Rogan
I’m not the least bit surprised by the little house that Katie pulls up in front of. It suits her perfectly. It’s cute and pretty in a quiet, understated way. It looks calm and soothing, a place I can easily picture Katie unwinding each night.
I pull to a stop behind her convertible. When she gets out, she casts an odd look my way. I know what she’s thinking. It’s about my form of transportation.
I grab the bottle of wine and extra glass that I brought and get out to follow her up the neat sidewalk, through a wrought-iron gate and onto an even neater walk that leads to her front door. I bet Katie pulls every weed that comes up within sight of her house. She strikes me as the type who likes things tidy and in order, but that’s not what makes me smile. What makes me smile is the image of her in some tiny shorts and a tiny tank top, hair piled up on top of her head, pulling weeds.
Down on her hands and knees.
Mother of hell!
“What are you smiling at?” she asks as she shifts her cat to finagle her key into the lock.
I don’t tell her exactly what I was thinking, of course. I go back a thought or two until I find something that
wouldn’t
send her running like a frightened deer. “Just wondering if I was right about what you were thinking.”
When she misses the hole the second time, I take her keys from her and let us in. She pauses in the doorway, blocking my entrance with her small body. “And just what do you
think
I was thinking?”
“That you wouldn’t have pictured a guy like me driving a minivan.”
She looks sheepish and I know I was right. “I guess I
am
a little surprised.”
“I figured,” I admit as she finally moves inside, allowing me to follow. The instant I close the door behind me, the cat jumps out of her arms, walks about ten steps into the living room, flops down on its side and goes straight to sleep.
“Damn, does the cat always do that?”
Katie catches my eye and follows it back to the cat. She grins. “Yep. That’s how he got his name. I call him Dozer because he dozes off in four seconds or less.”
My laugh is a short bark. “I love the way your mind works,” I confess impulsively.
She turns her big blue eyes back to me, pink infusing the apples of her cheeks. I love that she gets all shy and flustered over something so simple. She tucks her chin, just like she does at work, like by doing so she can hide. I reach forward and hook my finger under it to lift her face back to mine.
“And I love that me telling you that embarrasses you.”
“So you do that
on purpose
?” she asks, mildly accusing.
“Maybe. Those blushes
are
awfully addictive.” She smiles, a hesitant spread of her lips, prompting me to add, “Almost as much as your smiles.”
She gets all fidgety and nervous and adorable under my scrutiny, so I release her. Albeit reluctantly.
“So, a minivan,” she says, dropping her eyes and clearing her throat. I love that I put her off balance. I doubt much gets under this girl’s skin and I’m happy as hell that I appear to be making my way in, slowly but surely.
“A minivan,” I confirm, raising the wine bottle and glass questioningly.
“Oh, sorry. Kitchen’s through there.” Katie points to the most obvious doorway and I head in that direction. She follows after a few seconds. When I stop at the small island, she breezes past me, setting down the glass that I brought her and keeping her face averted. Makes me think she might be blushing again. After she rummages through a drawer for another minute, she turns her composed self back to me, a corkscrew in one hand. “There
has to be
a story behind it.”
“Behind what?” I ask, content to just watch her rather than talk. Or think.
Her grin is more pronounced this time. “Behind the minivan.”
“Oh, right. The minivan. I have a brother who came with me. He’s handicapped. I dropped him off at the gym on the way to the park.”
Her expression softens. Visibly. “Y-you have a handicapped brother?”
“I do.”
“And you . . . you take him places with you? You take care of him?”
I shrug. “Well, I don’t know about that. I mean, he’s grown, so . . .”
“Does he live with you?”
“For the most part.”
“That’s . . . that’s . . .” Katie is looking at me like she’s just now seeing me.
Really seeing me.
After several seconds, she glances down at the counter, at the glasses she’s arranging in a straight line with the bottle of red. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure he appreciates it.”
“I’m sure he does, but like most guys, he’s got a piss-poor way of showing it.”
“Just like a damn man,” she says softly, glancing up at me from beneath her lashes, the hint of a playful smile still curving her lips.
“Bastards,” I reply.
Her eyes sparkle up at me and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to haul her into my arms and kiss her senseless. Which might take a while. She’s got plenty of sense about her. Too much, maybe.
After a minute, when the temperature in the little kitchen is rising noticeably, Katie clears her throat again, pulling that swath of rich auburn hair over her shoulder like I’ve seen her do before. “So what is it that you drive when you’re not carting your brother around?”
“Maybe if you’re nice to me I’ll show you one day.”
She grunts indignantly, her lips parting yet still curved. “I’m always nice to you.”
“But you could be nicer,” I tell her with a half-grin.
She raises one dark brow, the sexiest damn thing I think I’ve ever seen on a woman. Besides her licking the corner of her mouth when she’s concentrating or nervous, that is. “And just how . . .
nice
are you expecting me to be?”
“Not
that
nice,” I answer. “Unless you just
want to be
that nice. I would never argue if you wanted to be extra, extra, extra nice to me.”
I give her my widest, most innocent smile. She laughs outright,
an action that fills the kitchen with a delicate tinkle and turns her face from beautiful to breathtaking. A display like this from her is pretty rare, so pulling it out of her makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery.
“Do that again,” I request quietly, so drawn to her that I can’t stop myself from moving closer, from reaching out, from touching.
“Do what again?” she asks. When I cup her silky cheek in my palm, she straightens, but she doesn’t back away. A good sign.
“Laugh.”
“I can’t laugh on command,” she explains, her eyes flickering up to mine and away, up to mine and away.
“I swear to God, I think I’d do just about anything to hear that again, to see your face light up like that.”
My thumb blindly stroking the crest of her high cheekbone, I catch and hold her eyes this time. They’re like melted sapphires, a fathomless liquid that I could easily let myself drown in.
Katie’s lips open and close a couple of times, like she’s trying to find words where there are none. But the time for talk is over. I feel like I’ve waited patiently for an eternity to taste, and now it’s time for my reward.
Slowly, I bend my face toward hers, hoping she won’t move away, praying that she won’t stop me. “You’ve been on my mind since the first day I saw you, Beautiful Katie. It’s time you give me the answer to a question that’s been haunting me for weeks.”
I can feel the sweet, shallow puffs of her breath fanning my lips as I get closer. “W-what’s that?”
“Do your lips taste like cotton candy?”
“How would I know?” she asks a bit dazedly.
“Give me five minutes and I’ll tell you.”
I bring my other hand up to hold her face still as I brush my mouth over hers. When she doesn’t move away, doesn’t push
me
away, I sink into her lips like I might sink into a bed made of marshmallows. Sweet, plump, light-as-air marshmallows. And, God help me, Katie sinks right back.
Maybe she’s been wondering about me, too. Maybe she’s as curious about
me
as I am about
her
. Maybe, just maybe, she
wants
me
as much as I want her. Whatever the reason, I’m delighted when she parts her lips and tilts her head, a silent plea for me to deepen the kiss.
And deepen it I do.
The first touch of my tongue to hers is mouthwatering. She tastes sweet, sweeter than the marshmallows, sweeter than the wine I brought, even though she’s not had a drop of it yet. I step closer to her, bringing my lower body in light contact with hers. She leans into me, and my groan floods her mouth. Almost in answer to my involuntary reaction, she gasps, drinking in my breath, taking part of me into her body. The thought, so simple and innocent, nearly snaps the thin thread of my control.
When Katie drags her tongue along the side of mine, the warm silk of her pushes me a little too far. I weave my fingers into her hair and I dive into her mouth, into her kiss.
And I’m met with a brick wall. Katie stiffens in my arms, her hands coming to my chest to push me away. Surprised, I release her instantly. I open confused eyes to her frantic ones as she scrambles away from me, tugging her hair back over her shoulder like a security blanket.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask, clueless as to what I did to cause the sudden change.
“No, no,” she responds, smoothing her hands over her hair, over and over and over as she takes deep, calming breaths. “Sorry, I just . . . It’s just been a long time since someone has kissed me that way.”
“I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not. I’m only sorry that I made you uncomfortable.”
She flicks her eyes toward mine in a sideways glance that says she’s far from fine. She won’t even face me.
“It’s fine. Really. I think I’m just . . . I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.” I can hear the excuse coming before the next word leaves her lips. “Can we just call it a night?”
I swallow my sigh.
Shit!
“Of course. We can do this another time.”
She gives me a fake smile that barely curves her lips and never reaches her eyes. “Maybe.”
She glances away again, hugging her arms around her middle. I would say she’s freezing me out, but she’s not. She’s not being cold or bitchy; she acts almost . . .
wounded.
Like the frightened deer I was worried about seeing. But what the hell did I do? I only kissed her. And she kissed me back.
I figure now’s not the time to ask. The best thing I can do is leave; leave her in peace and hope I can pick up the pieces tomorrow.
Katie
Whereas I’ve been so excited to come to work these last weeks since Rogan’s been here, today, for the first time, I’m actively dreading it.
God!
Rogan must think I’m some sort of weirdo freak.
And he wouldn’t be wrong.
I never really wanted him to find out, though. I don’t know how, exactly, I planned to avoid it, but I had been living in some sort of fantasyland where it was entirely possible that he wouldn’t.
Maybe I just thought that this whole thing could play out in my head without ever really getting . . .
real.
Or physical. Even though I’ll admit to being curious about his kiss. I’ve thought about it more times than I’ve probably thought about
anything
else. And the reality of it . . . Sweet Mary! I couldn’t be any more thrilled with that.
Even as I think back on it, I shiver. I can’t ever remember someone’s kiss making me feel like my insides are on fire. But Rogan’s did. It’s probably a good thing he ran his hands into my hair,
snapping me back to reality. I was enjoying that far too much. I was lost to everything but him and what he was making me feel.
And that could never end well.
Despite my dread and upset, even now, my stomach feels warm and my legs feel tingly at the mere thought of his lips and tongue. What kind of a kiss makes a person’s legs tingle? A damn good one, I guess. And the sad thing is that it was
just a kiss
. He wasn’t touching anything below my collarbone and it was . . . was . . .
oh God!
I stop just outside my “office” door and take a few deep breaths. I wait until my heartbeat is a little calmer and I can breathe like I didn’t just run a fifty-mile marathon before showing myself.
When I feel a bit more collected, I turn the corner into my space, fully expecting the same scene that has greeted me for weeks now. To say that I’m disappointed at what I find is a tragic understatement.
My area is empty. There’s no flirty Rogan in my chair. There’s no mischievous Mona talking his ear off. It’s just . . . empty. Just me and my space. And no one else. I’m surrounded by the quiet and the solitude that I’ve craved for years now. It’s always made me feel
alone
, but never
lonely
.
Until today.
I go about my usual early-morning duties in slow motion, chastising myself the whole time for being ridiculous. I mean, why get so upset over something so silly? And how stupid was it of me to expect
anything
from a guy like Rogan? He was bound to disappoint me one day. Might as well be today.
I’m lost in thought, opening a pack of new brushes, when a familiar deep voice suddenly breaks into my tailspin. My movements still as I listen to Rogan laugh from out in the hall somewhere, a sound that’s accompanied by Mona’s excited giggle. I hear them drawing
closer to my room and I resume my activity, anything to keep my now-trembling hands busy.
Just before they enter, I hear Mona and Rogan quiet. I listen closely, but hear no sound at all. Afraid to turn around, I place brush after brush in a straight line in the neat and orderly drawer that contains other similar brushes, until the task is complete. I crumple the plastic in my hand and close the drawer quietly before I’m forced to turn around.
I nearly head butt Rogan’s chest. Somehow, he managed to creep up behind me without me hearing a single sound.
A surprised squeak-gasp combo squeezes past my lips. “You scared me!” I admit breathlessly.
“I’m sorry!” he replies. Then, with his sincere eyes locked on mine, he adds, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise.”
I know he’s referring to more than just this morning. He’s probably apologizing for what happened last night. Immediately, I’m off-kilter. But that’s what Rogan does—he throws me off balance. With no conscious effort on his part, it seems. I doubt he realizes that he’s practically turning my fickle emotions inside out.
“It’s fine,” I say, taking a step back. I feel the counter brush the backs of my legs. I can retreat no farther, which only frazzles me even more.
His eyes, brilliantly green this morning, search mine for several tense seconds before Rogan raises his hand between us. “I brought coffee.”
Thankful to have something,
anything
else to focus on, I look at the cup. It’s shorter and fatter, and boasts the label
Main Street Diner
on the side. I take it from him, frowning as I sniff.
“The coffeemaker here is broken so I went across to the diner to get some. Extra hot, extra cream, although I’m not sure how the extra hot held up during the commute.”
“It’s fine, I’m sure.” To prove my point, I take a sip. It’s plenty warm, but it doesn’t threaten to scald my lips off, which is the way I like it. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to bring me coffee.”
“You’re no trouble at all,” he rejoins softly.
God, don’t let him be sweet! Let him just be a jerk so I can stop thinking about him, stop wanting things I shouldn’t want. Things that I
don’t want to
want!
“You don’t know me well enough to say that for sure.”
One side of his mouth lifts in a ghost of a grin. “I’m willing to risk it.”
There’s a quiet moment, colored only with the deep green of Rogan’s eyes as he stares down at me, when I think he might try to kiss me again. Or, worse, touch me. I feel his internal battle like static in the air. But, thank God, he refrains. This time, anyway.
I didn’t imagine that he’d give up so easily. But I had hoped.
Well, some part of me did, anyway. Some other part . . . didn’t.
“You two are so cute together,” Mona croons from the doorway. Rogan’s grin becomes more pronounced as the click of heels brings my friend farther into the room. We stand facing each other as she passes by, heading for the counter, on which she perches one hip as she flips through the dictionary. “You should date.”
“
I’m
not the one who needs convincing,” Rogan mutters.
“Oh you don’t need to tell me that. Katie’s stubborn to a fault and blind to her own beauty. She’s . . .
erudite
, but sometimes she can be a little dumb.” Rogan frowns and I wrinkle my nose, both of us holding back a laugh. After a few seconds, Mona notices. “What? Did I use it wrong?”
“No, but it’s freakin’ me out,” Rogan says with a chuckle.
“Why? I’m smart. I can learn new words. I can be
erudite
.”
“Of course you can,” I say, covertly nudging Rogan with my elbow. I don’t want his teasing to hurt Mona’s feelings.
“Well,” she says, standing and dusting her hands off like her job here is done, “I suppose I’d best let you two get to it. You’ve got a lot more body to make up today.”
More body to make up? I was so ready to leave yesterday, I didn’t check the notes for today, and this morning my mind was elsewhere.
Is he doing a shirtless scene? Or, God forbid, is he doing a nude scene?
My pulse speeds up at the mere thought.
With a smile that says she
knew
that I had no idea, Mona flounces out of the room, pausing only to kiss one of my cheeks and smack Rogan on the butt. “Lunch?” she says from just the other side of the door.
“Lunch,” I reply, watching the tips of her blond hair disappear from view.
Tension rushes in to fill the room, crowding in on me like a vibrating cloud. I take a step back from Rogan, tugging at my hair as I nod toward the drawer where I keep my script notes from Kelly.
“I guess I’d better check to see what I’m doing for you today.” I turn, resisting the urge to run and grab the papers. I’m proud that my walk is slow and that my knees are steady.
“No need. I can tell you,” he says from behind me. I pay him no attention as I rifle through the other papers in search of my instructions. When I have them in hand, I swing back around to face Rogan. The pages slip silently from my fingers to swoosh across the floor.
Standing not two feet away is a half-naked Rogan.
Before I can collect myself, I take him in. Savor him like rich chocolate or decadent cake. I thought he looked amazing in clothes, but . . . dear God! The man is positively heart-stopping without them.
He looks ten feet tall and bulletproof. His shoulders must be a mile wide and perfectly formed, collarbones straight, deltoids flaring.
The overhead lights, though soft, highlight the rounded domes of his pecs and the stair-step ridges of his abs. They clench with each slow breath he takes. And covering all that glory is lightly tanned skin and a smattering of hair that reaches from nipple to nipple and then narrows to a trail that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. I dare not look beyond that. I don’t think my heart can take it.
I’m enjoying the journey back up when his voice cuts into my thrall.
“Ya know?” he asks, as though not for the first time. Evidently, while I was raping him with my eyes, he must’ve been saying something.
My eyes fly to his face. “I-I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
His face breaks into the most satisfied grin I think I’ve ever seen. All proud peacock. He knows what I was doing. He knows I was mesmerized. And he’s loving it.
My face stings with embarrassment at being so blatant. And getting caught.
“I was just saying that I think it’s weird that they’d put makeup on my body just to show me working out, ya know?”
“Yeah,” I say dazedly.
“Where do you want me?” he asks, one brown brow shooting up suggestively.
My stomach churns hotly. Why, oh why does
he
have to be the
one guy
on the planet who can break through my thick layer of ice and scar tissue? Why, why,
why
?
I bend to gather my notes from the floor, and I study them closely as I straighten. Not because I need to see what they say, of course, but because I need a reason to look at something else for a minute.
“Looks like the closest shots will be of your back and shoulders as you’re doing some pull-ups. They want the tattoos left intact, but
any other imperfections covered, so I’ll do your face and then let you lie down for the rest.”
My heart is thumping so hard, I worry that Rogan will hear it when he sits down in the chair. I set about applying the same products I’ve used on him most other days, going a little heavier on blush to give him a slightly flushed look. That’s all my role entails. They’ll spritz him to make him look sweaty right before the filming starts.
I try not to think of Rogan sweaty. Smooth skin glistening, muscular chest huffing, flat stomach gleaming. No, I need not go there. It’s just . . . it’s just not a good idea.
He’s uncharacteristically quiet as I brush and swirl and dab, but not once do his eyes leave my face. Even if, in my peripheral vision, I couldn’t see them following my movements, I’d still know he was watching me. I can feel it all the way down to my nerves. His gaze, his scrutiny strums them like strings on a harp.
When I’m finished with what little I can do to make his face even more gorgeous, I lean back, giving him a tight, nervous smile. “Okay, you can go lie down on your stomach. I’ll do your back first and then when you sit up, I’ll work on your chest a little.”
Rogan nods, rising to head over to the long, padded table that’s used for bodywork and more extensive specialty applications. I grab a few pods of makeup that match his skin tone, some cream and a few different-sized brushes, taking my time and inhaling huge, calming gulps of air as I gather. When I turn to face Rogan, he’s lying on his stomach with his arms folded under his head, his face turned toward me. His emerald eyes, trained on me, glint in the light, but his expression is unusually serious. I want to ask if something’s wrong, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what he’ll say, what I’ll learn about him. I don’t dare let him get under my skin any more than he already has.
I clear my throat and pull a small rolling table closer to me,
setting my supplies on it. Applying the makeup is something I could do in my sleep. That’s not what I feel I must ready myself for. Putting my hands on Rogan’s skin, touching him all over his body this way . . .
That’s
what I need to prepare for.
I notice that my hand is shaking when I squirt a dollop of cream into my palm. I rub my hands together to warm it before I lean forward to smooth the lightly shimmering lotion onto his back. I feel the muscles twitch and flex under my fingertips, and I try to ignore the way my belly reacts. “Th-this is just to give your skin a bit of a glisten, like you’ve been exercising. You have enough color that I don’t need to add any tint to it,” I explain in a voice that sounds breathless even to
my
ears.
Oh God!
Rogan says nothing, makes no comment, which is something else I find odd. Normally, he doesn’t miss a chance to tease or taunt me.
Touching him feels good. It feels
too good.
Right, even. At least touching him this way means I don’t have to worry about him touching me in return. I don’t have to concern myself with keeping hidden things that I don’t want him to see. With that in mind, I let myself go, just enough that I can really enjoy having my hands on him.
His skin is so smooth and warm. Supple. I can feel the reaction in every muscle I touch. It incites a corresponding squeeze in my stomach.
I’m so caught up in these sensations, in this moment, that I find myself asking about his tattoo in order to prolong the pleasure of the skin-against-skin contact.
“What does it mean?” I ask, tracing the angry-looking letters that span the top of his back from shoulder to shoulder. At first glance, I thought it was just some sort of tribal tattoo. It looked a little like a twist of teeth or claws. But on closer inspection, I can see that there are letters intricately woven into the wicked-looking spikes.
“It’s Latin.
Pugnare superesse. Vivere pugna.
Fight to survive. Fight to live.”
Makes sense for a fighter, I suppose. It doesn’t register that the words might have a deeper meaning until I more closely examine his skin.
When the cream is rubbed in thoroughly, I make myself pull my hands away. Holding back a sigh, I reach for a dish of makeup, swirl a small brush through it and lean in to attack a scar that runs around his shoulder blade in a semicircle. It’s an odd shape, but I don’t ask any questions. For all I know, he had some sort of surgery that he doesn’t want to talk about. It’s as I’m applying coverage to the pale pink line that I begin to notice other things that I was too distracted to notice before, when I was rubbing my hands over Rogan’s flesh and asking about his tattoo.