Текст книги "Tough Enough"

Автор книги: M. Leighton

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Rogan starts to whistle. It’s a happy sound from a happy man. Or at least he seems to be happy. There’s a glimmer to his eyes, and they want to crinkle at the corners, like he has a secret. Or maybe a wink on deck. And that makes me happy. I shouldn’t care about his state of contentment. But I do. I feel so good that it would seem far less “good” if he weren’t good, too. But he seems good. We both seem good. And that is very good.

Although I keep my attention focused straight ahead, I’m aware of the sidelong glances we are getting as we make our way along the hall to my little cubby. I’m not at all surprised when I walk through the door to find Mona standing in the center of the room, arms crossed over her ample chest, toe tapping in agitation. She looks like a stripper dressed in school-teacher attire. She’s wearing a pencil-slim black skirt and a white blouse that’s at least two sizes too small. Her long legs are encased in fishnets and her feet in stilettos. All she needs is a riding crop, some smart glasses and hair that’s piled messily on top of her head so she can whip it down dramatically.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking in her petulant expression and rigid posture.

“I’m feeling very disenfranchised,” she explains.

I glance over at Rogan, who’s already smiling and shaking his head.

“Word of the day?”

She cracks a grin. “Yeah, why? Did I use it wrong?”

“Depends on what you were trying to say,” I tell her as I walk past her to lay my purse on the counter. I turn back to her, feeling both pleased and nervous when Rogan comes to stand beside me, leaning his tall body against the counter next to me and crossing his arms and ankles. I can literally feel the warmth from his body. It teases me, beckoning me closer. I plant my feet and make a point to stand up straight, not giving in.

Mona’s eyes are narrow now as she looks back and forth between Rogan and me. I can see the wheels of her romance book–polluted mind going a mile a minute. Finally, her posture eases and her face lights up with glee. She taps the tips of her fingers together in a tiny clap.

“Eeeeeee,” she squeals in a hushed voice. “Okay, I’m not mad anymore.”

She knows. I don’t even have to ask about her reaction. I know how to interpret it. It’s nothing that I really want to talk about with her, though, especially not in front of Rogan, so I steer the conversation elsewhere. “If that’s what you were trying to say, then yes, you used the word wrong.”

Mona waves me off, her expression saying she couldn’t care less now. She’s got something else to think about. And the thing is, Mona is like a dog with a bone. She won’t be letting this go until she can talk to me about it. In great detail, I’m sure. “I don’t care. Today is a good day. We should celebrate.”

Before I can respond, Rogan speaks up beside me. “Maybe tomorrow. She owes me a lunch and I’m collecting today.”

My insides beam with happiness and I try not to smile. “I guess that takes care of my lunch plans,” I tell Mona casually.

“I want to buy her a piece of pie,” he adds, a bit too softly. I want to look over at him, but I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll see something naughty in his eyes and I’ll get all flummoxed.

Her face splits in the world’s biggest smile and her eyes bounce back and forth between us. “Well, in that case, I’ll just make other arrangements. Maybe tomorrow,” she offers as she starts to back out of the room.

“I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” Rogan says, making Mona giggle delightedly.

“God, you two are too cute.” And then she’s gone, her excited squeal trailing behind her.

Rogan waits for a few seconds and then walks to the door. He closes and leans against it. His eyes meet mine and electricity lights up my stomach. I know perfectly well that if we were any number of other places, he’d start undressing me. And I’d let him.

He holds my gaze as he walks his sexy walk back toward me, not stopping until his hands are gripping the counter on either side of me and his face is about two inches from mine.

“What are you thinking?” he asks in his low, velvety bedroom voice.

I can’t think past honesty. “That you make my stomach feel like the fourth of July.”

He grins and laughs, an evil, satisfied laugh. Moisture rushes into my panties. God, this man!

“What are you thinking?”

“That I didn’t realize how hard this is gonna be,” he admits.

“How hard what’s going to be?” I play dumb, but I know exactly what he means. I just want to hear him say it.

“Seeing you, being so close to you yet not being able to touch you.” As he speaks, he leans in to rub his cheek against mine, his lips brushing my ear and causing chills to spread down my arm.

I clear my throat and swallow so that I can speak through the desert sand that has filled my mouth. “Well, you’ll just have to make do, won’t you?”

“Mmmm,” he responds noncommittally as he presses his lips to the space beneath my ear and then drags them down the side of my throat to nip my collarbone with his blunt teeth. “Or maybe I’ll just have to think of something else.”

“Like what?” My voice is already breathless.

“Like where I can find you alone, for just a few minutes, so I can reach up under your skirt and find out if your panties are wet.”

Before I can think to reply, Rogan reaches up under the knee-length edge of my skirt and slides his hand up between my legs, cupping my damp skin through my underwear.

“Oh shit, that’s hot,” he moans just before he covers my mouth with his own.

His kiss is meant to incinerate. And it does. My limbs burn with the need to wrap themselves around him, to hold him close as he buries his body inside mine. My back arches, an unconscious admission of my inner turmoil.

All of a sudden, Rogan backs away. My eyelids flutter open reluctantly and I focus on his handsome, passion-filled face. He looks flustered.

“Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his short, sandy hair. “Just . . . damn.”

I grin. I can’t help it. This big, gorgeous man wants me. Me. The shy one. The short one. The dark one. The scarred one. In a sea of tall, thin, beautiful people, he wants me. I might never get over that. This is the land of make-believe, though. Within the walls of this studio, the unlikely happens every day. On film. So maybe, just maybe, it can happen for me, too.

Rogan reaches down to smooth my skirt. It’s such a sweet, familiar . . . intimate gesture, my heart gives a great heave of contentedness, like a sigh. “So, I guess you gathered that I’m taking you to lunch today. Do you think you’ll have time to come and watch me film?”

I want to. God, how I want to! “Probably not this morning. Mornings are always busier because everyone has to be in makeup. But maybe this afternoon. If there aren’t a lot of touch-ups and specialties . . .”

He grins, that sexy, lopsided one I love. “Then I’ll look for you.”

“Are you sure you won’t be too . . . distracted?” I ask, running my finger along the placket of my shirt and looking up at him from beneath my lashes. I feel gratified when I hear the air hiss through his gritted teeth. It’s been a long time since I felt the power of my sexuality, my femininity. It’s hard to feel feminine and beautiful and powerful when you’re hiding such ugliness. But somehow, Rogan makes me feel beautiful. Almost like my scars didn’t happen. Almost.

“You’re evil,” he says softly.

I laugh as I straighten, tipping my head toward the makeup chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Rogan. If I don’t hurry up and do you, I’ll be running late all day.”

I hear a low growl coming from behind me as Rogan takes his seat. “You’re really gonna have to watch what you say.”

And so begins the light, teasing, flirtatious tone of the day. And I’ve never been happier.

TWENTY-FOUR

Rogan

It isn’t exactly easy to concentrate, but considering the kinds of scenes I’m taping for the next few days, thinking of Katie keeps me in the right frame of mind for them. I only wish that it was her lips I was kissing, her body I was smashing up against mine.

“Cut!” Tony yells, and I step away from Rayelle. Her eyes are wide and glazed.

“Shit! I’m going to need my vibrator since you won’t rehearse with me,” she says with a pretty yet annoying pout.

To this, I say nothing. Only smile.

“Lunch, you bunch of hacks,” Tony teases as he stretches and makes his way over to me. He claps me on the shoulder. “Good job today, Rogan. I take it you got to run lines over the weekend.”

“I did. It helped.”

Tony grins as he glances between Rayelle and me. “I can see that.”

I don’t disabuse him of the notion that I can plainly see he’s getting. The less I say, the less attention will be drawn to Katie, which is how I know she wants it. Me personally, I don’t give a damn who knows, but . . . this isn’t just about me.

“Later,” I say briefly before I make my exit to go find Katie.

When I reach her little room, she’s wiping off the counter, humming to herself again, hips swaying inside her chaste skirt. I love it when she does that. It’s a soft, soothing sound and, for some reason, I get the impression she only does it when she’s happy. And I hope she’s happy. I sure as hell am.

“Wha’cha hummin’?” I ask, leaning against the doorjamb to watch her. This time, I can’t identify the tune.

She whirls around guiltily at the sound of my voice. “Uhhh . . .” Her cheeks pinken, which intrigues me. Why wouldn’t she want me to know what song is on her mind? “Just a tune that’s stuck in my head,” she hedges.

I just grunt my acceptance, willing to let her off the hook. This time.

She tosses her wipe in the trash and takes her purse out of the drawer she keeps it in. As she walks toward me, I have to ask, “Was it called ‘I Wanna Get Naked with Rogan’?”

She grins, which I’ve seen her do more of in the last two days than I have in the last four weeks. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

I stuff my hands in the pockets of my black “set” slacks, resisting the urge to wind my arms around her tiny waist and pull her to me. “Maybe I’ll sing it for you tonight.” We haven’t made plans, but I figure this is a good way to test the waters without pressing her.

“You sing?” she asks, scooting past me out into the hall.

“For you, I’d sing like a mockingbird.”

She blushes prettily again, something I could get used to.

I keep my hands in my pockets the whole way to the diner so that I don’t touch her. It seems so natural to want to be in contact with her that I don’t trust myself not to reach for her by accident. It’s like my hands gravitate toward her, my palms itch for her, my fingers burn for her. They have a memory of their own, one that can’t forget the way she responds to me, the way her body comes alive for me.

I focus more closely on what she’s saying when I feel my dick stir in my pants. Shit! Why can’t we be going somewhere private? Or some place where she doesn’t care who sees? Like back in New York, where everyone is anonymous.

For a few seconds, I’m lost imagining a version of Katie where she’d risk discovery just to be with me. Where she’d risk some sort of legal penalty just to feel me hike up one of her prim little dresses. I can imagine just such a scene—Katie looking out over the edge of the Empire State Building at night, me easing my cock into her silky smooth pussy from behind, her coming so hard she can barely enjoy the spectacular view.

Shiiit!

“Are you okay?” Katie asks. I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of the diner. My hand is on the handle of the door, but I haven’t opened it yet. I’m just staring down into the eyes that I see even when she’s nowhere around.

Her forehead is wrinkled in concern. God, I want to touch her cheek, put my hands in her hair. Kiss her. But I don’t.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just . . . thinking.”

“About what?” she asks, slipping through the door when I finally have the presence of mind to open it for her.

“You don’t wanna know,” I caution. When she glances back at me, I wink and her eyes widen a fraction. “But then again, maybe you do.”

She’s stopped just inside the tiny, retro restaurant and I’m less than six inches away. I feel the magnetism between us like a tangible thing. There might as well be hands on my back, physically pushing me toward her. I feel the pull that strongly.

“Maybe you can tell me about it later,” she says softly, glancing around nervously. When her eyes find their way back to mine, they’re like coals of fiery want in the shy field of her face. She’s the most amazing contradiction I’ve ever met. I could explore her for days. Weeks. Her body, her mind. Her soul.

“Promise?”

Her answer is a single nod and a slight curve to the corners of her mouth. So prim. So bashful. Such a little vixen when my lips are on her skin.

My balls throb in agreement.

“We’d better order,” I say, my teeth gritted in determination. “Before I throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here.”

From the corner of my eye, I see her lips twitch up into more of a grin. I love teasing her. But I might love making her smile even more.

After we are seated, the waitress brings our drinks. “You ready to order, sugar?” she asks. For most other women, that would sound too . . . old, but somehow this cute, young blonde pulls it off.

I smile politely. “I think I’ll have the double bacon cheeseburger with fries and a side salad.”

“That’s enough protein, even for a man like you,” says the waitress, eyeing me appreciatively. I don’t think much of it. It happens a lot.

She watches me for a few seconds longer before she finally drags her eyes over to Katie. Her demeanor cools considerably, which pisses me off. I know how catty women can be, especially ones like this waitress and most of the conceited starlets I work with these days, but it rubs me the wrong way to see anybody treat Katie with anything less than kindness and respect.

“And what’ll you have?”

Katie’s small smile is the same polite, hollow gesture I’ve seen all too often. “I think I’ll have the Cobb salad. Ranch dressing, please.”

She puts her menu back in the stand, but I tack on dessert for her. “And a piece of pie.”

“What kind?” the waitress asks when she turns to me, all warm and smiley again.

I look to Katie. “The green kind?” I can’t imagine what flavor it might be. Pistachio? Key lime?

Although still small, her grin turns more genuine, this time reaching her eyes. “How do you know I like the green kind?”

I don’t answer; I simply nod to the waitress. “The green kind.”

“One piece of key lime it is.”

“With extra whipped cream,” I add before she walks off.

“The cream is the best part,” the waitress says, looking back over her shoulder.

I ignore her in favor of bringing my attention back to the fascinating creature seated across from me. Her eyes are slits as she studies me.

“How did you know about the pie?”

“The day I was in here and Victoria found me, you were eating right over there,” I say, pointing to the booth she and Mona sat in. “You were right in my line of vision. I watched you eat your whole meal, but when you got to the pie . . . Holy. Shit.”

“What?”

“That first bite you took . . . God! You slid that fork into your mouth and closed your lips around it. Your eyelids sort of fluttered shut and you pulled the fork out so slowly, like you were already enjoying the taste on your tongue. You didn’t chew for a few seconds. You just sat there with your eyes closed, the expression on your face something like it is when you slide down on my cock. Like it’s so good you wanna savor every second of it. God! Damn, it was so hot.” Despite the fact that we’re in a greasy spoon, surrounded by people, blood gushes south to bring my dick to life. I shift uncomfortably. “I’ve never wanted to be a piece of pie so bad in all my life. To feel those lips wrapped around me . . . to feel that tongue licking my skin . . . Hell, I’d do almost anything.”

Katie’s chest is rising and falling more quickly. She leans back, folding her hands together primly in front of her on the tabletop. “Well, we’ll see what the afternoon holds,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “I like more, ahem, flavors than just key lime,” she adds, reaching for her water and taking a sip. Despite her refusal to meet my eyes, despite her unaffected manner, I know she’s feeling this, too. Her hand trembles as she sets her glass back on the table.

I smile. I’m sure it looks wolfish. It feels wolfish. “I can’t wait.”

Her lips curl. Just at the corners. So demure. So deceiving. I know what lies behind it now.

And I’ve never wanted her more.

TWENTY-FIVE

Katie

I wasn’t ready for lunch to end, but the bright side is that if I don’t get to see Rogan on set, I’ll evidently see him tonight. He hasn’t yet said when, but he talks about it as if it’s a foregone conclusion.

Some feminists might take offense at that, but I don’t. I like that he makes it obvious that he wants me, that he wants to spend time with me. It’s not like I’m really man or dating savvy anymore. I mean, I had no clue that Ronnie would attempt what he did at the lake. I guess I’m to the point now where I kind of need things spelled out for me.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s two forty-five and I’m caught up with my work for the moment. I think of Rogan’s last words to me when he left me at my door after lunch. He had a hungry look on his face that made me ache to feel his skin against mine.

“Come to the set if you get a chance. You . . . inspire me.”

He reached out and brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, like he couldn’t not touch me anymore. He did it so quickly that I couldn’t complain, and then he was gone. My lip felt warm and tingly for at least half an hour after he left.

I don’t know why he wants me to come and watch him, but I’m inclined to go, mainly because I want to see him. A few minutes this morning and an hour at lunch isn’t enough. It seems the more I see of him, the more I want to see of him.

Throwing caution and my over-thinking ways to the wind, I lock the drawer with my purse inside and head to the other end of the complex, to the stage where Rogan is filming. I sneak in without much notice. Whether because I’ve perfected being unobtrusive or because I’m as unnoticeable as a wallflower, I don’t know, but no one seems to be attuned to me, especially not the way Rogan is.

I’m standing along the back wall, watching the part of the scene that followed what Rogan and I rehearsed. I could only assume that there would be a steam after it. I mean, the dialogue seemed to be leading up to it, but also because it’s a cable show. Liberties are taken to add some naughtier material. I knew this. I just never knew what it might feel like to watch Rogan.

He’s saying his lines a little more stiffly than he did with me, but I cease to notice when he leans in and kisses Rayelle. God, it’s like someone stabbed me in the chest with a broadsword. I have to look away for a few seconds to collect myself and remind my heart that this is all for show. It’s fiction. Make-believe.

I drag my eyes back to the actors. They are separated now, still in character, and when Rogan’s eyes sweep out as he gestures, they stutter, flying back to meet mine before he continues on. His hesitation was barely noticeable, but it was enough to cause Tony, the director, to cut the take and reshoot it.

I see Rogan’s jaw flex, but then his eyes are on mine again, heated and a little possessive. He and Rayelle take their places again for yet another take. I watch, even though I dread what’s to come.

This time, Rogan says his lines much more smoothly, much more convincingly, but he also dives into his kiss with Rayelle much more . . . enthusiastically, too. As hard as it is to wait, I don’t leave until the take is over. I’m not surprised when Tony commends them on it. They certainly had me convinced.

I don’t wait for Rogan’s eyes to find me again before I make my exit. I’m not sure I want to see them darkened with desire. Especially after kissing someone as beautiful as Rayelle.

My feet feel heavy as I make my way back to my little place of peace in the makeup and entertainment world. I’m almost glad when a tech brings in an extra for a retouch on makeup. It’s fairly involved, what with their being blood and some torn tissue written into the scene. It takes up a nice chunk of my afternoon, keeping me from replaying Rogan’s scene over and over in my head.

It’s as I’m cleaning my station, preparing to leave for the day, that one of the set assistants gives a swift knock on the door frame and moves inside just long enough to hand me a folded note. “Mr. Rogan asked me to bring this to you.”

The note is short, simple and to the point.

Don’t leave yet. Wait for me.

–R

It’s written in a slanted, masculine scrawl that somehow suits him. And it makes my stomach clench against a little pinch of hurt. I caution myself not to make too much of what I saw, repeating the mantra, It was contrived, it was contrived, it was contrived. But for some reason, that doesn’t ease the vaguely nauseous feeling swimming in my gut.

The assistant smiles politely and takes off without another word. I fold the note and stick it in my pocket, turning back toward my daily cleanup duties. And I wait.

Time ticks slowly on. Absently, I listen to the sounds of everyone else leaving for the day as I continue cleaning, anything to keep my hands busy. I glance up at the clock, then out into the darkened hallway. I don’t know how much longer I should wait, or if maybe he forgot about me.

Another pang registers in my chest at the thought.

I turn back to my furious scrubbing and I block out sound and thought and feeling as much as I can as I concentrate. That’s why I don’t hear Rogan until the snap of the door shutting startles me.

I turn around to find him approaching me much as I imagine a starving lion might approach his prey—quickly, savagely and with purpose.

One moment he’s striding across the room, the next he’s pushing me up against the counter, driving his hands into my hair. He kisses me with all the abandon of a wild animal. I’m elated and skeptical and overwhelmed by his passion.

I drag my mouth away from his. “Rogan, wait. Please.” I struggle to catch my breath as dark green eyes devour my face.

“I thought thinking about you would help with my scenes. And it did. Right up until I kissed her. She wasn’t you. No one else is you.”

And just like that, all my insecurities, all my pain, all my niggling fears are washed away in the tide of his desire. This is for me. All that was for me, too. Whether or not I can see why, Rogan wants me.

“I thought . . . It looked like . . .” I stammer, feeling silly now.

Rogan cups my face. “When are you going to realize that you’re the one I want, Katie? The only one I want.”

“But . . . it just doesn’t make any sense,” I argue.

“It does to me,” he says, bending his head toward mine, spreading kisses over my face to punctuate his sentences. “The shy way you look away from me when I watch you. The sexy way you lick your lips when you concentrate. The delicious way you pant when you’re gettin’ ready to come.” Rogan’s hands slip around the tops of my thighs and lift until I’m sitting on the counter. My skirt is hiked up and Rogan is standing between my knees. “Your midnight eyes, your lush tits, your perfect ass. You’re all I can think about most days. And now that I’ve been inside you . . . God!” Rogan spreads my legs farther and pulls me toward him until we are pressed intimately together. He grinds against me and I grip the counter, leaning back and holding on. “My body craves you.”

He dives into my mouth like it’s an oasis in a barren land. His tongue swirls around mine in a ravenous rhythm that’s like a drug. And I’m drugged. Out of my mind under his influence. “My hands feel you. Even when you’re not around.” As if to prove his point, Rogan backs away just enough to slide his hands under my skirt and up the outsides of my thighs. He runs his fingers under the edge of my panties, tracing the elastic to the damp material between my legs. Frantic and not thinking, I reach for his zipper. I need to feel his hardness. I need to feel that he wants me. I need to have it in my hands, a tangible thing. When I wind my fingers around it, it jumps against my palm. “And my cock . . . it throbs to be inside you,” he says, moving his fingertips into my crease. He moans loudly as he spreads moisture over my clit and gently massages it.

Flexing his hips toward me, Rogan covers my fingers with his own, gripping his length and guiding it toward my body. He nudges my legs farther apart and rubs the head between my folds, the silken knob gliding smoothly over my clit.

Back and forth, he moves over me, pushing me closer and closer to the edge. “If I could make a living finding new ways to make you come, that’s all I’d do. Every day for the rest of my life.” He teases me with the wide crown of his shaft, the friction unbearably delicious. He eases down toward my entrance and then moves away again, a dance meant to torture. And that’s what it’s doing. “My mouth waters when I think about the way you taste. Better than pie,” he says hoarsely, reminding me of our lunch conversation.

Suddenly urgent to mark him with moments and phrases and memories like he’s marking me, I push against his chest until he releases me, and I drop to my knees on the floor in front of him.

Reaching around and sinking my hands into his firmly perfect butt, I lick the glistening head and then ease my lips down over Rogan, taking as much of him into my mouth as I can, which isn’t nearly all of him. I taste the essence of me mingled with the flavor of his skin, a salty, intoxicating cocktail that has heat and more moisture gushing into my panties.

I moan against him and Rogan threads his fingers into my hair, hissing his approval as I consume him with mouth and hands, even running my tongue along the crease between his heavy balls. “If you were on the pill, I’d spread your legs and come all over you,” he growls, rocking his hips against me.

I work my way back up his shaft, sucking and licking until I feel him tighten against my palm. “I’m gonna come,” he breathes with great effort. A tingle of satisfaction ripples through me and when his warmth pours into my mouth, my sex throbs with need.

I take every drop, savoring him as the ache between my legs increases. And then hands are reaching under my arms to pull me upright. Rogan’s mouth covers mine in a savage kiss as his fingers find my core, thrusting into me and stealing my breath. “Oh God!” I cry, my knees going weak.

Rogan wraps one strong arm around my waist and lifts, carrying me the few feet to my makeup chair, where he deposits me, dropping one leg over the arm, leaving me wide open to the assault of his mouth. It’s his turn to drop to his knees, push my panties aside and bring me racing toward the precipice, sucking and thrusting me all the way over it.

Pleasure crashes through me like a violent electrical storm, innervating my every muscle fiber. My back arches, my feet flex, and my fingernails dig into the armrests as Rogan penetrates me with his tongue, licking my release as it pours out for him.

Slowly, his aggressive penetration turns to soft, leisurely strokes as though he senses exactly where I am and what I need. I lie limply in the chair before him as my body drifts down from the hazy heaven of my climax. After two long, languorous minutes, Rogan begins to rain butterfly kisses across my stomach, which is partly bared by the drastically skewed position of my skirt.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for all day,” he says, glancing up at me as he rights my panties and tugs my skirt down to cover me. “Can I give you a ride home?”

“Yes,” I breathe, giving in to the urge to smile.

Rogan, about to rise, stops and leans forward to run his forefinger over the curve of my bottom lip. “And this . . . this smile is what I’ll wait for all day tomorrow.”

Neither of us says another word as I cut off the lights and Rogan leads me from the building.