Pink and soft
Damp and warm
My pretty little rose
Is my home
I cradle her close
Give her exactly what she needs
And when I’m finished
I’m the one who’s pleased
My entire body is warm. I know what he’s referring to. God, he’s terrible.
In the absolute, most wonderful way a terrible person can be.
“Owen.” I study the words before me, can feel his gaze on me. “This is …”
“Pretty good, huh? I’m not much of a poet and I’m definitely not a rhyming one, but I came up with this last night and I thought it was close. Not perfect rhyming but close enough, you know?”
I remain silent as I read the poem again. And again. On the surface, the words are seemingly innocent.
“Yeah, I was actually doing homework on my own last night after practice. Can you believe it?” I can hear the pride in his voice and I read his words yet again, lingering on the part where he calls his little rose his home.
Does he really feel that way? About me?
“It’s very good.” I finally feel brave enough to look up at him. He’s leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, with a very pleased look on his handsome face.
“I thought so.” He smiles, resting his linked hands on his chest. “You figure out what it’s about yet?”
“Of course I have. I’m not dumb.”
“Never said you were.” His smile grows. “I’m starting to think you’re my muse, Chels. My inspiration.”
My cheeks turn as pink as the rose lying before me. “Don’t you think your teacher will figure what this is about, too? And maybe be offended?”
“I don’t care.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of fun, writing about such … personal things.”
I want to both slug him and kiss him.
He sits up, pulls another sheet of paper out of the folder, and then slides it across the table toward me. “Read this one. I wrote it weeks ago.”
She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.
I vow to win her over with my touch.
Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens only for me …
Caressing her, I bring her close.
So close.
Sending her over the edge.
Until I’ve completely destroyed her.
Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.
All by my hand.
And now she’s become everything.
To me.
“I had a couple of poem assignments,” he explains, sounding so matter-of-fact while my mind is racing. He’s writing about what’s happening between us, the most intimate moments we’ve shared, and he’s documenting them, immortalizing them. “One could be in whatever format we preferred. And the other one had to rhyme. I don’t know which one I like better. I think they’re both pretty f**king awesome.”
“You said you wrote this one weeks ago?” I study him.
“Uh, yeah.” He finally has the decency to look sheepish. “That night you came over to help me and we had Chinese for dinner.”
“But we hadn’t even …” Kissed? Touched? Nothing had really happened between us at that point.
“I have a very vivid imagination.” The grin fades. His eyes darken, and this cloak of intensity seems to fall over him, the two of us, leaving me breathless. “What happened between us a couple of nights ago, I feel like that poem you just read describes it perfectly. Maybe I can predict the future, I don’t know. I sound like I’m crazy.”
Oh. My. I can’t even talk, let alone form thoughts. What is happening between us? Only a few days ago I was devastated, thinking he wanted us to be just friends. Now he’s writing poetry about our blossoming sex life and looking at me like he wants to tear my clothes off and have his way with me on the table.
“Say you’re coming over tonight, Chels. Maybe we can do a few more things that’ll inspire me to write.” The grin is back, infectious and so cute I can’t help but smile back at him.
“Fine. I’ll come over.” I try to sound all put out, but we both know I’m the biggest liar ever.
I’m dying to go over to his house and spend time with him. Alone.
“You’ll be coming all night if you’re lucky,” he murmurs and I blink at him, shocked, yet not at his words.
“What did you say?” I want him to repeat it. Confirm that I really did hear that.
“Nothing.” He puts on an innocent look, one that is so full of it, I want to reach out and smack him. Then pull him in close to me and kiss him. “Can you help me with my English? I have a test tomorrow.”
How can I say no? After all, I’m still his tutor.
His girlfriend.
His rose.
His home.
Owen
I’m happy. The f**king happiest I’ve been in a long time, if ever. School is good. Football is good. I lightened my work schedule because holy shit, I couldn’t take how heavy it was. I need at least a couple of free hours during the week so I can freaking relax.
And I plan on spending every one of those free hours with Chelsea.
I’m home, kicking it on the couch watching TV with Wade and waiting for Chelsea to come over. She sent a text about fifteen minutes ago, letting me know she’d be over in a half hour and she was bringing dinner.
Considering my stomach is growling and I’m anxious as all hell to see her, I hope she gets here soon.
“Des said the two of you argued,” Wade says conversationally; his tone is light, but I know he’s digging for information.
“Yeah.” I shrug. I’ve got no major information to give. “It was no big deal. More like me telling him I’m sick of him mooching off of us.”
“He’s not a mooch and you know it, dude. He provides us with all the weed we could ever want, and sometimes he even brings beer. What more could we want from him?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t like having a drug dealer always hanging out at my house,” I mutter, irritated I’m having this conversation again. “He f**king deals here, Wade. I won’t have it. Not anymore. And I already went over all this with Des. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“So you don’t want him hanging out here anymore.” Wade doesn’t phrase it as a question. In fact, he sounds pretty pissed.
Great.
“I never said that. It’s just … I’m trying to clean up my image.” The guilt of messing around with Chelsea while high still hangs over my head. “After all the trouble I’ve been in lately, I don’t want to have that kind of thing around here anymore. I need to watch out.”