Reaper: Devil's Rose MC #1

Chapter 14: Fiona Grace

"Okay, crazy man. Let me go."

He mumbles a soft sorry before dropping me out of his arms. I chat to Slasher, who is one of the nicest men I've met (which makes me not understand the brutal name), and Reaper practically sits on the barstool and stares at me. It's not an uncomfortable stare, I think I like it, but I'm confused on why he feels the need to. 

When Slasher decides it's time for him to go, I can see the tension relax from Reaper's shoulders as the door closes. Oh, goodness. This man is the cutest person I've ever met. His gray eyes blink up at me, and I can feel myself melting at his gaze. 

I climb into his arms as he sits casually on the stool, sliding my legs around his waist so I can straddle him comfortably. Our foreheads lean on each other, my hands sitting on his shoulders, my eyes fluttering closed. 

I move forward as I try to get closer to his body, and his hands tighten their grip on my hips. I tuck my head into his shoulder, feeling the sudden urge to cry. I sniffle before digging my face further into him, my fingers trembling.

"Baby, are you okay?"

"I'm okay, I just...I don't even know."

He doesn't say anything, but holds me tighter, showing me that he's here in case I need him. The beeper on the stove goes off, and in delight but also reluctance, I clamber clumsily off his lap and make my way to the oven. Taking my sweet time, wanting to make sure everything is perfect, I pull the chocolate cake out of the oven. 

Its sugary aroma fills my senses as I place it on the counter to cool. Reaper steps around me to start gathering all the dirty dishes that he asks if he can clean. I make the frosting while he places the dishes in the dishwasher, and something inside me falls in place. Like this is where I'm meant to be. 

Not meaning in the kitchen because, according to the sexist assholes of the world, that's the only place where women belong - which is entirely untrue. What's more, I'm meant to be here with him. This is where I feel most at home. It's as if this apartment is more than just a place to go to sleep at night, it's where I can be with Reaper. 

And I don't even know if that's his real name - honestly, I hope not - but I don't think I would care that much.

His hands wrap around my waist as I whip the frosting together, having to let it sit in the fridge for about ten minutes while the cake cools. He doesn't let go of me even as I place the frosting in the fridge. The soft song the radio plays, our bodies swaying back and forth. 

He spins me out of his arms and back in, and I laugh aloud at his dancing moves. He throws my arms over his shoulders, tucking his hands around my waist, and pulling me close. I feel light kisses on my neck as we sway, his hot breath hitting my skin. 

Goosebumps line my arms, and I know that my heart is racing a mile a minute. His teeth graze my collarbone, surprising me at the intimacy. My hands grip the back of his t-shirt as he trails his touch up my own t-shirt that I bought yesterday. My pelvis brushes with his, the fire of lust burning hotly inside of me. No one, not one person, has made me feel the way he does.

We break apart as the song ends - much to my despair - but I'm willing to do whatever Reaper wants to do. This is his home that I'm impeding on. This is his life that I stumbled into. I don't ever want to make him feel like he's forced to do something with me when he doesn't want to. 

We talk quietly to one another about why he needed to go, and I can't help but laugh at what the emergency situation was. Only Poison would scare the shit out of me because he had a fashion emergency and needed another opinion. 

I smile lazily at him, gliding around him to reach for the frosting in the fridge. Carefully and diligently, I start putting the right amount of frosting on the cooled chocolate cake. His eyes remain on me, my whole body thrumming with intense anticipation. 

I want him. And I want him now. But, with how long we have known each other, I know he wouldn't want to do that with me. He's been much more open, and I'm not saying that he's out of my league cause he's definitely not, but knowing him the way I do, he wouldn't be entirely comfortable doing anything with me. 

He's only let me in his bedroom once and that was because I was too delirious with sleep that I would have even looked around. When I woke up, I was too focused on the noise downstairs than taking a glance about the room.

"Would you want to go somewhere with me today?"

I peer up at him, taking in the curious and slightly apprehensive expression upon his face.

"I'll go somewhere with you."

For the first time since I've met him, he smiles. Actually and genuinely smiles. He has freaking dimples. Oh my gosh, he just gets cuter and way more handsome by the minute. Though I don't mind since I benefit from him being single, it's kind of amazing no one else has snatched him up yet. Besides the fact that he kills people on orders from the President of the motorcycle club he's a part of, he's a dream man. Even with the whole killing thing, he's a dream man.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine on December 14th."

Eight years is not that big of an age difference. In reality, it's pretty freaking sexy. I wonder what it feels like to be with an older, more experienced man. How would he touch me, tease me, kiss me? Would he be rough or soft? What positions would he like the most? How dazzling is his tongue on all the most important places? 

I bet he knows how to treat a woman just right. I'm not going to say that's not what I need because it most certainly is. I know, I know. I shouldn't be thinking about him like that with the little information I do know about him, but I cannot help but feel sexually, physically, mentally, and emotionally attracted to him. 

Everything in me wants to discover everything about him. What he likes and doesn't like - in a variety of situations. What he likes to do in his free time...if he ever gets any. What his childhood was like, does he have siblings, what was he like in high school. I want to know everything. I can only hope that he feels and/or thinks about me in the same way I do him.

His calloused hand reaches for my wrist, pulling the frosting-covered spatula to his mouth. I watch his tongue dart out as he licks at the white, sugary cream. My thighs clench together involuntarily, heat and wetness rushing to my pussy between my trembling thighs. 

His eyes never leave mine, and I wonder if this is what a horny guy or gal feels like when watching someone they find sexy licking at an ice cream cone. Cause I can completely understand why that could make someone a bit turned on. I clear my throat, taking my wrist back from his grip, and stepping away from the finished cake.

"Are you good to go?"

"Yep. Do I need to bring anything?"

His eyes flick up and down my body for a moment like he's deciding whether or not he should say what he's about to say. What it's got to do with my flesh and bones, I have no idea. Finally, with a deep rumbling grumble, he decides what he wants to say. 

"Wear a bathing suit."