Crave the Rose

by Karen Kincy

  “Let me show you where you will be staying.” I put on a mask of politeness. “There’s a lovely little cottage by the kitchen garden.”

  She dips her head. “I left my suitcase by the greenhouse.”

  We leave the library together. I can’t think of anything to say.

  When I reach for her suitcase, she grabs it first. “I’ve got it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She raises her eyebrows like I shouldn’t be asking.

  The afternoon sky arches over us in a sweep of blue. We follow the avenue of beeches, their trunks gnarled by centuries, and stop by the pond. Duckweed blankets the water. A dragonfly balances on a reed.

  “The pond stays?” she says.

  “No.” I pause. “The path will be widened and paved to be more accessible.”

  She drifts toward the yew labyrinth and runs her hand over the needles. “The yews?”

  “Half of the labyrinth stands in the way of the golf course.”

  “But Bram, these yews must be at least a hundred years old.”

  “Two hundred.”

  Her fingers curl into fists, but she doesn’t argue.

  It isn’t far to the cottage. She hurries to match my long strides, and I slow down for her sake. Moss muffles the path under our feet as a fox trots along a hedgerow. We walk through the overgrown pear orchard. Weeds rustle in the grass; blackberry brambles crawl over an unlucky tree and bristle around the pears.

  I twist a fruit from a branch and bring it to my mouth.

  Cassia frowns. “You might not want—”

  Damn, that’s bitter. I spit out the pear and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. “Bloody repulsive.”

  She coughs, hiding a laugh. “They aren’t ripe.”

  “Thanks for warning me.”

  In the kitchen garden, a cobblestone cottage waits. Sweet peas clamber over the fence, and bees hum in clumps of thyme.

  Cassia smiles when I give her the key to the cottage. “It looks like a dollhouse.”

  “There will be a restaurant at Wolfenwold, and the chef can use the herbs and produce. It’s quite economical.”

  Her smile fades. “So what do you want me to do here?”

  “Garden?”

  “Be more specific.”

  I rub the back of my neck. “I trust your judgment. The plants could use some weeding and pruning, that much I know.”

  She crosses her arms, hiding herself, and stares at a rosemary bush like she finds it lacking. What did she expect?

  I fall to one knee and pluck a strawberry. “Cassia?”

  She glances at the berry, as red as a ruby, and into my eyes. She holds my gaze long enough to make my cheeks heat.

  “Are you bribing me?” Her voice sounds smoky. “And are you blushing?”

  12

  Cassia

  Bram grins. “Perhaps.” When I take the strawberry, his strong fingers curl around mine. “Or perhaps this is a trap.”

  He has very white teeth. The Big Bad Wolf.

  Will he devour me?

  I steal the strawberry and eat it in one bite. He watches me lick my thumb, his lips parted, before he bends over the strawberries. When he stands, he’s much closer than I expected. I sway back and he steadies me with his hand on my arm. He’s nice and tall, though the look in his eyes isn’t exactly what I’d call nice.

  I meet his gaze. Daring him to do more.

  He looks down at me with a strange hesitancy, his blue eyes deep and clear but somehow unreadable. “Cassia.”

  “You got me,” I murmur.

  He raises his hand between us. Two strawberries. One for him, one for me.

  “Thanks.” I bite mine with a shameless moan. “These taste awesome.”

  “Awesome?” His eyes narrow with silent laughter. “You must mean marvelous. These are proper British berries.”

  I fake a haughty face. “Don’t you want any marvelous berries, darling?”

  He ducks his head and laughs, as if he’s shy. How can a man this sexy lack any self-confidence? I’m not known for hesitating. Which isn’t always the best idea, but better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

  “Bram?”

  He looks like he’s holding his breath. “Yes?”

  “I know what you really want.”

  He can’t deny the chemistry between us. Some people are meant to fuck.

  “Kiss me.”

  Bram’s eyes smolder with blue fire. I step into his arms and stand on my toes. When our lips meet, he stands frozen. I kiss him harder. He unfreezes, finally, and knots his fingers in my hair as his lips move on mine. He tastes like strawberries. His fingernails graze my scalp, tracing shivers across my skin. He grabs my ass with his other hand. Our hips bump together; I rub against him and find he’s already hard.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Bram breaks away. “What the hell was that?”

  Too much. Not enough. “You kissed me back.” I’m still shaking from the touch of his lips and his body against mine.

  “A mistake.”

  My mouth twists into a bitter smile. “I’m the best mistake you could make.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “What happened to you? Why did you leave Oxford?”

  “I told you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Bram manages to look hurt and bewildered at the same time. He backs away from me like I’m a crazy bitch. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that. Far from it. And this must be the part where I ask for forgiveness.

  “Sorry.” I insult myself before he can. “Sometimes I can be a slut.”

  He just stares at his shoes.

  I turn my back on him. I’d rather not explain myself to him. I’d rather not hurt myself more than I already have.

  For a minute, I expect him to call after me, or run in my footsteps.

  But he lets me go.

  13

  Bram

  Cassia walks into the orchard while I stand there. Like a bloody idiot.

  I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have whiplash. And I don’t know what went wrong.

  Kiss me.

  I remember how soft her lips felt against mine and I have to adjust my boxers. My cock doesn’t seem to care she’s gone.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

  Only she can make me feel like this. I’m calm, confident, even coldblooded. That’s what I hear. Cassia’s certainly fiery enough for the two of us. I’m starting to wonder if I should have given her what she wanted.

  I walk toward Wolfenwold Hall, still too hard to think straight.

  I bound upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, running my hand along the carved wood of the banister. I march into the bedroom where I’ve been sleeping and shove the door shut behind me. Dust dances in the sunbeam that slants through the open curtains. I toss my aviators onto the threadbare bed I call my own.

  An old armchair waits by the fireplace. I unbuckle my belt and drop into the chair.

  My cock escapes from my fly the moment I yank down my trousers. I stroke the length of it in my fist and let out a groan of a sigh.

  Cassia wanted more than a kiss.

  I tighten my fist and stroke faster. The tension builds into nearly painful pleasure. I slow down, my breath coming in uneven gasps, and stand only long enough to peel my shirt over my head. I toss it onto the rug and sprawl in the chair again. My cock jumps before I even touch it. I close my eyes and thrust into my fist.

  God, what I would give to grab her ass again. Properly, in both hands.

  I rub my thumb over the tip of my cock. There’s a bit of cum there already. I arch my hips from the chair and cup myself with my other hand. Heat pools below my stomach. I fuck my fist until I can’t hold back.

  I tilt back my head, my cock jerking in my hand, and moan loudly.

  An instant of heaven later, I open my eyes. Cum glistens on my chest. I stand, my legs shaky, and lean against the chair. When I duck down to gra
b a handkerchief, my head spins. I drop to my knees, my cock still halfway hard, and wipe my chest dry. Christ almighty, I came so hard I’m still weak at the knees.

  I need to take a shower. Not that the bathroom is quite functional.

  Trusting my legs now, I climb to my feet. I toss the handkerchief away and yank my boxers and trousers over my hips. My cock protests against being captured again, and I’m sure I’d be hard in a minute if I only tried.

  I walk to the porcelain washbasin. The water’s lukewarm, but it’ll have to do. I splash it over my face before I wash my chest. I lean on the antique dresser and stare out the window. My brain’s still fogged by the orgasm.

  The back lawn of Wolfenwold Hall stretches out like green velvet.

  At least that’s been mowed religiously. I don’t want to think about all the work and expenses still remaining.

  I can see the pear orchard from here. Where Cassia went.

  “Fuck,” I sigh.

  It’s not very gentlemanly of me, but I’m not the gentleman she thinks I am. She seems to believe she’s not good enough for me. Maybe I should better educate her. I clench my jaw and stare at the overgrown orchard.

  A flash of movement catches my eye.

  I lower my gaze and look down at the Elizabethan knot garden below the windows. Cassia stands by a topiary, gripping a pair of pruning shears, staring back me. I lick my lips and retreat from the window.

  I drop into the chair. There’s a perfect line of sight between us.

  Was she watching me?

  Trouble is, I’m not sure I have the bollocks to find out.

  14

  Cassia

  I stare at Bram through his bedroom window. It must be his bedroom. Shirtless, his belt unbuckled, he stares back at me with half-closed eyes. Then he turns his head, climbs from the chair, and strides out of sight.

  What was he doing? Watching me?

  I grip the pruning shears in my slippery hand. Sweat trickles between my breasts and down the hollow of my back. A cold shower doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, considering how Bram makes me feel. There’s an ache between my legs that defies all logic, though I’m not sure my lady parts know what logic is.

  Winterbourne isn’t interested. And I can’t fuck this up.

  I attack the brambles in the pear orchard. Thorns tangle in my hair and nick my skin. The sun floats across the sky. Muscles aching, I drag the brambles into a wheelbarrow and trundle it across the lawn to the greenhouse. I dump the brambles into the compost heap, return the wheelbarrow, and yank off my gloves.

  My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since a crumpet this morning.

  Hell, I like crumpets, but they aren’t very filling. Maybe I’ll find a pub in Upper Dicker. Maybe I’ll have shepherd’s pie for dinner.

  A flock of wood doves claps across the evening sky, which has darkened to sapphire. Woodsmoke curls through the air over the forest. Sweat stings the bramble cuts across my skin, the pain a minor distraction.

  When I walk back to my cottage, I sigh. This doesn’t feel like a dream come true.

  After exploring the tiny house, I discover a gorgeous old clawfoot tub in the bathroom. I trace my fingertips over the porcelain before stripping naked and turning on the water. Old pipes rattle and creak as I climb into the tub.

  Warmth soaks my skin. I puff my cheeks in a sigh and tilt back my head.

  Some days you deserve to lounge in a clawfoot tub. I sink lower in the water and let my legs relax. My hand slides between my thighs. I wash myself, then slow down. My fingers work at the tension that’s been lingering all day. My breathing quickens, my breasts rising and falling in the water. I close my eyes.

  Bram Winterbourne. His bright eyes, his wolfish grin.

  I arch my hips. A moan escapes my lips. My fingers move faster. I would love to be in his bedroom. In his bed.

  A knock on the door thunders in the silence.

  I jolt upright, water sloshing in the tub, and grip the porcelain. Whoever’s out there knocks again. My legs shaky, I lunge out of the tub, towel myself off, and wrap a bathrobe around myself. I dart to the door.

  When I fling it open, heat blazes across my face.

  “I’m sorry,” Bram says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Oh my God, can he tell what I’ve been doing? He’s wearing those damn aviators again, the reflective silver hiding his eyes. He’s also wearing a blue polo shirt that does wonderful things for his shoulders.

  “What do you want?” I say, and it sounds really rude.

  His mouth curves in a slow smile. “Since I cocked things up this afternoon, I wanted to ask you out to dinner.”

  He thinks he cocked things up? And can he say cock again?

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  He lifts a shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “I’ll take the blame. And I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “That’s nice of you, but—”

  “I insist.” There’s steel beneath the polite tone of his words. I’m blushing and wet, and I’m not just talking about the bathwater.

  That’s what I get for answering the door half-naked.

  “Let me get dressed,” I say.

  “Of course.” He’s still lingering outside the door.

  “You can come in.”

  I clutch the bathrobe to my body and step aside to let Bram pass. He folds his sunglasses and glances around my cottage. One glance is all it takes, since it’s not big enough for another one. He looks too tall for this space.

  “Give me a minute,” I say.

  I saunter casually into my bedroom and slam the door behind myself. My heartbeat’s still trying to break speed records.

  Then I fling open my suitcase and rummage through my clothes like a madwoman. I don’t have anything sexy to wear. I didn’t pack anything that wasn’t practical, and that includes underwear. Not that I’ve ever owned fancy lingerie in my life. Bram Winterbourne seems like a fancy lingerie kind of man.

  Shit, I shouldn’t let lust take over my brain.

  This isn’t about sex. This isn’t anything but a nice dinner with a nice man who feels bad that you tried to jump his bones earlier.

  Bram probably pities me. Don’t act like a desperate girl with a dead boyfriend.

  My stomach sinks and I clench my underwear in my fist. Then I let out a breath. Time to be on my best behavior. I yank on my clothes—black skinny jeans, a satin blouse that’s almost dressy—and open the door.

  Bram sits on the squashy toad-green couch, his legs crossed. “You look good.”

  He’s lying, I’m sure, but I smile. “I’ll look great after I brush my hair.”

  That wins me another one of his wolfish grins. I feel like I won the lottery. I stride to the bathroom and grab my brush. It snags in my tangled hair, but I bite back a curse and smile sweetly in the mirror. I can see him though the door, reflected in the mirror. He’s watching me with an expression of quiet patience.

  I toss away my brush and lean against the doorway. “Ready?”

  “Are you?”

  I arch my eyebrows. “Don’t tell me this doesn’t meet the dress code.”

  He tilts his head, smiling. “You might not want to be barefoot.”

  Right.

  I slip on a pair of ballet flats patterned with roses. Surely I win some sort of fashion award for that, even if it’s third place. He’s sitting by my purse. I bend over, and he glances at my breasts for a fraction of a second.

  Maybe no straight man can resist cleavage.

  Bram holds open the front door, and I thank him with a nod. When he lingers on the threshold, I look into his eyes. He stops dead, the heat of his body warming mine, and peers down at me. Close enough to kiss.

  But I don’t dare, because I’m trying not to be bad. “Let me lock up.”

  I reach past him and fumble with the key in the rusty old lock. My fingers don’t seem to be cooperating. He doesn’t say a word as we start walking, just slows his long stride to match mine.
I’m at least six inches shorter than him, though he is about six feet tall. I glance at his face, wondering why he’s so quiet.

  A silver Audi waits by the carriage house. Exactly the kind of car I expected him to drive. I walk to the door on the right.

  He clears his throat. “You’re driving?”

  “What?” My face catches fire. “Wait. No. Sorry, I spaced out.”

  “You can if you want.”

  “Seriously?”

  He shrugs. “It’s not far from here.”

  “It’s still illegal. I don’t have my driver’s license on me.” I break into a grin. “I do, however, have a license to kill.”

  Bram stares blankly at me.

  “James Bond? God, don’t you read your own books?”

  “I’m Irish.”

  “Obviously.” As if I haven’t been swooning over his accent since I met him. “Please tell me you have at least read Harry Potter.”

  Bram smirks. “No comment.”

  He opens the passenger door for me, so very polite, and I slide into the leather seat. “What do you like to read?”

  He ducks into the car and frowns through the windshield. “Not much, lately.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Why?”

  “Been busy.”

  With that, he twists the key in the ignition. The Audi’s engine purrs to life. He slings his arm over the seat and puts the car into reverse. He smoothly backs down the driveway before pulling a U-turn across the grass.

  I tug at the knees of my jeans. “What do you like to do with yourself?”

  A spectacular blush colors his face scarlet. He clears his throat, tries to speak, and clears his throat again. Gravel crackles under the tires.

  I don’t know what I said, or why it was so embarrassing.

  “You know.” He attempts a smile, but there’s a glint of alarm in his eyes.

  “I’m into ice fishing,” I deadpan. “That, and spelunking.”

  He laughs. “Impressive.”

  “I used to be more into noodling, but that got old.”

  “Noodling?” He glances at me. “With pasta, or is that something dirty Americans say?”

  I’m really tempted to invent a filthy definition, but I tell him the truth. “I’m just joking. Noodling is how rednecks catch catfish.”