That was what she’d done when her parents had died, how she’d gotten through it, stayed strong for her sisters. Every time the crushing loss entered her head, she just pushed it away, refused to acknowledge it. At moments, she’d pretended her mom and dad were just somewhere else, that something was keeping them all apart, but that they were somewhere, alive and well and missing her the same way she missed them. And eventually, the pain had eased, but it had still felt sort of like a dream, a thing she didn’t really have to accept.
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 unavoidable 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.
* * *
“She’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.
* * *
April 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.
And yet as she drove the streets near her condo in Coral Gables, she soon found herself heading north on roads that ran parallel to the expressway. And even as her car crossed the A1A bridge onto Miami Beach, she continued telling herself she wasn’t headed anyplace in particular.
Or . . . maybe she was going to the beach. For a nice night walk. To calm all the upheaval inside her. That sounded peaceful, relaxing. She didn’t get to the beach often enough for someone who lived in such close proximity.
Yet she had to give up even that fantasy when her car approached Rogan’s building a few blocks inland from the shore and she made the decision to pull into the adjacent lot, parking her Camry in the vacant spot next to his black Charger.
Putting the car in park, she sat staring dazedly at the hip, modern South Beach building. What am I doing here? Why on earth would I do this to myself?
It was late, almost eleven. A time actually considered early a few blocks away in the teeming bar district, but at her place, if she were still there, it would be nearly bedtime. How late did Rogan Wolfe stay up? Probably ’til the wee hours. Maybe he’d found something better to do by now. Perhaps he’d found some other woman to harass—or possess.
Despite all the doubts and admonitions running through her mind, she found herself moving almost as if on autopilot, exiting the car, clicking the lock button on her key fob, turning toward the white stucco structure that made her heart beat faster now just looking at it and knowing who—what—waited inside.
Numb legs led her up the walk and through the security door that another resident held open for her, havi
ng arrived at the same time and clearly assuming she lived there as well. It seemed like kismet. Or her doom. But something kept her moving closer, closer, to the apartment where she’d let him fuck her more than a week ago. Fucking. That was totally what it had been.
As she approached his door, her arms felt strange—numb as well. She suffered the odd sensation of her entire body feeling both heavier than usual yet unaccountably light at the same time. It was like walking in a dream.
She heard herself knock on the door more than felt it. The sound was jarring, in fact. God, why did I come here? What on earth do I want?
But . . . maybe she just wanted to talk. To feel like she knew him better.
Maybe she wanted things to quit feeling so . . . intense between them, so sexually charged every single second.
Maybe getting to know him would make what they’d done seem . . . well, at least a little better.
Yet when he opened the door, looking sexy as hell, regret instantly flooded her.
He appeared scruffy, unshaven, wearing faded jeans and a white tee, his thick hair messy. He was eating an apple. And his eyes widened in instant lust at the sight of her.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said too softly, following the impulse to lower her gaze. She often found it difficult to meet his intense looks.
And in reply, he simply chucked what remained of his apple into the wastebasket next to the door, grabbed her by the arm to pull her inside, pressed her to the nearest wall, and kissed her senseless.
Chapter 8
When Rogan had seen it was her at his door, pure lust had taken over. In one way, even as he kissed her, he couldn’t believe she’d really shown up here, but in another . . . well, maybe when that knock had come he’d somehow known—felt—her on the other side. And either way, it hardly mattered. Either way he knew only the consuming need to kiss her.
Because the truth was, he’d thought about her ever since they’d parted ways this afternoon. He’d stayed frustrated, just wanting her to come to her senses, see that she should give in to her desires and not make this so hard for both of them. There was nothing wrong with giving your body what it needed, and God knew the powerful urges that rushed through them when they came together were definitely telling them both what their bodies needed.
Give In To Me Page 10
