Page 44 of Tangled at the Root
“Fuck.” She sobs, her strokes speeding up. Those beautiful brown eyes dart between mine, her pupils nearly completely swallowing her iris. “Oh fuck.” Tears spill down her cheeks. “Oh fuck, Genevieve, oh fuck, oh fuck—”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, omemi, don’t stop.”
“Genevieve.”
She pushes us to the edge again until she’s shaking and whimpering, crying softly. I lick her tears, then kiss her, wanting her to taste how prettily she cries for me. She obediently sucks on my tongue, sobbing into my mouth.
She wants to edge us again, I can tell, but she’s too fucking desperate, her strokes going faster and faster. We’re both so wet, filthy squelching noises only adding to our arousal, my abs and core clenching at the dirty sounds. Our thighs are drenched, coated in slick.
Our hips rock messily, both of us frantically riding each others hands, eyes still locked.
My left hand finds its way underneath her braids, around her throat. I think of how easy it would be to snap her neck, to watch her die while she comes for me.
And Rosemary, love of my life, fucking minx—fuckingdevil, stares unflinchingly into my eyes and whispers, her voice a choked whine, “Take me.Killme.”
I come harder than I ever have in my life, my eyes rolling back into my skull. The hand around Rosemary’s throat clamps down, strangling her shout of pleasure as she comes just as hard, her body shuddering against mine.
The orgasm seems to go on forever, both of us squirming against each other’s thighs, rubbing needily together like we’re trying, ineffectually, to somehow intertwine our very flesh.
When its over, we collapse like our strings have been cut, our crushed bodies the only thing keeping us upright. Our heads drop to the other’s shoulder.
We’re absolutely filthy, covered in sweat and slick and Rosemary’s thick, sticky, drying blood. I lift my head and she does the same, looking up at me, a small, smug smile of pure pleasure and satisfaction curving her lips.
“I love you.” The words escape without permission, having been too long denied.
Rosemary’s entire body melts, her expression going soft, almost dopey. “I love you, too.”
I am never letting her go ever again.
13: ONLY EVER YOU
We end up, at Rosemary’s insistence, back behind her protective barrier. The house had helped by transferring the mattress in the guest bedroom to the middle of the sitting room, all the chairs and tables pushed against the walls.
She’d been a little lightheaded, after; I’d kissed the taste of the sticky toffee from her mouth, licking hungrily inside like I’ve been dying to do probably since the first time I’d watched her eat it.
I never want to leave this house. I never want to leave her embrace. I’m so afraid this is some kind of cruel dream.
She’s given us a cursory clean with the eshé and we’re now entirely naked, cuddling. I’m lying on my back, propped up on the pillows, with Rosemary snuggled up on top of my chest. My right arm is wrapped underneath and around her, my palmcupping her shoulder, fingers stroking her soft skin. Her right arm is curled around my midriff, her thick right leg flung across my thighs.
We need to talk about what she’d said earlier, about the dagbato not being here. My grandmother had been mistaken. Or she’d lied. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the latter. If she’s anything like my mother—a part of me, for some reason, feels she might be worse—then she definitely has some hidden agenda she wants neither Rosemary nor I to be aware of.
If there’s no dagbato, then who—or what—had killed Rosemary?
Who—or what—had killed my motherandmy grandmother?
I push the thoughts away for now. I want to enjoy this, having Rosemary pressed against me, skin to skin, for the first time. She seems pretty confident about the strength of her wards, so I trust we’ll be safe as long as we stay inside it.
My head has never been so blissfully quiet. The missing ache of the hunger has me feeling almost bereft.
I’m full—completely satiated for the first time in my life, which means this rising desire to push Rosemary onto her back, to watch her willingly die for me again is coming entirely fromme.
“We’re not doing that again,” I say, managing, by some miracle, to conceal my fear. My ugly desire.
Rosemary twists her head to look up at me, her expression morphing with hurt and betrayal. “What?”
“No. Not—not this. I mean …” I swallow as my body betrays me, filling my mouth with saliva at even thinking the sentence—of saying the words “kill” and “you” next to each other. “I don’t think I can kill you again.”
“Oh.”
