Authors: Lacey Alexander
And even if all that didn’t sound overly healthy, she knew herself and she knew it
had worked for her, and it would work for her again now. And then she’d never really
have to deal with the fact that she’d wanted a man to force her into sex.
When a shiver ran through her just then at the small, brief acknowledgment she’d let
in, Gram said, “Good lord, darlin’, you cold? I know I keep the A/C high, but it’s
not
that
high, is it?”
“No, just a weird chill or something,” she told her grandma, then ate more soup. And
pushed Rogan Wolfe right back out of her mind.
The only problem with that right now was . . . she knew he’d come back to her thoughts
in a much more
un
avoidable way later this afternoon after she left Gram’s place. Because on her list
of errands was an overdue trip to the dry cleaner’s. Which meant she’d put off stopping
back by the Café Tropico to get her red suit jacket for as long as she could.
* * *
“S
he’s here. But she seems like she’s in a rush, so you’d better hurry,” Taylor had
said into the phone to Rogan a little while ago. And his heart had started pumping
faster, just from that. Shit—what was it about this woman? He’d known he was hot to
see her again, but . . . hell, maybe he was starting to feel a little obsessive about
her.
Not that that stopped him from hightailing it to the Café Tropico. He’d been on duty
at the time, patrolling the area around the trendy open air mall on Lincoln Road,
and it had been all he could do not to turn on his blue lights and siren to make sure
he got to Ocean Drive before she was gone.
Parking wasn’t plentiful given the constant beach crowds, but Rogan created a space
for his cruiser by pulling it into a wide alley two doors down from the café. He didn’t
like to abuse his power as a police officer, but he considered this a small offense.
Stepping inside, cool air created by the shade and some overhead fans hit him in the
face. He looked around to find the place completely empty and remembered that Dennis’s
place wasn’t open for lunch—dinner and drinking only. And there stood Ginger, with
her red jacket draped over her arm, saying to Taylor, “Again, thanks for holding on
to the jacket for me, but I really need to go. I’ll come back for a drink another
time.”
That’s when she must have caught sight of him in her peripheral vision and glanced
over. Then flinched when she realized it was him and not just some random cop.
“About time,” Taylor said matter-of-factly.
His gaze was stuck on the woman he’d come there to see, but he switched it to the
pretty young bartender for a quick “Thanks.”
Then found himself shifting his eyes right back to April, who looked as different
to him right now as he probably did to her in his uniform. Above feminine-cut khaki
capri pants, she wore a white, flowy top sprinkled with pastel flowers. It fit her
loosely but fell pleasingly over her curves, and the drawstring bow at her chest revealed
a shadowy hint of cleavage.
Only when he realized Taylor didn’t seem to be going away did he say, “I’ll square
things up with you later.”
Which produced in her a light shrug before she finally sauntered toward the hallway
that led to Dennis’s office and the back rooms.
Once he felt they were finally alone, he took the opportunity to give April another
once-over, along with a flirty grin. “Well, look at you. All soft and pretty today.”
It was only then that he realized her eyes had gone angrily wide and that she appeared—damn—outraged.
“Did you pay that girl to detain me?”
He lowered his chin, delivering a frank look, even if he was a little amused. “
Detain
’s a strong word, Ginger, so no, I didn’t. I just asked her to let me know when you
were here and . . .” Okay, so he didn’t have a good ending for his explanation.
“And?”
He cracked another grin, hoping his more easygoing attitude might rub off on her a
little. “Maybe I promised her a big tip.”
But nope, nothing was rubbing off. Steam practically came out of her ears as she muttered,
“I can’t believe you. That’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard.”
Rather than argue the point, though he was pretty sure she’d surely heard far more
despicable things, especially in her line of work, he instead just said, “Come on,
Ginger, aren’t you glad to see me? Just a little?” He held up one hand, holding thumb
and forefinger close together.
She wasn’t swayed, though, her back actually going a bit more rigid as she announced,
“I have to go,” and then started to stride past him.
But he hadn’t rushed his ass over here and even parked his cruiser illegally just
to have her walk out on him that fast, so on impulse, he grabbed her wrist, halting
her progress. His chest tightened in response to her soft gasp, watching as her eyes
dropped to his hand, now circling her arm, before they rose pointedly to his face.
Without weighing it, he said what seemed obvious. “Looks like it’s déjà vu all over
again.”
“Not exactly,” she disagreed.
He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? What’s different?”
And hell—she appeared downright belligerent as she said, “This time I’m . . . not
interested.
Really
not interested.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want—I don’t care. Now let go of my wrist.” She pulled at it slightly,
but he didn’t release her.
“And if I don’t?”
She rolled her eyes, then flashed a dry look. “I’d say I’d call the cops, but you
are
the cops. So I’m just telling you to let go.”
She was being ridiculous and surely she knew it. What had happened between them before
and what was happening right now wasn’t about breaking any laws or even about him
doing anything she really didn’t want him to do. He didn’t force himself on women.
But this woman . . . this woman brought out the beast in him like no other. More and
more.
And she was coaxing that part out of him now, making him lean in close, close enough
to smell the raspberry scent left in her hair by shampoo, making him want to force
her to admit what they both knew. He spoke quiet and low in her ear. “Don’t deny you
loved being fucked by me.”
She appeared speechless, stunned, so stunned that she drew her eyes away. But she
didn’t deny it.
And Rogan’s groin tightened as he listened to them both breathing audibly in the silence
that surrounded them, the only other sound the vague noise of passing cars outside.
He felt locked with her in the reality of what he’d just said, of what they were both
remembering. Details. Warmth. Wetness. Hardness. Softness.
This time he whispered more tenderly, letting his lips brush across her ear as he
spoke. “You should come to my place, Ginger.”
“My name’s not—”
“April,” he said, quick, breathy, still soft against her delicate ear. “You should
come to my place, April.”
It was only when he backed away a little, even while still gripping her wrist, that
she looked at him, clearly making every effort to appear unaffected as she replied
bluntly, “Aren’t you supposed to be protecting the people of South Beach right now?
Even if you’re doing a piss-poor job of it?”
A short laugh erupted from his throat. “I didn’t mean now. Later. Tonight.”
“No thanks,” she said.
And when their eyes met again, he sensed them trying to size each other up. He for
one was attempting to figure out how serious she was, if she really meant what she
kept insisting on—he wondered how long she could hold on to her bravado.
Finally, he told her, “If you change your mind, I’ll be home after seven.”
“I won’t,” she answered briskly. Then tried to jerk her arm away, but he didn’t let
go yet.
In fact, he bent closer to her again, back near her ear, to rasp with full confidence,
“You should. It’s damn good between us and you know it. And I want more.”
Rogan’s cock grew harder each second. And when he pulled back this time to meet her
gaze, he almost thought he saw her wavering, thought he saw her beginning to look
a little lost, a little tempted, a little weak—but she said nothing. And at least
remained stalwart enough not to pull her eyes from his.
So he just added, “Think about it. I can give you what you need, Ginger.”
Words that unwittingly filled her expression with venom again. “How dare you presume
to have any idea what I need?” But her voice didn’t come out quite as cutting as before,
and that told him all he needed to know.
It even fueled his next reply. “I presume because I get it, I understand. I’ve got
you all figured out, babe.” Then he leaned nearer yet one more time to whisper, “And
I want to fuck you so bad right now that if Taylor wasn’t here, I might just carry
you over to the bar, pin you on top of it, and take you hard.”
His dick got even stiffer as he watched the color rise to her cheeks.
Then he followed another impulse—to simply lower a soft kiss there, high on her cheekbone.
“I’m not so bad, Ginger. Come see me.”
Then he at last let go of her wrist, instantly missing the feel of it in his hand,
and walked out of the Café Tropico.
April stood watching him go, feeling a little like an unexpected hurricane had just
decimated her and then moved quietly back out to sea. How had this happened? Yes,
he’d obviously been on her mind when she’d come back here, but she’d never dreamed
he’d actually be here. In the middle of the afternoon. Or that he’d—God forbid—
pay
someone to alert him that she’d come by.
That’s when she caught a glimpse of the girl who worked there—she stood in the entryway
to the back hall, clearly watching, leaving April to wonder exactly how much she’d
seen. They made eye contact and, embarrassed, April rushed out herself—but she pulled
up short at the entrance, hanging back so he didn’t see her there; then she waited
quietly as he walked away.
A minute later she heard a car door and leaned out, glancing up the sidewalk to see
the rear of a police cruiser jutting out of an alley much like the one they’d made
out in, and a few seconds later the car backed out into the street and pulled away.
Relieved he was gone, she glanced down at the suit jacket in her arms, beginning to
wonder if getting it back was worth it. Her heart beat painfully hard. And the spot
between her legs practically pulsed. Her pussy, he’d called it.
That word had always seemed so . . . needlessly dirty to her. Until him. On him it
had just sounded . . . masculine, natural, even if still a little naughty.
Taking a deep breath, trying to calm all the reactions in her body—which had been
betraying her far too much for her comfort lately—she stepped out onto the sun-drenched
sidewalk and started toward her car.
Of course she wouldn’t go to his place tonight. He had to be insane if he really thought
she would.
The last time had been different, after all. He’d driven her there; she hadn’t had
much choice.
But she surely wouldn’t go back.
No matter how much her . . . pussy pulsed.
She didn’t need sex. And she definitely didn’t need it from a man like him, a man
who’d somehow drawn her into something that had felt so dark and unthinkable.
She had briefs to go over. And, actually, some billing, too, if time permitted.
Yes, think about briefs and billing. Not his erection filling you up. Not his strong,
hard hands holding you down. Think about anything else. Anything else at all.
* * *
A
pril sat on her living room floor, papers spread out around her, a maudlin made-for-cable
movie on the flat-screen TV in front of her. Amber, not surprisingly, was out for
the night. And why wouldn’t she be? It was Saturday night—date night in America.
You could have a date tonight, too.
But wait, no. What Rogan Wolfe had suggested was hardly dinner and a movie.
Would you have gone if it had been that? If he’d asked you out for dinner?
No, she wouldn’t have. Because she still would have known it would ultimately lead
to the same thing—more sex. She knew what they were about, her and him—chemistry,
lust, aching desire. By asking her to his place, he’d simply been honest and cut to
the chase.
Don’t think about him.
Don’t think about the way he felt inside you. Or how amazing it felt to have his hands
exploring your body. Don’t think about that strangely joyous surrender of being manhandled
by him. Just don’t think.
It would be easier if her inner thighs weren’t tingling with want. If her breasts
weren’t craving his touch. Damn it. The truth was, she’d been suffering like this
since seeing him this afternoon.
And the further truth is, you’ve been suffering like this on and off since that night
on his couch. You’re just good at pushing things away, good at suppressing your emotions.
She let out a sigh, tried to focus on the work in front of her. But who could process
legal communications—even being a lawyer—at a time like this? So she lifted her gaze
to the TV and tried to get immersed in the story of the woman on the screen who was
trying to get away from an abusive husband. That seemed impossible, too, though, because
remembering how it had felt to be under Rogan was much more appealing.
And . . . wasn’t an abusive husband, or real force—rape—much, much different than
what she’d experienced with Rogan Wolfe? Of course it was.
So . . . maybe what she’d let happen with him, maybe what she’d wanted from him . . .
wasn’t really as bad as she’d made it out to be in her head?
But she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t sort through all this—and when she stood
up, clicked off the TV, and went to find her purse and keys, she told herself she
was only going for a drive. Just to clear her head. God knew it was jumbled enough
lately. Ever since the first time she’d kissed that man.
I’m not going to his place. I’m not. Why would I? That would be crazy.
She’d never been in a purely sexual relationship and she wasn’t about to start now.
She would never find that wholly satisfying. Only more heartache and self-doubt could
come from it.