“They’re diamonds,” I say like he’s insane. “And it was a gift. You can’t take it back.”
“I’m not going to return it,” he assures me. “I’ll keep it safe.” He approaches, and I don’t withdraw this time. He unfastens the buckle, my neck bare without the warm leather.
“Why can’t I keep it on?” I ask softly, eyeing his lips. I watch the way they move when he speaks.
“Because you’ll wear it when I play with you,” he says. “And today, I’m taking care of you.” He gathers my hair in his hand and rubs lotion where the buckle dug into my skin. His fingers dance so skillfully along the tender areas. I muster all of my willpower to stop from moaning and submitting like a drooling puppy.
He caps the lotion, pockets the collar, and leaves the bathroom without another word. I frown, confused at first. But then he returns with another black case, the same size as last night’s. Another necklace?
My eyes widen in excitement.
He doesn’t make me beg this time. He merely opens the box. “This one is for days like today.”
He untangles it from the box, and then he steps behind me, swooping it around my neck and fastening it in place. He’s given me jewelry before: a teardrop necklace when we first started dating. But this means more to me. Not just because a diamond pendant rests against my chest, but because it’s simple and refined, on a feather-light chain that I could wear with almost every outfit. He thought about that, I can tell.
I think I might cry. And I never cry.
I suppose it’s okay to shed tears over jewelry. That doesn’t make me more of an ice queen or a materialistic snob, right? Oh, who the fuck cares?
My tears are apparent.
“Thank you,” I say.
He kisses my lips and slides his arms over my shoulders. “Always.”
*
Connor and I spend all morning switching between the Discovery and the History channel, trying to avoid the reality shows in favor of the educational segments. （Yes, I realize this is a little hypocritical, but just because I’m on a reality show doesn’t mean I like to watch them.） We secluded ourselves to the bedroom, and when my sisters asked about me, he told them I wasn’t feeling well. They bought it enough to leave us alone.
His phone rings just as a piece on the Black Death begins to play. “You can’t leave now,” I tell him. “You’re going to miss all the pictures of pestilence and gangrene.”
He looks up from his cell. “Tempting.” He smiles to let me know he means it.
I think back to literature involving the bubonic plague, unearthing the knowledge I’ve stored from college, quiz bowls, and my own leisurely studies. “Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.” I quote Masque of the Red Death, quizzing him and distracting him in one sentence.
His eyes gleam in challenge, and his hand drops, ignoring the buzz from his phone. “Edgar Allen Poe,” he answers with ease and devours my bait in one swoop.
Connor slides beside me on the bed, his legs nestled against mine. He fingers my diamond necklace, smoothing the thin chain and inadvertently tickling the hollow of my collar. I clasp his hand before the sensation makes me squirm.
He stares at me deeply, whispering, “Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.”
One of my favorite quotes. I turn a fraction, just enough so that our lips don’t suddenly collide. “Shakespeare,” I breathe.
“Very good.”
My thoughts migrate to my heart. A kiss is at a breath’s distance, and despite my sore body, I want a repeat of last night.
Love all. Love. I’ve accepted Connor for who he is, even his anti-love beliefs. But why the hell did he have to choose that quote?
“You can’t seduce me with Shakespeare.” I command my thoughts to return to my brain. Come back, Non-Gooey Rose. I put considerable amount of distance between our lips, scooting to the right. “Especially with a quote about love.”
“Darling, I don’t need to seduce you,” he says, “I already have you.”
His face blankets with lust as I narrow my glare. The more I glower, the more I arouse him. I’ve learned that fact over the years, and yet, I still can’t seem to bottle my irritation to win a round.
He licks his lips and delivers another quote. Only he recites the lines with heavy, bated breath. Almost like he’s making love to the words. “We know what we are, but not what we may be.”
Why is that so sexy? And why does intelligence turn me on more than muscles and taut abs?
“Hamlet,” I reply. I sit up straighter, leaning against the headboard, and I try to hide the fact that the spot between my legs thrums with newly lit passion.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”
I internally grin from ear-to-ear. Our very first date, we saw this play together. “Easy. The Tempest.”
“All right Miss Highest Honors…” He sets a knee on either side of my waist, not straddling my lap. He stays above me like this, towering as he presses a hand to the headboard and stares down at me. He has sufficiently confined me in his muscular, tall cage. I can’t believe he’s my boyfriend. That’s literally all I can think right now.
“Love is merely a madness.”
It takes me a moment to process his words. “As You Like It.”
He lowers his head. He’s going to touch his lips to mine, but he tricks me, his mouth diverting to my ear. “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” He says each word with such conviction that my heart backflips.
Oh God.
Think. Think. I have to win. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
With one hand still on the headboard, he uses the other to caress my right breast, one that is vastly less sore. “What’s past is prologue.”
“The Tempest again.”
He tilts my chin up and brings his lips down upon mine, his tongue parting them and stealing my breath at once. My nipples pucker, and he retracts as he recites, “What’s done cannot be undone.”
I watch his hand fall to my neck, rubbing my tender skin. Then to my breast. To my arm. I can hardly concentrate on his words. I’m lost, and my arousal has built all over again. “I…” Shit. “…repeat it.”
“What’s done cannot be undone.”
Think, Rose.
He gives me a new quote from the same play. “Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
I squint as I faintly recall this one. “Did you abbreviate?” He hates abbreviating, and he must have done it to stump me.
“Maybe.”
I am about to call him a cheater, but he covers my mouth with his hand and says, “I didn’t have to give you a second quote to help you, Rose.”
True.
He kisses my forehead and then says, “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets this hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
“Macbeth.” I straighten in pride, and he actually shares it. Instead of sulking in the loss, he grins at my win.