Authors: Lacey Alexander
She wasn’t sure if her ass tingled and her breasts suddenly ached because he sounded
so aroused or because the reminder excited her, too. She knew only that she grew more
uncomfortable with this conversation by the moment. “That’s . . . not how I am,” she
claimed. “How I’ve ever been. I . . . I . . .”
Have no explanation
. And her own voice sounded thicker, heavier to her now.
“But it’s how you want to be with
me,
and I like it.”
She started to protest, but he clamped a hand around her ankle to stop her and she
quieted instantly.
“Once you get past the part about giving in, giving up your precious control,
that’s how you want to be with me, and you know it.
So don’t argue.”
April just lay there, propped on the throw pillows behind her, looking at him, trying
to weigh all this. Had she stopped disputing it because she knew it was true and she
couldn’t win? Or because . . . even in this moment, the second he turned a little
dominant again, she wanted, deep inside, to submit to him? There had been something
so . . . strangely comforting in the midst of all that emotional turmoil during the
sex to just, at moments, get his approval, to just be told she was a good girl.
And that’s when it hit her. She’d missed out on so much of that, that feeling of pleasing
someone who influenced her, of being coddled, adored, of being someone’s little girl.
Even before her parents’ death, she’d always been the oldest one, the responsible
one, the one who helped with her sisters and did the chores and kept all the plates
of childhood so neatly, perfectly balanced. She could barely remember a time when
she’d felt that kind of simple, pleasing approval—and even when she had, there hadn’t
been enough because it had been stolen from her too soon.
April continued saying nothing, caught up in her own startling revelation—and feeling
like a cliché. She’d always thought she was so mature, that she had it all so very
together—when in fact she apparently had her own hidden demons, too, just like most
people. The truth was, she’d thought she was above all that, above the mental maladies
other people dealt with, above the emotional baggage so many women—like Kayla Gonzalez—carried
around. She didn’t like finding out she was wrong.
“You deal with a lot of high-pressure shit on a day-to-day basis, don’t you?” he asked
her then.
She weighed the question. Working to defend corporations whose practices were sometimes
hard to support—in a court of law and even in her own head? Doing pro bono work on
the side for women who were usually deeply troubled in one way or another? Taking
care of Gram with little help? Taking care of two sisters who were both old enough
to take care of themselves but often couldn’t? Yeah, she guessed that would qualify
as high-pressure shit. “I suppose.”
Now he began lightly rubbing her ankle, replacing the tight grip of a moment ago with
the mere graze of his fingertips, up and back, up and back. The gentle touch seemed
to reach all the way up her leg and to her pussy.
“Tell me,” he said.
About the pressure, he meant. And one part of her wanted to refuse—since, after all,
he’d told her nothing and she owed him nothing. But another part of her—that strange,
foreign, docile part he’d just uncovered a little while ago—felt . . . almost obligated
to respond to his quiet command.
She bit her lip, thinking through it. “Well, corporate law is pretty high-pressure
by nature because the stakes are always big. Financially. And even in terms of people
keeping their jobs, companies staying afloat. So the outcome counts. And it comes
with a lot of long hours. Plus I do some pro bono work, like for Kayla Gonzalez.
“And then there’s my Gram—she doesn’t get around very well anymore, and a lot of her
care falls to me. And sometimes my sister Allison needs help with her toddlers—she’s
not a bad person, but she can be flighty and maybe a little self-centered. And my
youngest sister, Amber, lives with me—she’s a budding artist without much of a real
job, and she’s very into dating and socializing right now, so she’s not a lot of help
with things.”
“Wait a minute,” Rogan said. “The part about your job and your grandma, I understand.
But your sisters. They’re both grown-ups, right?”
She nodded. “Amber is twenty-five and Allison is twenty-nine.”
“Um, then I think they’re old enough to take care of themselves. And their kids. And
to pull their own weight.”
She shrugged, trying to be light about it. “Well, just because they’re old enough
to doesn’t mean they do.”
“Not if you do everything for them, no. I mean, I don’t know you well enough to know
the situation, but I do know it’s not right when all the responsibility falls to one
person. Maybe you should seriously consider not coming to their rescue so much, you
know?”
Hmm. How did he know it was like that—that she came to their rescue all the time?
Was it that obvious even with the very few facts she’d given him? And the truth was . . .
“I try to, sometimes, but it’s difficult. When they need my help and I have the ability
to give it, it’s hard to say no. It’s hard when you feel like the parent, and like . . .”
She stopped, sighed. “Like maybe you didn’t do a good enough job.”
“But being the parent
wasn’t
your job.”
She knew that, of course. “But it’s not their fault they ended up without a mom and
dad.” And she still wasn’t completely comfortable discussing this, but . . .
well, if I can have that kind of sex with the guy, surely I can also . . . put myself
out there with him a little.
“I’m the oldest,” she went on, “so when my parents died, that made me the head of
the family. Someone had to take on the role, like it or not. And no, it wasn’t easy.
I . . . feel like I lost most of my youth to it, and I probably missed out on a lot
of the fun things teenage girls get to do. But those are the cards life dealt me—to
look out for my sisters and be there for them when no one else was. And so . . . if
they can’t face life responsibly, I have to help them.”
“What if you didn’t?” he asked.
And, oddly, it was something she’d seldom thought about. In random moments of frustration
perhaps, but not seriously. So now she did. “I . . . I don’t know. But I guess the
end result is . . . their lives would become harder. And so . . . they ultimately
wouldn’t be happy. And I value their happiness.”
“More than your own?”
God, how had this happened? How had he become so enmeshed in her personal life in
less than two minutes?
You let him. By answering his questions. By wanting to please him by doing so.
Ugh, that was so weird. “I don’t know,” she said, thinking the question over, and
again answering honestly. “Maybe.”
When he next spoke, his voice came out surprisingly gentle. “That’s why you like it,
April.”
“Huh?” she mumbled absently. Because he’d continued rubbing her ankle, all this time.
And it felt so softly, sweetly good. It somehow made her feel . . . appreciated. Cared
for. Valued. And maybe even a little bit adored, though possibly that was taking it
too far.
“That’s why you like giving up control to me when you let yourself,” he explained,
still gliding his fingers ever so lightly back and forth, back and forth. “You spend
the rest of your time taking care of other people, making big decisions, having everybody
turn to you to handle everything. But with me, you’re able to just let go, not think,
let me make the decisions, let me take care of it all and make you feel good.” His
voice got deeper for the last part and she felt the words as much as heard them, squarely
between her thighs.
And she’d read about that, of course, or maybe seen something on TV about it. In particular,
she recalled a cable news story about high-level executive men who wanted dominatrices
to treat them like babies or small, misbehaving children—and it seemed to her there’d
been other examples that sounded equally freaky and disgusting to her.
And yet . . . she supposed this made perfect sense.
Which turned her into an even bigger cliché.
“I’m a cliché,” she murmured softly, a bit dumbfounded. “I’m . . . I’m a classic case
for any wannabe psychologist. How did I miss this? How did I not see it?” She shook
her head. The realization made her feel small. “I always thought I was . . . so much
more.”
“You
are
more,” he told her, sounding so amazingly sure that, even coming from this man she
didn’t know very well, it restored a bit of her confidence. “It’s only one tiny piece
of you. It’s just the part of you that needs to be taken care of a little, the same
way
you
take care of everybody else in your life. You don’t have to let it diminish you,
babe.”
God, he sounded so smart suddenly. Like he’d thought this through. And understood
it much better than she did. She usually felt so . . . pigeonholed by people she met.
They saw her as the practical, responsible, no-nonsense attorney. Or the woman who
had been hardened by losing her parents in adolescence. Seldom, this quickly, did
she feel anyone new in her life looking beyond those simple facts about her. Maybe
there was more to him than she’d begun to think—even if the afghan she lay beneath
had
only come from a random neighbor.
And since he was so smart, she did the next obvious-seeming thing at the moment, asking
him, “So what am I supposed to do about it?”
At this, his fingers stilled on her ankle, and he slid his warm palm slowly up the
inside of her calf as his dark eyes widened seductively, knowingly, on her. “You let
me keep taking care of you. Like I did tonight.”
She bit her lower lip, appalled and . . . so bizarrely, strangely tempted that she
barely recognized her own mind. It suddenly felt difficult to be comfortable within
her own brain. “I . . . don’t know if I can,” she told him. She wasn’t even exactly
fighting him—but again, he kept drawing honesty from her, even when she wasn’t sure
it was in her best interest.
But he only replied, “
I
know you can.
I
know you want to.”
She drew in a shaky breath, let it back out. And again found herself stumped on how
to reply. Another strange feeling. She was a strong, sturdy, professional woman. She
knew how to have conversations with people. She was seldom stuck for a response. Except
with Rogan Wolfe.
When he suddenly lifted his legs over her and stood up from the couch, it took her
aback. Were they done here? Just like that? Could she finally get dressed? She simply
didn’t know how these games worked. Or if . . . they were really games.
The small purse she’d carried in with her had fallen forgotten by the front door,
but now she watched as Rogan picked it up and brought it back to the couch. Handing
it down to her, he said, “Get out your phone.”
And again, like some unorthodox robot version of herself, she did as he instructed.
He took the phone from her hand without asking, and when he sat back down at the end
of the couch and began pushing buttons, she said, “What are you doing?”
“Putting my number in.”
Oh. Okay. That wasn’t terrible at this point, she supposed.
But then a moment later a different cell phone rang and her eyes were drawn to the
coffee table, where his own had lain unnoticed all this time. When he scooped it up
and took a glance, she caught sight of her own cell number on the screen. He’d called
himself from her phone to get it—probably knowing she’d still be hesitant to supply
it willingly. And despite everything they’d done together now, she wasn’t at all sure
how she felt about him having it.
Her
having
his
number was one thing—but him having hers was another.
After pushing a few buttons on his phone, he said, “There. Now we can get in touch
with each other.” Then he glanced her way. “If you want me, honey, just call me. Anytime.
And if you don’t, well . . . I know when
I
want
you,
and when I let you know, you’ll come to me.”
Chapter 11
L
ike before, she suffered that same strange, almost numb feeling from earlier, during
foreplay and sex. Even if she thought
foreplay
sounded like far too light and simple a term for the things they’d been doing. She
felt acquiescent and light-headed, almost like being drunk. On him. It was as if the
mere words he’d just spoken had turned her that way.
She couldn’t answer. But that meant no denial or protest just as much as it meant
no agreement. She simply lay there, taking it in—and wondering if it was true. Would
she come back to him if he beckoned? Had he brainwashed her somehow? She knew he really
hadn’t, of course, but she still couldn’t understand the bizarre urge to please him,
to obey him, that kept coming over her.
“You can go now,” he told her.
And it was like . . . class being dismissed. Like someone with authority over her
had just released her, restored the freedom she’d temporarily surrendered. And, like
the puppet she seemed to have become for him tonight, only now did she sit up, holding
the afghan over her chest, to begin looking for her clothes.
A few seconds later, still next to her on the couch, Rogan held her panties out to
her between thumb and finger. For some reason, her eyes lifted quickly to his and
their shared gaze was an unspoken reminder that they’d just fucked. Fucked. It was
getting easier to think of it like that. It didn’t sound as dirty anymore. Except
maybe in a good way, in a way that reminded her how animalistic it had been at times,
and how powerfully, wildly connected she had felt to him in those moments.
Glad she’d just happened to be wearing a cute pair of blue undies with a little lace
at the edges, she took them from him and then withdrew her gaze to begin slipping
them on, pulling them up under the afghan. As for why she still felt so modest right
now, she couldn’t say. But maybe it was about . . . just feeling so very exposed in
so many ways. She wasn’t used to that—at all.
She grabbed up her capri pants and put them on as well. Her bra had never come totally
off, so she’d long since adjusted it back into place, and only when Rogan got back
up to fetch her peasant top did she let the afghan drop away.
“Hold your arms up,” he said, and she raised her glance to see him with the top gathered
between both hands, ready to put it on her as if she were a little girl who needed
help getting dressed. And while one part of her wanted to balk at that, the greater
part of her just . . . kept on surrendering, in more ways than one, by lifting her
arms.
He silently slid the top down over her head, her arms going into the short sleeves,
and she then pulled it down the rest of the way. Next came the sandals she’d worn,
which had gotten kicked off at some point, probably around the time her pants had
been removed. Rogan now picked them up, one by one, and slipped them onto her feet.
After that, he took her hands, pulling her gently up off the couch, then kept hold
of one of them as she picked up her purse—the phone back inside it now—and led her
to the door.
Once there, she was about to say goodbye—less anxious to escape than before but still
aware that being alone after all this would feel like a relief—when Rogan moved his
hands to her waist and began kissing her senseless, just like when she’d first arrived.
She couldn’t resist, didn’t even try—her arms looped around his neck of their own
accord and she accepted his passionate kisses, sank into them, drank them into her
apparently still-hungry body, letting them fill her senses with still more of him.
She couldn’t deny that she loved the feel of his mouth on hers, loved the deliciousness
of being desired by him, and that she even equally delighted in finally accepting
how much she wanted him, too. It was good to kiss him with a little . . . joy in her
soul about it.
Of course, that joy was short-lived. Because kissing was one thing—and as she came
to feel a little closer to him, a little less like he was a stranger—it made sense
to enjoy his kisses. But what had taken place here, what
kept
taking place between them, was far more complex than kissing. And even as one part
of her wanted to just keep on giving in, keep on accepting the bizarreness of it,
another part of her still instinctively rebelled. And as the kisses finally ended
and their eyes met, her palms pressed to his chest and his on her shoulders, she felt
almost dizzy from the conflicting feelings.
When Rogan let go of her, reaching down to open the door, it was both a relief and
a disappointment. “I’ll talk to you soon, April.”
A wave of uncertainty rose in her chest. “I’m not sure—”
“I’ll talk to you soon,” he repeated firmly, cutting her off.
And she knew he would.
* * *
R
ogan stood on the fanciest patio he’d ever seen. Laid in stone, it was sunken, circled
with a curving rock wall to match, and it looked out on one of the intercoastal waterways
and the mansions on the other side. Most of the partygoers at the soiree he was attending
were indoors because it was hot out, even now that the sun had set, but the house
was too fancy for Rogan’s comfort. He wasn’t easily or often intimidated, but the
moment he’d set foot inside this place he’d had the paranoid fear that he was going
to break something really expensive. He was pretty sure that even the wineglass he
was drinking from would cost the better part of his weekly paycheck. And he’d rather
have a beer anyway.
“Hey, dude, why ya hangin’ out here by yourself?”
He looked up to find his buddy Colt at his right elbow. After leaving traditional
law enforcement not long after their H.O.T. training together, Texas-born Colt had
headed south from Michigan to Miami and had not only established himself as a high-priced
bodyguard but also built a lucrative security company in the bargain. Which meant
he sometimes hobnobbed with rich people—and snagged invitations to swanky parties
like the one he’d dragged Rogan to tonight.
“Eh, not really my scene,” Rogan replied, jerking his head slightly toward the enormous
home behind him.
“Since when?” Colt asked, laughing.
And Rogan realized the question made sense. This wasn’t the first lavish shindig Colt
had brought him to since he’d moved down here, and he’d never balked at them before.
Oh, he’d found the people just as pretentious and plastic, and the decor just as ostentatious
and overdone, but he’d still stood around enjoying himself as much as possible. And
the fact was, big money bought a lot of fake boobs and well-done nose jobs which,
even if not real, often created women worth looking at. So what was different about
tonight?
“I don’t know, man—I don’t mean to knock your friends,” he said, giving his head a
slight shake.
But Colt laughed that off, too. “They’re not my friends, they’re my clients—there’s
a difference. But most of ’em aren’t bad people. A hot little redhead I was talkin’
to even asked about you—saw you come in with me.”
“Yeah?” Of course, this piqued his interest and even perked his dick to life a little,
unexpectedly. But then again, his dick had been pretty damn perky lately on its own—every
time any thought of April Pediston came to mind. Hell, even a commercial for a law
firm on TV last night had aroused him some—which made him feel ridiculous inside,
but he still couldn’t deny it. So he doubted his reaction was as much about some hot
redhead inside as it was about the redhead he’d bound and fucked on Saturday night.
“You should come say hi,” Colt suggested.
And Rogan weighed the opportunity in his mind. “I probably should,” he agreed. Because
what he and Ginger shared was . . . a wild chemistry that led to some very satisfying
kinky sex, but they had nothing in common. He wasn’t even sure she liked being around
him when they weren’t kissing or fucking. So what he had with her . . . well, it was
compelling and he sure as hell wasn’t done with it yet—but he didn’t want to get too
wrapped up in it. And getting a hard-on over a commercial for some ambulance chaser
in a bad suit made him feel a little too fucking wrapped up. Maybe a distraction would
be good.
And yet . . . even without seeing the woman in question, there was something inside
him that just . . . didn’t want to. Didn’t want to meet her, didn’t want to flirt
with her, just didn’t want to go there, period. “But don’t know if I’m in the mood.”
“This about the lawyer chick?” Colt asked, eyes narrowed, sandy-haired head tilted
skeptically.
He’d given his buddy a brief rundown of the situation on the way here, but he’d thought
he’d sounded more casual about it. Like sharing locker room talk. So now he only shrugged.
“Nah—she’s too different from me for it to go anywhere. It’s just good sex.”
“You sure, dude? Because hey, far be it from me to make somethin’ out of nothin’,
but . . .”
“But what?”
“But . . . I don’t know, you sounded . . . into her when you were tellin’ me about
her.”
“I
am
into her. But not like in a ready-to-get-serious way. I’m just . . . into what happens
when we’re together. It’s like . . . something fucking ignites, man.” He felt that
something tightening his groin now, just thinking about it.
“See? That’s what I mean. And it’s not what you’re sayin’, it’s the way you say it.
The sound in your voice. The look in your eye. Like she’s somethin’ special.”
But Rogan automatically shook his head. “Nope, it’s not like that. Like I keep telling
you.”
In response, Colt pointed toward the French doors he’d exited through. “Then come
on in and meet Skylar. She’s got a rockin’-hot body and she’s wearin’ a real tight
little white dress that shows it off nice.”
Rogan forced a grin and told his friend, “Like I said, just not into it tonight.”
Colt’s look grew more lascivious and his Texas drawl even a bit more pronounced when
he said, “What if I told ya she’s got a tall, sexy brunette friend named Shana, and
she said they’d pretty much gotten in an argument over you? And then she giggled all
hot and naughty and said they’d decided they might just have to share ya. Whole lotta
bedrooms in this house, bro. And this is Shana’s daddy’s mansion and he’s not home.”
Given all this new information, Rogan looked up. “Are you shittin’ me?”
“Nope. Just hadn’t got around to that part yet is all.”
Rogan thought back to times he’d shared a woman with another guy, and even with more
than one guy. And it had been hot as hell. But he’d never been with two women, which
was, of course, what every man
really
dreamed of. And if these chicks were as gorgeous as Colt said, maybe he should consider
seeing where this led.
After all, hadn’t he been telling himself that one-night stands were still just fine?
Hadn’t losing Mira reminded him that hot, easy fun was a lot better than searing pain
and heartache? But the fact was—he was already veering from that plan with April,
at least a little. And maybe he was getting a little too obsessed with how hot things
were between them. So maybe this would be just the thing to take the edge off—and
live out a fantasy at the same time.
Just then, the door opened and a cute redhead in a short white dress peeked out. Her
cleavage rose practically to her neck and her tits looked all too luscious, nipples
poking prominently through the fabric. She flashed him a come-hither smile, then licked
her lips.
“Come on, man,” Colt said under his breath. “Don’t be an idiot. Come on inside and
meet Skylar and Shana.”
But the strange thing was—he wasn’t even tempted. He didn’t know why. It was just
like he’d told Colt—he wasn’t in the mood. Which was weird, because he
loved
sex. He loved everything about it. So no matter how he looked at it, he should be
very turned on right now. And he just . . . wasn’t.
He slapped Colt on the back. “Why don’t you go talk to them instead. Tell ’em I’m
being an ass and maybe get
yourself
in between ’em. I think I’m gonna finish this glass of swill and head on home. Shift
starts early tomorrow morning.”
* * *
A
pril walked along the shore of South Beach after dark, listening and watching as the
waves washed in and out, in and out. She carried her sandals in one hand, fingers
looped through the heel straps. She made a silent game of walking close to the water
on the flat, packed-down sand created by the tidal ebb and flow, but she never let
her feet get wet as the waves continued foaming in and out.
She hadn’t taken a walk on the beach at night in . . . probably years. But it had
been a hell of a day and she’d just felt the need to do something different, something
to get away from her life. Amber, a beach bunny of the highest order, often reminded
her that she never took advantage of living so near the ocean, and just a few days
ago she’d at least
thought
about walking up the shore—even if she’d ended up going to Rogan’s place instead.
So tonight she’d decided a walk in the sand might relax her.
And the sound of the rushing tide, along with the soft, cool sand on her feet, was
indeed soothing on some level. But the day’s stresses still played in her mind.
Mostly it was work stuff piling up on her. She and her associate, Tom, weren’t seeing
eye to eye on a big case they were preparing for together. And Tom had a bit of a
superiority complex, so he wasn’t her favorite person to co-chair a case with anyway.
She continued to be behind on paperwork and billing. And Kayla Gonzalez seemed to
be getting wishy-washy about her divorce. It was that—garnered from a phone call with
Kayla today—that bugged April most of all. She hated seeing women let themselves be
held down by the men in their lives.
A jolt shook her body when she realized the bitter irony in that thought.
She’d
let herself be held down by a man. Just three short nights ago. More than held down—
tied
down. And she’d liked it.