles, striding closer, all confident swagger until he towers above me and bends at the waist. His lips are dangerously close to mine when he says, “Wait until you see my yacht.”
And then he kisses me breathless with a whispered, “Good morning, Ms. Belmont. I knew you’d be wearing a skirt.”