The Rose He Killed novel Chapter 123

Chapter 111: Rebuilding Intimacy

Bella POV

The problem with living with someone you were attracted to was that ordinary things stopped being ordinary.

The way he handed me my coffee in the mornings – remembering before I did that I’d switched to one sugar – became a thing I was aware of.

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His habit of working at the dining table in the evenings, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the forearm, became something I had to make a conscious decision not to look at. When he came out of the gym at seven AM damp-haired and half-awake and stood in the kitchen drinking water directly from the glass with no awareness whatsoever of what that looked like, I had to remind myself that I was a grown woman running an international company and not a person undone by forearms.

I was, occasionally, a person undone by forearms.

He wasn’t doing it deliberately – that was the thing that made it worse. Caleb was maintaining the careful, respectful distance he’d promised, giving me space and time and all the room I’d asked for, and his obliviousness to his own effect was somehow more destabilizing than if he’d been trying.

It started with accidental touches, the way things did.

Reaching across to me for Tom’s sippy cup in the morning, his arm brushing my side and both of us going very still for a half-second before he said sorry and moved away. Standing beside me at the kitchen counter looking at homework Tom had dragged home from preschool, his shoulder against mine, neither of us commented on it until Tom demanded we stop looking at his drawings and start admiring them, which broke the moment effectively. In the hallway, passing in opposite directions, the penthouse suddenly not quite wide enough, his hand finding my waist to guide around him and then lifting away like the contact burned.

The stolen kisses were my fault, technically.

The first one happened because he made me laugh-really laugh-over something ridiculous Tom had done with the living room furniture, sorting everything by which dinosaurs would approve most. Caleb said it was so deadpan, so completely serious, that I couldn’t help it. Neaned up and pressed my lips to his cheek, quick and soft, before I even realized what I was doing. Then I stepped back fast. We both stared at different parts of the room for a few seconds.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Don’t be,” he said quietly. That was it. No push, no follow-up. I was grateful.

The second one wasn’t small at all.

We’d just finished putting Tom to bed-the whole routine: story, water, exact blanket tuck he insists on. We came back to the living room, sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, phones in hand, lamps giving off that warm yellow light. Somehow, without saying anything about it, we ended up closer. His arm settled around my shoulders. My legs curled up, feet tucked against his thigh. We pretended to watch whatever was on the TV, but neither of us was really paying attention.

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<Chapter 11 Rebuilding Intimacy

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He turned to say something about the show. I turned at the same time. Our faces were suddenly inches apart. His gaze dropped to my mouth-just for a second-and that was enough.

I closed the distance and kissed him.

It started slowly, deliberately. His hand came up to my jaw right away, holding me there while he kissed me back like he’d been waiting for permission for months. I opened my mouth a little and he took it, tongue sliding against mine, deep and unhurried. A quiet groan slipped out of him when I pressed closer, and that sound went straight through me.

My hands found his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. His free hand slid to my waist, then lower, cupping my ass firmly and pulling me onto his lap in one smooth motion. I straddled him without thinking, knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips. The second my center settled over the hard length of him, I rocked forward instinctively, He was already thick and straining against his pants, and the friction made me gasp into his mouth.

His other hand moved up under my shirt, rough palm sliding over my bare skin until he reached my breast. He cupped it, thumb brushing over my n****e once, twice, then pinching just enough to make me moan against his lips. I arched into his touch, grinding down harder on him, slow circles that dragged the seam of my leggings right over his c**k. He flexed his hips up to meet me, pressing himself tighter against my clit, and the pressure was so good I whimpered again, louder this time.

He broke the kiss long enough to drag his mouth down my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point while his hand squeezed my breast, kneading, rolling the n****e between his fingers until it ached in the best way. I rocked faster, shameless now, chasing that building heat between my legs. His grip on my ass tightened, guiding my movements, helping me grind down exactly where I needed it.

We stayed like that for long minutes-kissing messy and wet, hands everywhere, bodies moving together on the couch like we couldn’t get close enough. My shirt was rucked up, my hips rolling in a rhythm that had us both breathing hard.

The want was so strong I could feel myself getting wet through my leggings, soaking the fabric where I pressed against him. I could keep going. I could reach down, free him, sink onto his c**k right here, let him fill me again the way he had that night.

But then the memories crashed in harder. That first time he’d held me after, whispered stay, and I’d fallen asleep believing it meant something-only to wake up to cold sheets and colder silence or the last time when I’d let rage turn into sex and then turned sex into a weapon by calling it meaningless, I’d hurt him on purpose to keep my walls intact.

I couldn’t do that again. Not like this. Not when his hands were careful, when his eyes stayed on mine, when he waited instead of taking.

Eventually I had to stop.

I pulled back just enough to get air, my hand still flat on his chest, feeling his heart slamming under my palm. His hand stayed in my hair, the other still curved possessively over my ass. We stared at each other in the lamplight, both of us wrecked.

“I’m not ready,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. “For… the rest. I want to be, but I’m not there yet.”

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