He walked back to the foot of the bed, still drumming the nightstick. “We fuck them with this,” he said, indicating the weapon.
Now April sucked in her breath. The stick was no bigger in circumference than Rogan’s cock, but it was much lengthier, looked scarier and potentially painful, and this just sounded kinky. Kinkier than anything else they’d done.
She said nothing in reply, though. Because she still trusted him. And even if she didn’t—well, she was literally chained to the bed, spread-eagle. So there was little else to do but brace herself.
“I want to see what your pussy looks like taking my nightstick into it,” he told her, his voice going more sultry now. “I want to see it moving in and out of your hungry, soaking-wet little cunt.”
She simply drew in another breath, waiting, uncertain but excited—because everything about being with Rogan excited her, always—until he went on. “And then, when I’m at work, walking down the street or driving my cruiser, every time I glance down and see it in my belt, I can remember fucking you with it.”
And with that, he positioned the knobby end where she could feel herself indeed drenched and open for him, and he pushed it in.
She cried out, stunned by the intrusion even though she’d known it was coming, and trying to get used to how it felt. Like his cock, but even harder, less forgiving. And despite herself, it felt good to be filled. She would have preferred it to be him, but it still felt good to have something inside her there.
After that, he began to move it—thrusting it in and out, in and out. Not too hard, but not gently, either. A whimper left her with each plunge it took into her warmth. And when she thought of how she must look to him, how helpless, how sexual, how at his mercy, it filled her with a pleasure she hadn’t quite expected.
Rogan watched with rapt attention as his nightstick traveled in and out of her perfect cunt. His cock got even harder when he realized he could hear it moving in her wetness. He loved her tame obedience, the fact that she didn’t even question him now—he wasn’t sure any woman had ever made him feel so trusted, so very . . . worthy, capable. He’d also loved it when he’d told her to struggle, too, and he decided he should do that more often.
And that’s when it hit him—perhaps oddly, or not—that it was sort of like she’d been holding herself hostage in life, at least in certain ways, and that maybe he’d . . . set her free. That perhaps his hostage ops training was suddenly serving him in a much more profound personal manner than he’d ever even imagined before. After all, if she could find a way to just surrender to what made her happy, what made her feel good, even when it went against everything she believed about herself, wasn’t that a pretty great form of freedom? He let that idea fuel him as he pleasured her.
Still fucking her with the nightstick, listening to the hot little mewling sounds that echoed from her throat in response, he bent down to lick her clit as well. A deep moan left her, and he felt it in his gut. He licked her harder then, wanting to make her come while his nightstick was inside her—for some reason, the idea of her pussy contracting around it added to his lust. Or maybe it was the idea of making it happen that way, furthering the concept of making her take it, making her feel good in ways she never would if he didn’t force it on her.
God, why did he love that so much, being in such absolute control of her? He’d known he had some dominant tendencies in bed before now, but with April—damn, he fucking craved it. After all, it made sense that she needed this, for the reasons they’d discussed—she had too much responsibility in her life and needed him to take all that away when it came to sex. But why did he need it? He’d never even stopped to ask himself before now.
Maybe it was the opposite of why it worked for her? Maybe he craved control because he’d never had enough as a kid. Hell, for that matter, maybe that was why he’d become a cop—for the sense of control, authority, power. He knew he’d grown into the role, into appreciating it for the right reasons, but he hadn’t spent much time thinking about what had led him to it. Maybe he loved dominating her sexually—and being a police officer—because both gave him more of what he hadn’t gotten growing up.
But why the fuck are you worrying about that right now, for God’s sake? Pay attention to what you’re doing.
And so he did. He swirled his tongue around her distended clit until he felt compelled to suck on it, all while still moving his nightstick in and out of her drenched little cunt. And mmm, she was getting close—he could tell. From the sounds she made and the way she fucked his mouth now, and the nightstick, too. He used his free hand to reach up, twirl one nipple between his fingers, then pinch it—harder, harder.
And then she was coming—screaming it out, pumping against him and his nightstick, going wild beneath him—and he was well satisfied. Or as well satisfied as he could be without fucking her. And the time for that had definitely come—and the compulsion was an urgent one now.
Withdrawing the weapon, he flung it aside, off the bed, and hurried to undo his jeans. Reaching in his underwear, he extracted his aching cock, peered down at her looking so pretty and vulnerable cuffed to the bed, and bit off through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna fuck you so damn hard now, baby, you’re gonna beg me to stop.”
“Never,” she breathed, clearly still coming down from the orgasm, and just hearing that stiffened his dick all the more.
He rammed it into her then, as hard as he could, the move jolting her body. She cried out, rough passion etched on her face, and then he did as he’d promised—he fucked her as hard and long as he could. He bit and pinched her nipples. He dug his fingers into her ass. He kept things way more rough than gentle, sensing they were both into that right now. And then he even found himself reaching around, under her, pressing the tip of his middle finger into her tight, tiny asshole. She cried out, clearly shocked but pleasured, and moved against him more vigorously in response.
And then an utterly stunned look entered her gaze and she said, “Oh God, don’t stop, don’t stop—I’m coming again!”
He changed nothing, continued on exactly as they were. Her cheeks colored intensely with heat. And the next thing he knew, she was trembling and exploding in pleasure beneath him, sobbing jaggedly, and he realized they were definitely going to have to explore ass play some more, especially since he had the sudden and powerful urge to fuck her there.
But that wouldn’t happen right now, because—shit—he was coming, too, and he couldn’t stop. “Aw fuck, babe, I’m erupting in your sweet cunt—I’m coming in you so, so hard.”
And when it was over and he collapsed atop her, she whispered in his ear, “I know I’m not supposed to ask for things, but . . . could you undo the cuffs at my wrists?”
He found he didn’t mind the request in the slightest, all things considered, and told her, “Sure.” Reaching for the key he’d set on the bedside table, he let her hands loose, then asked, “Wrists hurting?”
And she said, “No,” letting her arms close over his shoulders. “I just wanted to put my arms around you.”
* * *
After that, they lay in bed talking. About everything and nothing. And she relished snuggling up to his beautifully naked body, having insisted he get that way for her, since he never really had before.
He told her more about his work and his friends in the H.O.T. program—he said he wanted her to meet Colt sometime soon. She talked about her work as well, and also relayed to him the new sense of peace she felt with her sisters just since last night, adding, “I’m realizing that if I’d stopped letting them push me around a long time ago, they would have let me. It was that simple.”
He simply shrugged. “Well, the way I see it, things usually happen when they’re supposed to, so this is probably when it was supposed to happen.”
There was more hot sex, too, and for the first time ever, she ended up on top, straddling him in the bed. She teased him, saying it looked like she was finally running things here, and he smacked her on the ass and said, “Keep i
t up, Ginger, and I’ll show you who’s running things.”
Later, they took a shower together—but that led to more sex, too. And April couldn’t remember a time in her entire life when she’d ever been more well pleasured or happier, in ways that came from both inside and out.
On paper, Rogan Wolfe was not the kind of guy anyone would expect to fit with her, but it turned out he was exactly what she needed. Being with him had become easy, and fun. And inexorably exciting, too, since she never knew what any given moment would hold. Surprising as it still seemed at times, she loved what he brought to her life.
And she also loved the way she’d opened up to him about so many things. She wasn’t normally that kind of person, but with him, for some reason, it had come easily. She knew it was partly because it had felt important to share some of herself—her emotions, her past—with a guy she was having such intimate sex with. But maybe it was also . . . just time for that. Maybe she’d been her straitlaced self for too long, kept too much bottled up inside her. And something about Rogan had inspired her to begin letting it spill out. She trusted him sexually, but she also knew she trusted him in other ways, too—she trusted him with her feelings, with her secrets, with her heart.
It was past midnight when they decided they were hungry and ordered a pizza. After buzzing the delivery guy into the building’s lobby and instructing him to come up, Rogan headed to the kitchen to pour soft drinks, calling to her, “My wallet’s on the coffee table, babe. There are a couple of twenties inside.”
When April reached for the wallet and flipped it open, the first thing she saw was one lone picture in a clear plastic sleeve—four dark-haired little boys wearing T-shirts and jeans, in front of a Christmas tree. She wanted to study it further, but when a knock came, she drew out a twenty-dollar bill and dropped the wallet back where she’d found it, then rushed to the door and paid for the pizza.
A minute later, she and Rogan met at the sofa, him with drinks, her placing the pizza box on the coffee table and opening it up. They shared more easy talk and ate—once or twice he kissed her, and they reminisced a bit about the great sex they’d had earlier.
But April’s thoughts kept coming back to the picture she’d seen—and to all the questions it created in her mind. And so finally she said, “I saw a picture in your wallet when I was paying the pizza guy. I’m guessing it was you and your brothers?”
He immediately appeared taken aback by the question, though he tried to hide it. It clearly hadn’t occurred to him that she’d see the picture when getting out the money. And as usual when she asked anything about his family, he withdrew his gaze, this time focusing on the slice of pizza on a plate in his lap. “Yeah,” he said quietly, and his tone held a certain finality, a silent warning to drop the subject.
Only she didn’t want to drop it. And she just didn’t think she should have to at this point. “So . . . could I look at it again? See which one is you? I’d like to know your brothers’ names, too.”
“No,” he said, wiping a napkin across his mouth, his tone conveying the same message as before, but more obviously this time.
Yet she refused to let that bully her into silence. Or submission. Even if that was the odd cornerstone of their relationship, she felt it applied mostly to the sexual part of things. And even if not . . . well, for them to have anything real, she had to be able to ask him questions. She had to be. It was only fair.
So as nicely and as calmly as she could, she asked, “Will you tell me more about your family, Rogan?” It was, after all, a reasonable request.
In response, he stayed quiet a moment, but then he said, “I think I’ve made it clear that it’s not a subject up for discussion.” And as he continued to avert his eyes from hers, she could sense the invisible wall he’d just erected between them again.
“Still?” she asked anyway. Because there was a part of her that couldn’t quite believe it.
“Yes, still,” he answered simply, resolutely.
She drew in a breath, blew it back out, considered her words. “Even after tonight?” Because tonight had been different. The same in many ways, and yet . . . they’d gone beyond their usual roles with each other. And the fact was, there’d been a lot of that lately, and it had been . . . good.
“Yep,” he said. Just that, nothing more.
And something in his attitude incensed her. “I can’t believe you!” she said, setting her pizza aside. She’d just lost her appetite.
Now he finally turned to look at her. “Why? What’s the big deal?” He looked as incredulous and angry as she felt.
And if he truly didn’t know the answer to that question, she would tell him. “The big deal is—I’ve given you everything, and you give me nothing.”
He still looked confused and angry. “What are you talking about? I give you plenty.”
“Sex,” she said. And not wanting to discount that, she added, “Damn good sex, too. But you give me nothing of you. Nothing real. You won’t open up to me, no matter what I do.”
His eyes grew wide and she could see that he still didn’t get it. “I open up to you all the time. I tell you lots of things, April. And I’m not that talkative of a guy, so maybe you’re getting a lot more of me than you realize.”
Huh. Well. She supposed that might be true, and that maybe she should take that into consideration. And yet . . . when it came right down to it, she felt that any secret standing between them at all was one too many. And maybe that was her fault. Maybe she wanted too much, too soon. Maybe she should be more patient.
But when it came right down to it, she wasn’t sure she could be. She wasn’t sure she wanted to get any deeper into a relationship that required patience and tiptoeing around a subject time and again. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be with someone who knew more about her than she knew about him. It didn’t seem like a level playing field.
And hell, maybe she had no right to complain. Who would expect a dominant/submissive relationship to create a level playing field, after all?
And yet, despite all the new things Rogan had taught her about herself, the one thing she still knew for certain was that she wouldn’t last long in a relationship that didn’t feel even, that didn’t feel wholly right. The submissive thing—somewhere along the way, she’d made peace with that and that part had come to feel right. But she needed something more back from him in order to make it all work.
“The thing is,” she said, turning on the couch to face him, whether or not he would look at her in return, “I’ve given you so many parts of myself and I’ve learned to be so extremely open with you—about everything. Sexually, which was a big deal for me, and you know that. But also about personal things, things from inside me. Rogan, I’ve trusted you with all of me. And if you can’t do something as simple as to tell me about your family, it feels like you don’t trust me back, or . . . or like you’re not willing to invest as much here as I am. And that’s not fair.”
She kept her gaze locked on his face, taking in every handsome contour, the strong set of his jaw, the sexy stubble that covered his chin by the end of each day—all the while willing him to give her an answer that would make her feel better. Please, Rogan, don’t shut me out. Just talk to me. There’s nothing you can’t tell me.
And finally he lifted his dark, arresting eyes to hers to say, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Ginger.” Only he didn’t sound very sorry.
And her heart plummeted.
And there suddenly seemed to be . . . no coming back from this.
She hadn’t purposely set forth an ultimatum, but really, in a way she had—at least inside herself. And even if he thought she was stupid for making so much of this, it mattered to her. It might seem like a small thing, but to her it was huge, and it was representative of their whole relationship. If he wouldn’t tell her about his family, what else wouldn’t he tell her? And if he threw those invisible walls up between them so quickly, with such ease, what did their relationship really amount to in the end?
&n
bsp; Maybe she’d been wrong and maybe it all was just sex. She’d always been woefully bad at forgetting how casually men could take sex, how easy it was for them to spend time with a woman—even very intimate time—without getting attached. Easy come, easy go.
And if that was what this still was to Rogan—just sex—then she didn’t want it. She’d put too much of herself into it, gotten too serious too fast.
And she didn’t want to get hurt any more than she already was.
So it was with thoughts of self-preservation in mind—along with the embarrassment of possibly having taken all this for much more than it was—that she stood up, very glad she’d gotten her clothes back on after that shower, and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”
Locating her purse on an end table, she grabbed it and headed for the door, trying not to see the painting that leaned against the wall next to it.
“Ginger,” he said then.
With her hand on the doorknob, she paused, looked back, met his sexy gaze.
“When I want you, you’ll come back,” he said.
But the words had come out weakly, and she sensed he knew that this was different than other times when she’d fled from him. Everything was different now.
“No, Rogan, I won’t,” she said. “I might like to let you take care of me and make the decisions and make me feel good, but I need more than that from you now. And if you’re not willing to open yourself up for me as much as I’ve done with you, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy being with you anymore anyway.”
And that’s when it hit her. Oh God. I love him. How awful. But I really love him.
And when a few seconds passed and he said nothing more, she realized that was all the more reason to walk away. So as much as it hurt her to do so, that was what she did.
And he didn’t stop her this time.
Chapter 17
April felt like an idiot as she drove to her grandmother’s place the next day. Because she couldn’t stop crying. When on earth had she gotten so serious about Rogan Wolfe that she cried over him?
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