Under the Rose

“When,” he began in a teasing tone, “did you get that lovely bit of ink on your backside?”

My hand flew to the waist of my low-rise jeans. Oh, right. There, framed perfectly by the top of the fuchsia lace thong I’d do

“I love it,” he whispered. “More than the other girls.” And with that enigmatic statement, his hand slipped around my torso and he traced the spot with his thumb. “Why the hell have you been hiding it all fall?” He shifted and arched his head over my shoulder until he could see my back.

“I haven’t been hiding it,” I replied. “You just haven’t been looking in the right places.”

“I concur.” He spread out his palm, flat against my back. “I’ve been woefully ignorant of all your right places.” And there it was, just a tiny touch of pressure, and I listed forward against his chest. He buried his face in my hair. “You look amazing today, ’boo.”

Brandon hadn’t thought so. Oh, irony of ironies that now the clothes I wore for my ex enticed the man responsible for screwing up the relationship in the first place. But that and other thoughts soon fled. How did George manage to do this? He was barely touching me—just the one hand against the small of my back and his jaw against my cheek—but I felt dizzy with anticipation. My hands went out to grasp the shelves, and I felt the unmistakable ridged metal of a coffee can.

Right. Coffee. Oh, hell, who needed coffee when I could just stand here and drink in the pheromones of George Harrison Prescott? My skin burned. If he would just shift slightly, if he would just move the hand he had anchored against my back, if he would just make the slightest gesture at all, I’d be his in a flash.

But he stood there, holding me, breathing deeply, his body almost, but not quite, touching mine.

Your move, Amy.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” I said at last. Because I’m a chicken.

“Those things you said last night at your C.B.,” said Puck, as if I’d never spoken. And now his hand began to move, ever so slowly, down over my jeans-encased butt. “I sat there and listened to you talk about all those boys you were with—”

“All those?” I said on a breath. “You should talk.”

He chuckled against my skin, and it felt like lightning. “Fine. That moderate number of boys you were with. And you know what I thought?”

Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me.

I heard boots on the steps.

“Caffeine withdrawal is not a pretty picture, Buga—” Je

Crap. Crap crap crappity crap. I dropped my head back against the shelf as George pulled away from me. “I wish she hadn’t seen that.”

“Why? Might do her some good.”

I bit my lip. “No, you don’t get it. Earlier today I saw her arguing with her boyfriend.”

Puck raised an eyebrow. “Luck’s got a boyfriend? That’s impressive.”

“Not if you saw the boyfriend. He’s a slimeball. He was being a total jerk to her and I’d just broken down that little shell of hers and convinced her to let me talk to her about it when you…”

“When I what?” Puck asked. “She acts like I did something to her personally. Always has.”

“She doesn’t approve of you.”

“So? I don’t approve of her, but I’ve never been mean.” His jaw was doing that tight thing again and I wanted to kiss away the tension. “Whatever. I am who I am, and she’s not the first person who has decided to judge me for it. There are plenty of people who hate me just for being a Prescott. My name is on a building down the street, and there’s no way to escape that. People like Lucky will decide I’m evil for breathing their air, and there’s no way to escape that, either.”

“Don’t worry what she thinks. She disapproves of all of us, I’m pretty certain.”

“That wasn’t quite the ringing endorsement I was looking for,” he said, pouting.

“Sorry,” I said. “What would you prefer? ‘Why, Puck, how could anyone dislike you? You’re a veritable icon of sexual power!’?”

“That’s more like it. I’m used to being one of two things: a Prescott or a player.”

According to your mother, it’s one and the same. But I bit my lip to keep from saying that out loud, and pushed him away. “Trust me here, the last thing Lucky needed to see right now was me getting cozy with a guy.” Especially a guy like George. “She’s going through a rough time.” I walked past him to the door of the kitchen, but Je

“And regardless of how she treats you, you’re going to help her?”

He didn’t know the half of it. If my hunch was correct, Je

He looked back at the stairs. “Fine. I’ll leave you to your prior engagement, however ill-advised I think it is. I make a habit of not going out of my way to be nice to people who don’t return the favor.”

“So a lot of people are nice to you, then?” I teased.

“And in return, I’m excessively nice to them.” He leaned toward me and put his mouth near my ear. “The next time I see you, Bugaboo, we are picking up where we left off. No more waiting.”

I’d heard a similar sentiment earlier today. Fu

It was a promise he didn’t get a chance to fulfill for quite some time. Okay, several days. Okay, two. But, trust me, when you’re waiting to have George Harrison Prescott’s hands on your body, time passes very, very slowly. (Especially given that it had also been two days since Je

And so it happened that one evening I was sitting at my favorite study spot, the window seat in the tomb’s Grand Library, looking out at the moonlit courtyard. Co

Ever since Monday, being present at the tomb usually meant an automatic conscription into Josh’s latest campaign to appease the patriarchs and find the traitor before he caused a permanent break between the club and its most devoted supporters. We hadn’t gotten much further in our search, as Je