Текст книги "Tough Enough"

Автор книги: M. Leighton

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

TWENTY-TWO

Rogan

I don’t know what I expected when I woke up, but to be in bed alone at nearly noon wasn’t it. I can’t believe it’s so late! I haven’t slept that well in years. Maybe ever.

I roll over to face the sun streaming in around the shutters that cover the windows. The other side of the bed is cold. I guess Katie has been up for some time.

For several minutes, I stare at the dent in her pillow, considering the woman who made it. I’m not surprised that once I unraveled the mystery of the shy girl with the haunted eyes that I’m still interested. Something told me right from the start that this one was special. And I wasn’t wrong. She’s different and special in the best possible way.

I finally drag my pathetic ass out of bed and find the bathroom directly across the hall. I pause in the doorway to listen. All I hear are sounds of battle coming from the living room. I smile to myself, shaking my head as I walk naked to the toilet. It’s hard to tell what other surprises this woman might hold.

I borrow Katie’s toothbrush and brush my teeth. I figure since we’ve licked each other from head to toe, she surely won’t mind if I use it. In the mirror, I catch sight of my stiff dick, so I go back to the bedroom for last night’s clothes. I figure it might be prudent to wear something other than a hard-on when I go out to greet her this morning. I’m ready for some more of the untamed Katie from last night, of course, but it’s hard to tell where she might be in the bright light of day. Women and their mood swings!

When I’m dressed, I run my fingers through my hair and head for the living room. I smile when I see her. Like I do most of the time.

Katie is curled up on the sofa, covered with a blanket, munching from an enormous bowl of popcorn, watching what looks like The Walking Dead.

“Popcorn for breakfast?” I ask from the doorway so as not to startle her by walking up behind her and kissing her, which is actually what I want to do.

She cranes her neck to look back at me, eyes bright, lips curved. “Yep.”

“And The Walking Dead before noon?”

“Yep.”

“Another layer to your awesomeness? Jesus, woman! You’re killing me!”

“I’m pretty sure you uncovered all my layers last night. And if all that sex didn’t kill you, I think you’re good.”

Thank God! She’s not all moody and shit.

She just gets more perfect by the day, and my cock twitches like it’s in total agreement.

Down, boy!

I walk around the back of the couch to Katie’s end, scooping her up as I pass and then turning to sit down with her in my lap, much like I did last night. “You fit like you were made to sit here, did you know that?” I ask, taking in her fresh skin, her pink cheeks and the little smile that’s gracing her luscious mouth.

She gets all shy, laying her head on my shoulder and playing with some of her popcorn. It’s not the painfully . . . pained shy look that I’m used to, though. The one that she usually wears. This one is different. In a good way.

“Well, you’ve got all sorts of nice places for me to sit,” she finally mutters.

Through with pretending I’m not dying to kiss her, I tip her chin up and take her lips. Gently, even though I’d much rather ravage her. But I’m not stupid. I know there’s still a chance I could scare her away, so I have to take it slow.

Slow. Damn it.

It’ll be worth it, though. God forbid I screw it up now.

I rub my nose against hers. “Your nose is cold.”

“It’s chilly in here,” she states, burrowing under her blanket.

I tuck the edges around her more securely, reaching under one end to grab her foot. Her toes are freezing. I rub them until they warm, treating her right side to the same as she returns her attention to the television.

“This is my favorite show,” she says by way of explanation, not taking her eyes off the flat screen. “They’re having a marathon today and tomorrow.”

“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” I warn, moving my massaging hand up her bare leg.

I watch Katie watch the show. Her eyes are wide and fixed on the screen. She tosses a few kernels of popcorn into her mouth every few seconds and chews slowly, like she’s trying to keep the noise down. I swallow a laugh. God, this is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

Every now and again, she reaches back to blindly offer me a few pieces. I take them from her fingers, resisting the urge to suck salt from the tips.

As the minutes tick by, I work my way up to her knee, concentrating on her other leg, heating her flesh as I go. She pays me zero attention, so focused is she on her show. It is a great show, but I want to be more distracting than a bunch of zombies.

I ease my fingers up onto her thigh, taking turns gently squeezing her supple muscles and softly stroking her silky skin. Still, she doesn’t take her eyes off the TV.

It’s when I reach her hip that I realize something that has my cock filling with blood again, pressing up toward Katie’s plump ass. She’s not wearing any panties. Hell, she may not be wearing any clothes at all under that blanket. The thought has me gritting my teeth and mentally kicking myself for only having two condoms on me.

I rub my palm in circles over her hip and then back down her leg, making a wide path that travels from the outside of her hip to her knee and then back up the inside of her thigh, stopping just short of my goal. With each pass, I draw closer and closer to her center. I’m watching her closely, but she doesn’t seem to even notice. So I go bold.

Starting at her knee, I run my fingertips up her leg, not stopping this time. I feel the narrow patch of short hair tickle my knuckles as I push my hand down between her thighs. They fall open just enough to give me access. I slide a finger into her crease, only to find that her pussy is hot and wet. Like really wet. ShitDamnHell.

I pause, closing my eyes and letting my head drop back as I find the satiny bump of her moist clit. Every kind of curse is running through my head on a string, followed closely by reprimands for not bringing a damn box of condoms.

I straighten and open my eyes to look at Katie. She’s still facing the television, but her fingers, full of popcorn, are poised right in front of her mouth, which is partially open. I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, much faster than it was a minute ago. She might not be watching me, but she’s sure as hell paying attention.

Her eyes slide to mine when I start to move my finger, so I stop. “Don’t mind me. Just watch your show.”

I clamp my lips together to keep from grinning as I watch her try to eat those few kernels of popcorn as though nothing is happening inside her body. She chews and then pauses, chews and then pauses. Finally, she gives up the act of eating, her hand falling limply into the big bowl. Her lips are still parted and I can see that her brow is wrinkled.

I move my finger a little faster, periodically sliding it down to tease her entrance and then back up again to resume my torture. Katie’s other hand is fisted in the material of the blanket, her knuckles white as she tries to act casual.

I feel the subtle movement of her hips as she starts to gyrate against my hand. I don’t increase my pace. I just continue to wind her up, fascinated by the play of emotions she’s trying to hide.

She glances my way again and I nod toward the television. “Better watch. It’s almost time for a commercial.”

Reluctantly, she turns her head away from me again, little mewling sounds beginning to rumble in her throat. I don’t even try to hold back my smile this time. I’ve never had so much fun watching zombies.

I tease and rub, pinch and flick until Katie is stiff as a board on my lap. I hold her right at the edge until the moment the next commercial comes on. The instant that it does, I whisper in her ear, “I’m gonna make you come in my mouth.”

Before she can respond, I fling Katie’s blanket off, spin her around to face me and then urge her to her feet. I palm one knee and set it on the back of the couch by my ear, spreading her wide. Then I lean in and bury my mouth against her slick folds.

She moans so loud and the taste of her is so sweet I think for a second that I might lose my shit right inside my jeans, like some horny teenage boy. Every little sound, every harsh pant is like a cattle prod to my balls, spurring me on. She threads her fingers into my hair for support and I dig my fingers into her ass, holding her pussy right against my face.

With determination, I lick and suck her all the way over the edge. She rides my face, my lips, my tongue like my cock is deep inside her. And when she comes, I have to support her ass so she doesn’t fall backward.

She pours into my mouth and I lap it up. Honey. Pure, sweet honey. And when she’s done, I hold her tight and thrust my tongue as far as I can into her, greedy for more. “God, your body . . .” I mutter, my lips moving over hers until she goes completely limp in my arms and slithers back down into my lap like a limp noodle.

Her head hits my shoulder with an audible thump and I cuddle her close, covering with the discarded blanket what I see now is her totally naked body. When she regains her breath, she tips her beautiful face up to mine, big blue eyes pulling me in like a life preserver to a drowning man.

I expect her to say something, something . . . profound maybe. What I get is not profound. It’s even better.

“That’s the best episode I think I’ve ever seen.” I throw my head back and laugh. “Even though I have no idea what happened after you came into the living room.”

Her grin is sheepish. My ego is happy. This time, I don’t even try to resist the urge to kiss her.

This might be the best morning I’ve had so far.

TWENTY-THREE

Katie

Rogan suggested a picnic in the park with Dozer. He said I had promised to help him with his lines and he was holding me to it. As he spreads out a plaid wool blanket, I smile thinking of it, stroking Dozer’s head as I watch Rogan’s lithe body move this way and that until the little oasis in the shade is perfectly smooth.

When he straightens and brushes grass off his hands, he grins up at me. “How’s this for a place to rehearse?”

I sigh loudly. “I guess it’ll do. I mean, if I have to rough it,” I add, sniffing theatrically.

“Well, if this isn’t to your liking, I feel sure I can think of something more . . . comfortable for you to sit on later.”

I feel heat sting my cheeks and all the play drains right out of me, flushed away by the surge of desire.

“What, no smart-ass retort?” he teases, stretching out on his side and patting the blanket next to him.

“I’m sure I’d have one if I could think,” I reply honestly.

Rogan laughs, a sound that I’m quickly falling in love with. It’s a rich rumble that seems to come from his soul. It always makes me want to smile, like I can’t help enjoying what he’s enjoying. “I like your style, Ms. Rydale.”

I know he doesn’t mean that kind of style, but his comment brings to mind my wardrobe, which in turn brings to mind the concealing blouse I chose and the comforting swath of hair that resides where it does every day—covering my scars.

I kneel on the spread and set Dozer down. He walks all of four feet, to the edge of the blanket, and flops down, falling almost immediately to sleep. Rogan, watching him, shakes his head in amazement.

“A narcoleptic cat. Who knew?”

I giggle as I slide in beside Rogan, pulling my feet up under me. “So, what feast did you bring us?” I ask, inclining my head toward the huge basket resting behind Dozer.

“Ah-ah-ah. Work first, play later.”

I’m surprised. “We’re really going to run lines?” I thought it was just his way of teasing me.

“Yep. Sure are. I want to get this right the first time tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you will. You’re quite good.”

Rogan looks genuinely pleased. “Thank you. I noticed that you’ve got mad skills at all this. Have you ever acted? Or considered acting?”

I feel myself tense. I know Rogan’s question was innocent enough, but it still stirs memories that I never like reflecting upon.

I could hedge. Make up something to put him off, but since he’s been so honest with me, told me such painful things, I feel that I owe him the truth.

I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. “Actually, that’s what I originally went to school for.”

“What? Acting?” Now he seems surprised.

“Yes.”

“Why the hell didn’t you pursue it? Is it because of your burns? Because—”

“No, no. Not really,” I interrupt, not wanting to discuss them again. I would still much rather pretend that they aren’t there, or that he can’t see them. “Since I was a little girl, I always dreamed about being an actress. I tried out for every school play that I could, watched as many movies as I was allowed, studied the greats. You know how kids are. But my parents were very, very strict. They didn’t want me in the spotlight like that. They wouldn’t even consider letting me attend The Julliard. But I applied anyway and was accepted with a full scholarship.”

Rogan sits up from where he was resting back on his elbow. “You got a scholarship to The Julliard?”

I smile, but it’s no longer a proud smile. It’s just sad. “I did. But they still refused to let me pursue it. They wanted me to be a pharmacist.”

“Well, it’s not too late, you know,” he says, his expression rife with resentful determination. “You should chase your dreams, damn it.”

I wave him off. “No, I actually did that. Only it didn’t work out so well.” I clear my throat, twirling a stray piece of grass between my fingers, anything to give my hands something to do and my eyes something to focus on other than Rogan. “It was what I wanted, and even though my parents were against it and very upset with me for applying anyway, I packed up and left. I did what I wanted to do. At the time it didn’t matter what they wanted.”

“But it didn’t work out?” Rogan asks, his warm palm covering my bare foot nearest him.

“Not in the end. At first it was great. I accepted the scholarship and moved to New York. Within a couple of months of being at The Julliard, I was getting a lot of attention. Instructors, directors, local theater. They keep an eye on all the productions put on at the arts center and I guess for a while, I was the apple of their eye. The up-and-comer to watch.” My laugh is bitter. I can’t help it. It wells within me when I think back on my life, on my decisions. On fate. “I was in the paper a few times the summer after my freshman year. It was surreal. And that got me the notice of a guy.”

I take a deep breath, girding myself for what’s to come. Talking about it almost feels like reliving it. And I’d never want to do that. “He was charming and handsome, wealthy and accomplished. His father was influential. He was all that a girl with stars in her eyes needed to complete the picture. I dove right in, despite the fact that I didn’t really know him. Not really. For a while, it was perfect.”

When my pause drags on too long, Rogan prompts me. “But that didn’t work out either?”

I sigh softly, like the sound leaked right out of the never-quite-healed gash in my heart, along with a trickle of blood. Still too fresh. Always too fresh. “No. We moved in together before I found out that he had a temper. And that he wasn’t afraid of what a girl from nowhere might tell others. He knew no one would believe me.”

Rogan’s voice is steel when he asks, “He put his hands on you?”

I know he doesn’t mean sexually; he means physically. Abusively.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. And he knows that my silence is answer enough.

“It was worse when he was jealous, which he often was. He didn’t want me to have friends, he hated everyone that I had class with, he didn’t want me acting on Broadway, which I’d had an offer to do. Unfortunately, he expressed all this with few words and a lot of flying fists. And palms. And the occasional kick with his boot or whipping with the mean end of an extension cord.” I don’t glance up at Rogan. I can tell by his posture from the corner of my eye that he is rigid with anger. “When I finally got up enough nerve to leave him, he followed me. I should have known he would. He found me at a friend’s apartment. I’d gone there to stay until I could figure out something else. He waited for me to leave for my night class. Waited until I got in and rolled down my window, like I always used to do. Then he walked right up and threw alcohol at me. Bourbon, I think it was. It hit my left side and splattered down the door and onto the floorboard. I remember looking up at him, wondering what the hell he was doing. I started fumbling, trying to get my window rolled up, but I wasn’t fast enough. I saw him strike the match. His face was almost sad. Almost.”

I can still feel the fear. I can still smell the alcohol. I can still hear the whoosh of flames erupting all around me.

“He threw the match through my window before I could roll it up completely. It landed right in my lap. Everything around me went up in flames. It melted most of the hair on my left side. Gave me third-degree burns on my neck and the top of my shoulder. Second-degree burns down my side and on my leg. All the places you saw. That was the end of my acting career.” Even thinking back to that time of my life produces a crushing weight in my chest. “I guess my parents were right after all. And that’s not even the worst part.”

“How can it be worse?” he asks, his voice a coarse, husky croak.

“My parents were notified. They’d been on their way home from church that Wednesday night. They didn’t even go home. They drove straight up to New York.” I stop to meet Rogan’s eyes for the first time, but I can’t stand what I see there—a reflection of my own pain—so I look away before I finish. “They were both killed in a car accident on the way. I never even got to tell them I was sorry.”

My throat is tight with controlled emotion. I haven’t talked to anyone about this in years. It was easier than I thought it would be, but still not easy by any far stretch of the imagination. I lost everything that night, everything that ever meant something to me.

Rogan says nothing. And that’s good because there’s really nothing to say. I’ve heard all the platitudes from my friends and friends of the family. Yet another reason I moved to the middle of nowhere. I needed to be someone no one knew. I needed to be someone other than this poor girl who’d had such a tragic life. I had to be someone other than the girl who everyone pitied. But I also needed to get away from Calvin. Permanently.

After a length of silence, I glance up at Rogan, trying my best to smile. “I was in a medically induced coma for three days and in the hospital for twenty-four more. I had surgeries following that. Skin grafts for some of the worst places. But as you can see, there’s no covering something like that except with clothes.”

“Katie, I’m so—”

“Please don’t,” I plead. I can’t take his sympathy right now. It would crush me.

He waits a few seconds before he asks, “What happened to the guy?”

“Since I was in such bad shape right after, the police ruled it an accident. Found a broken liquor bottle on the floorboard and two full bottles in the passenger seat. Calvin planned it well, made it look like I was heading out to a party or something. The friend that I was staying with had no idea what happened, of course. Turns out the police were going to charge me. I couldn’t believe it. Until I found out why they hadn’t. When I met with the cop who investigated it, he mentioned that my boyfriend’s father had cleared things up for me and that I’d better be thankful that I ‘had connections, young lady,’” I mimic, using my best deep, cop voice. “The whole thing was ridiculous. I knew right then that there would be no point in trying to tell them what really happened. Calvin was protected. When your father is a wealthy, influential politician . . . Well, you know how that goes. I just got tangled up with the wrong guy all the way around.”

“So that’s it? No justice? That bastard just got off scot-free?” His tone has a hard edge.

I shrug. The ending to my story is far from perfect, far from even satisfactory, but I came to terms with the unfairness of life a long time ago.

“Some people have a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

There’s a pause during which I can hear Rogan’s controlled breathing. I know he has something to say and I appreciate that he’s not saying it. It won’t help anything to be angry. It didn’t help me at all.

“At least now I understand,” Rogan finally says, his voice quiet as he sits up and reaches forward to stroke my cheek with his fingertips.

“Understand what?”

“Understand why you push people away.”

“Most people don’t. They don’t get it. But it doesn’t matter. This keeps me safe. Keeps me from getting hurt.”

“I hope you know that I would never hurt you.”

My grin is lopsided and humorless. “That’s what they all say.”

“Only I mean it.”

“I think Calvin did, too. In his own twisted way. He just wanted something of his own, something no one could take away from him. And that thing was me.”

“I don’t care what he wanted. There’s never a good enough reason for a man to hurt a woman like that. Never.”

“I had to stop thinking that way a long time ago,” I say, pulling Rogan’s hand away from my face. I can’t lean on him right now. I can’t accept his strength. I need to be able to relive this and be at peace with it on my own. “I carried a combination of fear and anger and horrible grief with me for two years afterward. My family was dead, my dreams were dead. My present, my future, my hope—everything was gone. I had nothing. Thankfully one of my professors came to visit me at the hospital. She thought maybe one day I’d change my mind about acting. She thought I should at least keep my foot in the door, so she gave me the number of Sebastian, a man she knew in the makeup business. I’m glad she came, because without her and Sebastian, I’d have had no future.

“So, almost a year after the fire, after rehab and all the surgeries, when I felt and looked almost human again, I called Sebastian. He said my professor had talked me up and that he’d take me on as his apprentice, but only if I could show promise. He flew me out to California for what amounted to an audition. Turns out I had a knack for making ugly things pretty and beautiful things more so. I worked with him for a year and a half before I got the job here with the studio. I moved to Enchantment right away and haven’t looked back since. Until now.”

“I don’t even know what to say,” Rogan confesses. I see all sorts of tightly controlled emotions on his face, but there’s only one I’m searching for. It’s why I understood him that day in the makeup room when I first saw his scars.

“You see why I didn’t pity you when I saw your scars? I knew how you felt. I knew that pity is like acid for people like us. It eats away at what little there is left of our soul. I’d rather someone hate me or think I’m backward and shy and weird than pity me.”

“I don’t pity you. But I do pity that asshole ex of yours if I ever run into him.”

I shake my head. “He’s not worth it. He’s not worth another second of my misery. I gave him too much already.”

“Sometimes we don’t give it. Sometimes people take it when we aren’t looking. It’s like they rip it out and by the time we realize it, the damage is done.”

“Is that how you feel about your father?”

“In a way. It’s like we were an okay family, and then, before I even knew that we were broken, he’d already stolen something from me. Something I couldn’t get back.” He looks off into the distance behind my shoulder, lost in time, falling silent for several seconds before he turns his eyes back to mine. “The thing is, we can still survive. Even if pieces are scarred. Or dead. Or even missing. We can still survive. We can still live.”

I glance down at my fingers where they fidget in my lap, clasping and unclasping, clasping and unclasping. “I’m not sure I’ll ever really live again. I feel like the star of a fairy tale that went wrong. So, so wrong. Like Beauty turned into the beast. In the blink of an eye. So much more than just my skin died in the fire that day. I lost everything.”

“Katie, look at me,” Rogan insists, his finger tipping my face up toward his. “You’re not a beast. You’re still one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Your scars don’t change that. The problem is, you won’t take my word for it. You don’t believe it. And unfortunately, I can’t make you see it. You have to find it in the mirror, and you need to. You survived, but now you need to live. Because when you aren’t living, you’re dying a little more every day.”

I feel my chin begin to tremble against his finger. “I’m trying. This . . . you are the closest I’ve come to living in a long time.”

“Then let me bring you back to life,” he whispers, brushing his lips over mine in a kiss even softer than his words. “Inch by inch, day by day, touch by touch.” I close my eyes and let him soothe away the worry, the fear, the ash that I’ve carried in a bucket where my heart used to be. “Will you? Will you let me?” My eyelashes flutter up to find his jewel-like green eyes staring intensely down into mine. “Please,” he breathes. I more see the word on his mouth rather than hear it.

The Katie I’ve fashioned from the remains of who I used to be hesitates, but within seconds, the lonely shell of the girl I was sighs into Rogan’s descending mouth. “Okay,” I manage and then his kiss turns into fire.

•   •   •

Monday. It’s incredible what a difference a couple of days makes. I can’t remember a better weekend. Ever. Granted, it had a few rough patches, but the good more than made up for the bad. Even as a child, when practically every day was loaded with some kind of happy memory of my parents, I can’t remember feeling so whole and optimistic. It almost worries me, like I should be waiting for the world to cave in around me and demolish the little glimmer of hope I’m beginning to glimpse.

I don’t know what kind of future Rogan and I could have, if any, but just the prospect, just the consideration of a tomorrow with someone is a huge step for me. I truly thought I was going to be alone. Forever.

There’s a hitch in my step as I walk through the door to work. Nearly every morning since I’ve been here I’ve run into Ronnie first thing. We share our little ritualistic greeting and then go on with our day. Only today, things are different. And not just because of Rogan.

My carefree, happy morning just took a stressful turn as my eyes scan the hall for Ronnie. I don’t see him anywhere.

But who I do see is Rogan.

My lips twitch up into a small, relieved smile when I spot his tall physique. He’s clad in the rattiest jeans I’ve ever seen, along with black boots, a black tee, and a wicked grin that makes me blush. He didn’t leave my house until almost dawn. Said he wanted to be there when his brother got up so he could fix their breakfast, as was his habit. Of course I didn’t argue, even though I was loath to see him go. Much more than I would’ve expected when we’ve only really known each other for a few weeks. That alone should be a warning sign.

His sparkling green eyes watch my every step until I stop in front of him. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he drawls.

Butterflies beat their gossamer wings against the walls of my stomach, of my chest. I forgot what this feels like—this intimate feeling of knowing someone, of being close to them in a way that binds you, that turns every glance, every smile, every brush of the hand to delicious innuendo. To carefully controlled passion, biding its time until it can be unleashed.

I’m reveling in the moment, in the sensation, right up until Rogan begins to lean toward me. It shakes me from my fantasy world and I take a step back, glancing left and right.

I clear my throat, meeting his frown with another smile. “Good morning.” When the wrinkle between his eyes deepens to a trench, I continue. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You sure about that?”

I glance around again to make sure no one is watching or listening. “I’m positive. I usually run into Ronnie first thing in the morning.”

Rogan’s skeptical frown disappears in a blaze of fury that burns across his handsome features. “That asshole knows better than to get near you. He won’t look at you, talk to you, talk about you ever again. Hell, he’d better not even mention your name if he knows what’s good for him.”

My grin widens. God, I love that he’s protective. It’s so nice to feel like someone cares, like someone is caring for me. I haven’t felt like that since the accident when my parents died. “Even though I couldn’t let you do anything to him, I love the sentiment.”

“I love that you think you could stop me.”

That gives me pause. “It would make things hard for me here. At work. You do understand that, don’t you?”

I can see that he does, but he doesn’t like it. “Yeah. I get it. But still, he’d better be very careful.” As his anger dissipates, I see his eyes narrow. “Is that why you’re keeping your distance? Because of work?” Reluctantly, I nod. He drops his voice in response. “Because it seems that just a few hours ago, we were about as close as two people are able to get. Chest to chest, belly to belly, my co—”

I clear my throat very loudly, interrupting him even as my cheeks blaze with color and heat. “So, you’re early again, Mr. Rogan. You must be a morning person.” I feel all flustered now. In the best possible, albeit most disconcerting, way.

“Oh, I’m very much a morning person.” His wink reminds me of how he left me in the wee hours—sated, boneless, with the imprint of his body still fresh and warm on mine. Yes, he’s definitely a morning person. And a night person. And a noon person.

I widen my eyes, a silent plea for him to stop his suggestive teasing, but all the while my lips are trembling. It’s a struggle to suppress the girlishly delighted giggle dying to get out.

“What’s the matter, Beautiful Katie?” he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear. “You look flushed. Dirty mind?”

Oh God! Dirty mind, indeed.

With a slight shake of my head and a tightly controlled smile, I make my way around Rogan, who falls into step beside me. I can feel his masculine gloat hitting me like waves of heat, causing my skin to feel dewy and hot from head to toe.