Black Roses (A Mitchell Sisters Novel)

by Samantha Christy

  She turns her head to face me, our noses mere inches from each other. “Fifth,” she says. “The benefit doesn’t count.”

  I smile. I smile big. She’s counting, too. “Okay, fifth.” I take her hand in mine, giving her a tug. “Come on, one dance. Everyone else will come.” I raise my voice and say, “You guys are up for a dance, right?”

  Before Griffin and Gavin even process my question, Skylar and Baylor are dragging them onto the dance floor with ear-to-ear grins. I get the feeling they would do anything to get Piper and me together. To get their little sister to stay in New York. I can’t say I blame them. I feel the exact same way.

  We all dance in a group, but my eyes never stray far from her. The way her body maneuvers on the dance floor mesmerizes me. Much as it does when I watch her run. She has that same fluid grace in her dance moves.

  The liquor flowing through her seems to loosen her up, making her relax and be present in the moment. Something I’ve observed is quite hard for her to do. My plan, however, is to sober her up before bringing her home with me. The last thing I want is to take advantage of a drunk Piper—something I’m sure would kill our relationship faster than a hot knife slicing through butter.

  After a few songs, sweat starts to dot her brow and she removes her light cardigan, tying it around her waist to reveal a tank top that hugs every curve of her beautiful figure. She raises her hands above her head, dancing with her sisters in a carefree manner I’ve never witnessed before. I think this is the real Piper. The happy, easy-going, untroubled Piper from before she was broken by whatever secrets she hides from the world.

  A new song starts and the entire population of the dance floor simultaneously breaks into the choreographed arm movements made popular by a stupid YouTube video. We smile and laugh and sweat and dance. It’s the best time I can remember having since before my parents died.

  Piper and I stare at each other without a care of how ridiculous we must look as we mindlessly do the silly dance. I mouth one line of the lyrics to her. Something about missing her before she came into my life.

  Words I wish I could tell her without scaring her away. Words that I know would.

  As if I had orchestrated it perfectly, the next song that plays is a slow one. I waste no time pulling her into my arms, our sweat-drenched bodies mashing together.

  It could be the alcohol. It could be the endorphins. It could be the way our bodies fit together like the seam of a flawlessly-made football. But watching her now—seeing her look at me like this, our eyes burning into each other with this intensity, I know one thing for sure. I’m moving to New York.

  In fact, I’m so fucking deep in New York, I can’t see past my knees.

  “Come home with me tonight,” I breathe into her ear.

  ~ ~ ~

  I can barely keep my hands off her. It was exponentially hard to sit at our table in the bar knowing she was coming home with me. But the longer we sat there, the more she sobered up. She was so out of it, she knocked over a few glasses of water. I ended up just buying her a few bottles of it—less likely to spill.

  “Have a seat.” I point to my sofa. “Get comfortable. Pick a movie if you’d like. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  In the kitchen, I prepare her favorite drink. I know she has sobered up, but I think she might need a bit of liquid courage for whatever might come next. For what I hope comes next. My dick twitches when I think about kissing her again. I know we need to take it slow. I’m willing to do that. Hell, I want to do that. But I don’t think I can go another day without kissing her again.

  I return to the living room, placing our Jack and Cokes on the coffee table behind her. When she turns around, I’m more than a little aware of how she’s removed her cardigan again as my eyes hone in on her already pebbled nipples straining the material of her tank top. I’m also aware of how longingly she’s looking at the movie in her hand.

  “You really like that one, huh?” I ask, lifting my chin at the same title we watched last week.

  “Yeah.” She nods. “I always wanted to play Roxane. She’s my favorite heroine.”

  I recall the original story in my head. Cyrano never thought he was good enough for Roxane. He saw himself as ugly, unworthy of the love of a beautiful woman. I wonder if Piper likes the story so much because she relates to him, not her.

  She sits down on the couch, dropping the movie before she pushes her drink to the far side of the coffee table. Her tongue darts out to stroke her lips with a soft, sensual lick. “I didn’t come here to drink, Mason.” The smile that follows her words is slow, naughty, and completely breathtaking.

  Fuck.

  That may be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard her say.

  Instantly, blood rushes to my dick. But I know better. “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

  She shakes her head. “Haven’t had a drink in hours. I’m fine.” She looks up at me all doe-eyed and libidinous. “And I’d like you to kiss me.”

  She doesn’t have to ask me twice, but I make her anyway. The edges of my mouth curve into a grin. “Can you say that again? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

  She giggles. It’s the light, airy laughter I love. Not the disturbing, demented laugh of earlier. And right now, I can’t recall a sweeter sound in the world.

  Her blush confirms her claim of sobriety. “I’d like you to kiss me,” she says, with even more authority.

  I drop to my knees in front of her. “There is nothing I’d like more.” I lean in, cupping her face in my hands. As my body draws closer to hers, I notice the hue of her irises turning an even deeper shade of green. Her eyes reveal far more than she wants me to know. They tell me how much she wants this. Wants me.

  “You’re stunning,” I mumble, right before staking my claim on her lips.

  The moist heat and the forceful demand of her mouth has me reeling, igniting a bone-melting fire that burns deep within me. I tip her head back, cradling it in my palm as my hungry tongue savors her intoxicating taste.

  My hands explore her neck, her back, her thighs, as my mouth takes everything from her that she’s willing to give. Every kiss with her is better than the last. Every feeling more intense. Every touch more explosive.

  Her legs part, inviting my body closer to hers. My fingers lightly brush across her ribs, just below the curve of her breasts. I wrestle our swollen lips apart, needing her to look at me. “Is this okay?”

  She nods, never breaking eye contact with me as my thumbs trace the underside of her heaving breasts. When my hands cup her fully, her jaw goes slack and her mouth partially opens, a breath of air escaping along with a whimper that has my dick painfully straining against the fly of my jeans.

  I lean close to her ear and let my breath flow over her. “Can I see you, sweetheart?”

  She trembles. “Only if I can see you,” she says, her voice dropping a purposeful octave.

  I take it back—that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard her say.

  My mouth twists into a tight-lipped grin. I don’t even hesitate. I reach behind my neck to grab my shirt, pulling it over my head and discarding it into a careless pile on the floor.

  I can’t say my ego doesn’t get a little inflated when her eyes go wide as they rake across my chest. I’m not naïve, I know what I look like. And I work damn hard for this body. But I’ve never wanted to be worshiped for it outside of what it allows me to accomplish on the field. Not until this very second.

  The way her eyes trace every ridge and ripple of my abs makes the thousands of hours I’ve spent on them worth it. Women always look at me with wanton stares. As if I’m a slab of prime meat for them to order up. A hard body. A conquest. But Piper looks at me the way no one else ever has. With reverence. Wonder. Respect.

  I pick her hand up and place it on my chest. Sensations assault me as she follows the same pattern I’d traced over her tank top. And damn if her hands don’t feel like pure heaven on me. A few more minutes of this and I’ll go out of my mind.
<
br />   I put my hands over hers and direct them to the hem of her top. She hesitates for a beat; her breathing visibly quickening. Then she slowly lifts the material until the elastic gets caught up on the curve of her breasts.

  I run my hands up her stomach, grabbing the thin layer of cotton to complete the movement of pulling it over her head.

  Then I stare.

  I stare like a fool. Like an adolescent seeing his first pair of tits. But, holy shit, I’ve never seen anything this spectacular. Her teardrop-shaped breasts are creamy white, clearly never having been touched by the sun’s punishing rays. Her rose-bud nipples pucker even tighter under my heated gaze.

  “My God, you’re beautiful.” The instant my hands meet her silky flesh, I rip my admiring gaze from her body and look into her eyes to find them smoldering with unspoken desire.

  I knead and ply and pinch and tug. I worship her breasts with my hands and fingers until the urge is so strong, I can’t control it. “Eyes on me,” I command, before my mouth falls upon her chest, my tongue rolling over and flicking a stiff nipple.

  Surprisingly—thankfully—she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she arches her chest into my mouth, further fueling my siege. Her hands meet my back, her fingernails lightly scraping up my spine, sending more heat into my already thickened blood.

  I glance up to see her heeding my order to keep watching me. I smile against her breast and she blushes, a warm, lazy grin tugging at her swollen lips.

  Her hips grind and gyrate in a punishing rhythm that causes sweet, hot friction to build between us. I can’t get enough of her flesh. My hands, my lips, my mouth, my tongue—they chronicle every inch of her, all the while sending up prayers that this not be the last time I ever feel her like this.

  I want her to feel how I do every time I look at her. I want her to feel the desperation. The passion. The all-consuming need.

  I want her to feel.

  I don’t think she has in a long, long time.

  My fingers dip beneath the waistband of her jeans, running along her supple stomach from hip to hip. I slowly unbutton them, carefully watching her face for signs of panic, being ready to retreat in an instant.

  She doesn’t stop me. In fact, every movement her body makes urges me on; her hushed, needy noises fanning the flames and fueling my desire. My eager fingers find their way through her soft curls and under her panties to find them soaked through.

  But then her legs stiffen and clench shut, and a distressed sound of pain echoes off my walls, completely gutting me. My eyes snap up to see that her head has fallen back onto the couch and her eyes are tightly closed.

  “Piper, look at me.”

  I still my hand, but leave it on her sex. “It’s me. Only me.” I maneuver my other hand behind her neck, angling her head forward. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Watch me worship you. It’s just me,” I repeat. “I want it to be only me. Always.”

  Her eyes meet mine and I’m floored by the emotion. Slow waves of realization cross her face. I look deep into her, far into the reaches of her being. I recognize that look. I can almost see her fighting her demons. I can almost see her slaying them.

  In an unhurried, but purposeful movement, her legs relax and fall open once again. I glue my eyes to hers, holding her with my stare; imploring her to take what I want so desperately to give her. I’ve never looked at a woman as I’ve pleasured her. And, my God, the intensity of it is so overwhelming I have to pause before I move again. Before I can even breathe.

  My fingers begin to explore as I drag them through her wetness, moving them up to coat her pulsating clit. Her breath hitches when I hit the engorged bundle of nerves, circling my finger around and around. I grind my hips into her thigh, applying much needed pressure to my throbbing erection.

  “Only me, sweetheart,” I remind her over and over again. I don’t want her mind wandering away to anyone else—anything else. My voice becomes a chant, a chorus telling her how beautiful she is and what she does to me. I tell her to let go.

  Her legs tense again, but her eyes tell me it’s in a good way this time. Her breathing becomes ragged, her throaty noises more audible until she stiffens completely, crying out muddled exaltations of pleasure.

  Watching her orgasm is like witnessing a flawless pass to completion. The sweet spiral of pigskin as it leaves my hands, flying a pristine arc through the air and falling effortlessly into the hands of my receiver. Fucking perfect.

  Her sexy screams, her smoldering gaze, the sweet friction of rubbing myself against her—they all culminate and throw me over the edge right along with her. And for the first time since middle school, I come in my own goddamn pants.

  I remove my hand from her pants and cup her face before crushing my mouth on hers, thanking her with my kisses for the gift she’s given me. Her hands come up to cover mine, accepting my bid of gratitude. Her fingers slide over my hands and grasp my wrists, her thumb absentmindedly tracing my scar over and over.

  When I pull away, she takes a moment to catch her breath. Then, keeping my hand in hers, she turns it over and touches the red raised flesh once again. “How did it happen?”

  My eyes briefly close, savoring the significance of this moment. She’s going to win the battle against her past. And it starts now, by letting her into mine.

  I stand and pull her up with me. “Let’s get cleaned up. Then I’ll tell you.”

  chapter twenty-one

  piper

  We lie on his couch, my head resting on his thigh; Mason methodically fingering locks of my hair. I’m more relaxed than I can ever remember.

  Maybe it’s the powerful orgasm I just experienced. Maybe it’s the strong blue eyes looking down on me. Maybe I’ve turned a corner.

  Maybe.

  “So.” He breathes out a long, tumultuous sigh. I suspect what he is about to say is something very personal and private. “You pretty much know the gist of it. They died in a crash. I was driving.” He pauses, and although I’m not looking at him, I can feel his head shake from side to side. “I was sent to a temporary home until they could find a permanent place for me to live.”

  “It must have been horrible. I’m so sorry.” I strain my neck to make eye contact so he understands that when I say ‘I’m sorry,’ I mean it. It’s not just a platitude. It’s not just a thing I say when I hear something unpleasant. I hope my eyes convey it’s deeper than that. That I understand the meaning of pain. Heartache. Utter destruction.

  He nods. “It was. Losing my parents was unimaginable. But what came after was almost worse.” He grabs my hand and holds it against my chest, rubbing his thumb across each of my brightly-painted fingernails.

  His face is etched with sorrow and my heart hurts for him. I know how hard it must be to talk about a traumatic experience. Maybe I should have kept my big mouth shut. Why did I even ask him? It’s not fair of me. Not when I know I can’t share my own past. “Mason, you don’t have to. It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s fine,” he says, squeezing my hand. “It actually helps to talk about it sometimes.”

  “Okay.” I squeeze his hand back in reassurance.

  “The coroner’s report shows they died at the scene. But they weren’t sure if they died instantly.” He clears his throat, struggling to keep the desperation from his voice. “I like to think they did. That they didn’t know what was happening. That they didn’t have time to think about dying and how that meant they’d never see their only child again. Never see each other again—the loves of their lives.”

  He draws in a ragged breath. His hand grips me a little tighter and I notice it has become damp.

  “The dreams started the night after the funeral. My mind went wild, each night delivering me a different version of the accident I had little memory of. I’d blocked out everything that happened after hitting the tree. After hearing the bark split and splinter while the hard steel crunched and buckled around it.

  “Night after night, the unforgiving dreams came relentlessly. It got to the point where
I didn’t sleep much. My grades plummeted. My social life ceased to exist. I stopped participating in spring workouts. My will to live was slowly being sucked out of me every time I relived that day in my dreams.”

  I run my fingers along his scar. I have no words. I don’t pretend to know what he went through. But I know loss. I know excruciating heartbreak. I know nightmares. Hearing the raspy hitch in his voice, the way he tries to look strong for me when he’s obviously a wreck on the inside—it makes me want to cry for him.

  But I don’t. I haven’t cried for anything or anyone. Not since that day.

  He sighs, pulling himself together. “Some nights are better than others. Some nights my parents tell me there was no pain, no suffering, no blame. Those nights I watch them peacefully pass away. But then there are the ones where I watch them die horribly. Bloody and mangled, one or both of them screaming out in pain. I’m held captive in a seat belt that won’t release. I can’t reach them. I try to comfort them with my words. I say I’m sorry. That I fucked up. But they become still and stare blankly, their faces pale as the life leaves their bodies.

  “Other times I do reach them and hold their hands as they slowly slip away. Then there are the dreams where they die instantly, not giving me the chance to say goodbye. To apologize for killing them.” He pulls his hand from mine, wiping the sweat on his jeans before bringing it back to grasp my fingers again. “For months and months, every version of that night played out differently in my dreams. It made me crazy. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know what really happened. I still don’t.”

  Oh my God.

  My heart races. My throat stings. My eyes hurt from suppressing tears that beg to fall. Does Mason even know how much we are alike?

  Maybe he would understand.

  I want to comfort him, but the huge lump blocking my airway keeps me from speaking, so all I can do is caress his hand to let him know I’m here. That I’m listening.

  “The lack of sleep wreaked havoc on me and one day I just snapped. I couldn’t live with the guilt anymore. The doctors said I actually went temporarily insane from my chronic insomnia. That’s why they didn’t commit me—well after my mandatory seventy-two hour stay. They gave me anti-anxiety meds that caused me to sleep for two days straight.