Stealing Rose
Page 15

I get out of the shower and dry off quick, changing into a T-shirt and sweats before I exit the bathroom, glancing into an open door to find Whitney lying on top of her bed. Completely naked.
Shit.
“Whit.” I stay in the doorway, my already spent cock half-heartedly rousing when she rolls over onto her back and spreads her legs, offering me a special view. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” She smiles, her hand trailing down to play between her legs. “I’ve missed you, Caden. I don’t know what else I can do to get that through your head.”
“Jesus, woman.” I drop my duffel just inside her bedroom by the door. I don’t want to stay in her bed. I don’t want her to get any ideas. “Let me get some sleep first.”
“No.” She sits up, scrambling to her knees, her expression fierce. “I thought by you staying with me, this was the sort of arrangement we would have. Am I wrong?” Hell. I didn’t think this through. I should’ve known Whitney would have expectations. Women are a pleasant distraction, one I haven’t indulged in for a long time. But I hadn’t planned on playing boyfriend/girlfriend with Whitney for the next few weeks.
I wish had a male friend who lived in London.
Deciding to hell with it, slowly I approach the bed, tearing off my shirt before I join her. “You’re not wrong,” I tell her, lying through my teeth. “But you want me at my best, right?”
She runs her hands over my chest before sliding one beneath the waistband of my sweats. “I want you any way I can get you. I’m horny. I’ve missed your dick.”
“What’s up with you? You’re not usually so—needy.” I choke the last word out when she wraps her fingers tight around my cock and starts to stroke.
“It’s been a while. Had a bad breakup a few months ago and no one has interested me since.” She’s pushing my sweatpants off, her fingers never leaving my cock as she continues to stroke.
“You had a boyfriend?” I’m surprised. We were always on the same page when it came to relationships. As in, we didn’t believe in them.
Shrugging, she removes her hands from my body and leans back against the headboard, suddenly looking vulnerable. “I thought we were in a relationship. Clearly I was wrong.”
“That’s where you made your first mistake.” The moment the words are said, I know I definitely made a mistake. She sends me a deathly glare, curling her arms in front of her chest as if she can ward me off.
“Maybe you should sleep in the guest room,” she says sullenly, kicking out her foot so she’s nudging my knee. Hard. “For now.”
Ha. Well, that worked and I didn’t even mean it to. “I’m sorry, Whit.” I grab my shirt and pull it back on. Whitney Banks is a spoiled little princess who always gets what she wants. So when she’s denied something, she lashes out. Sometimes physically. She slapped my face one time years ago and we got into a drunken shouting match.
“Ugh. Whatever. Don’t apologize. You’re probably right.” She pokes me in the thigh with her big toe, then scoots her leg away from me. She’s not inviting me back to her bed and I’m okay with that.
I get off the bed and go to grab my bag. She doesn’t say a word and neither do I, though I see her watching me, the scowl on her face unmistakable. Just as I’m about to make my way to the guest room, Whitney speaks up. “I’m going to dinner tonight with a group of friends. Care to join me?”
“That sounds good.” I glance at her from over my shoulder. “You don’t mind if I go?”
“Of course not. I’m sure my friends will love you. We’re going to a pub. I hope you like fish and chips?” She makes a little face.
“Do you like fish and chips?” I chuckle, thankful her anger seems to have evaporated quickly. Her rapid-fire moods can make my head spin and I want things easy between us, not a twisted-up, uncomfortable mess.
“Not really. The food here isn’t that great. I eat my way through Manhattan every time I go back to visit.”
The conversation goes on like this until I yawn and she shoos me away to take a nap. She’s still naked, not embarrassed in the least. I would never describe Whitney as modest. The girl had a wild streak when we were younger and she was always tearing off her clothes back in the day.
I open the guest room door and glance around in horror. There are shopping bags and shoe boxes everywhere. All from expensive stores or top designers, most of them are empty. It looks like this room has become Whitney’s closet—or more like her post-shopping dumping ground.
Pushing the empty bags off the bed and onto the floor, I leave my duffel bag on a nearby chair and then pull the comforter back, sliding in between the cool sheets with a contented sigh.
I’ve been on the go for months. Constantly tense, working every angle I have, and it finally paid off. Mom is financially secure for the rest of the year. I have cash in my pocket. I’m in London, where I can probably gain more pickups and possibly pay for a solid year of Mom’s bills. I wonder if she has a clue where I’m getting my money.
Probably not, I think as I drift off. And that’s for the best.
“We’re really going to take the Tube?” I sound like a whiner, but I’d rather take a fucking taxi than deal with London’s subway system in the early evening. I know it’ll be crowded with nine-to-fivers going home after a long, miserable day stuck behind their desks.