by M. Leighton
Maybe I just thought that this whole thing could play out in my head without ever really getting . . . real. Or physical. Even though I’ll admit to being curious about his kiss. I’ve thought about it more times than I’ve probably thought about anything else. And the reality of it . . . Sweet Mary! I couldn’t be any more thrilled with that.
Even as I think back on it, I shiver. I can’t ever remember someone’s kiss making me feel like my insides are on fire. But Rogan’s did. It’s probably a good thing he ran his hands into my hair, snapping me back to reality. I was enjoying that far too much. I was lost to everything but him and what he was making me feel.
And that could never end well.
Despite my dread and upset, even now, my stomach feels warm and my legs feel tingly at the mere thought of his lips and tongue. What kind of a kiss makes a person’s legs tingle? A damn good one, I guess. And the sad thing is that it was just a kiss. He wasn’t touching anything below my collarbone and it was . . . was . . . oh God!
I stop just outside my “office” door and take a few deep breaths. I wait until my heartbeat is a little calmer and I can breathe like I didn’t just run a fifty-mile marathon before showing myself.
When I feel a bit more collected, I turn the corner into my space, fully expecting the same scene that has greeted me for weeks now. To say that I’m disappointed at what I find is a tragic understatement.
My area is empty. There’s no flirty Rogan in my chair. There’s no mischievous Mona talking his ear off. It’s just . . . empty. Just me and my space. And no one else. I’m surrounded by the quiet and the solitude that I’ve craved for years now. It’s always made me feel alone, but never lonely.
Until today.
I go about my usual early-morning duties in slow motion, chastising myself the whole time for being ridiculous. I mean, why get so upset over something so silly? And how stupid was it of me to expect anything from a guy like Rogan? He was bound to disappoint me one day. Might as well be today.
I’m lost in thought, opening a pack of new brushes, when a familiar deep voice suddenly breaks into my tailspin. My movements still as I listen to Rogan laugh from out in the hall somewhere, a sound that’s accompanied by Mona’s excited giggle. I hear them drawing closer to my room and I resume my activity, anything to keep my now-trembling hands busy.
Just before they enter, I hear Mona and Rogan quiet. I listen closely, but hear no sound at all. Afraid to turn around, I place brush after brush in a straight line in the neat and orderly drawer that contains other similar brushes, until the task is complete. I crumple the plastic in my hand and close the drawer quietly before I’m forced to turn around.
I nearly head butt Rogan’s chest. Somehow, he managed to creep up behind me without me hearing a single sound.
A surprised squeak-gasp combo squeezes past my lips. “You scared me!” I admit breathlessly.
“I’m sorry!” he replies. Then, with his sincere eyes locked on mine, he adds, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise.”
I know he’s referring to more than just this morning. He’s probably apologizing for what happened last night. Immediately, I’m off-kilter. But that’s what Rogan does—he throws me off balance. With no conscious effort on his part, it seems. I doubt he realizes that he’s practically turning my fickle emotions inside out.
“It’s fine,” I say, taking a step back. I feel the counter brush the backs of my legs. I can retreat no farther, which only frazzles me even more.
His eyes, brilliantly green this morning, search mine for several tense seconds before Rogan raises his hand between us. “I brought coffee.”
Thankful to have something, anything else to focus on, I look at the cup. It’s shorter and fatter, and boasts the label Main Street Diner on the side. I take it from him, frowning as I sniff.
“The coffeemaker here is broken so I went across to the diner to get some. Extra hot, extra cream, although I’m not sure how the extra hot held up during the commute.”
“It’s fine, I’m sure.” To prove my point, I take a sip. It’s plenty warm, but it doesn’t threaten to scald my lips off, which is the way I like it. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to bring me coffee.”
“You’re no trouble at all,” he rejoins softly.
God, don’t let him be sweet! Let him just be a jerk so I can stop thinking about him, stop wanting things I shouldn’t want. Things that I don’t want to want!
“You don’t know me well enough to say that for sure.”
One side of his mouth lifts in a ghost of a grin. “I’m willing to risk it.”
There’s a quiet moment, colored only with the deep green of Rogan’s eyes as he stares down at me, when I think he might try to kiss me again. Or, worse, touch me. I feel his internal battle like static in the air. But, thank God, he refrains. This time, anyway.
I didn’t imagine that he’d give up so easily. But I had hoped.
Well, some part of me did, anyway. Some other part . . . didn’t.
“You two are so cute together,” Mona croons from the doorway. Rogan’s grin becomes more pronounced as the click of heels brings my friend farther into the room. We stand facing each other as she passes by, heading for the counter, on which she perches one hip as she flips through the dictionary. “You should date.”
“I’m not the one who needs convincing,” Rogan mutters.
“Oh you don’t need to tell me that. Katie’s stubborn to a fault and blind to her own beauty. She’s . . . erudite, but sometimes she can be a little dumb.” Rogan frowns and I wrinkle my nose, both of us holding back a laugh. After a few seconds, Mona notices. “What? Did I use it wrong?”
“No, but it’s freakin’ me out,” Rogan says with a chuckle.
“Why? I’m smart. I can learn new words. I can be erudite.”
“Of course you can,” I say, covertly nudging Rogan with my elbow. I don’t want his teasing to hurt Mona’s feelings.
“Well,” she says, standing and dusting her hands off like her job here is done, “I suppose I’d best let you two get to it. You’ve got a lot more body to make up today.”
More body to make up? I was so ready to leave yesterday, I didn’t check the notes for today, and this morning my mind was elsewhere.
Is he doing a shirtless scene? Or, God forbid, is he doing a nude scene?
My pulse speeds up at the mere thought.
With a smile that says she knew that I had no idea, Mona flounces out of the room, pausing only to kiss one of my cheeks and smack Rogan on the butt. “Lunch?” she says from just the other side of the door.
“Lunch,” I reply, watching the tips of her blond hair disappear from view.
Tension rushes in to fill the room, crowding in on me like a vibrating cloud. I take a step back from Rogan, tugging at my hair as I nod toward the drawer where I keep my script notes from Kelly.
“I guess I’d better check to see what I’m doing for you today.” I turn, resisting the urge to run and grab the papers. I’m proud that my walk is slow and that my knees are steady.
“No need. I can tell you,” he says from behind me. I pay him no attention as I rifle through the other papers in search of my instructions. When I have them in hand, I swing back around to face Rogan. The pages slip silently from my fingers to swoosh across the floor.
Standing not two feet away is a half-naked Rogan.
Before I can collect myself, I take him in. Savor him like rich chocolate or decadent cake. I thought he looked amazing in clothes, but . . . dear God! The man is positively heart-stopping without them.
He looks ten feet tall and bulletproof. His shoulders must be a mile wide and perfectly formed, collarbones straight, deltoids flaring. The overhead lights, though soft, highlight the rounded domes of his pecs and the stair-step ridges of his abs. They clench with each slow breath he takes. And covering all that glory is lightly tanned skin and a smattering of hair that reaches from nipple to nipple and then narrows to a trail that disappears
into the waistband of his jeans. I dare not look beyond that. I don’t think my heart can take it.
I’m enjoying the journey back up when his voice cuts into my thrall.
“Ya know?” he asks, as though not for the first time. Evidently, while I was raping him with my eyes, he must’ve been saying something.
My eyes fly to his face. “I-I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
His face breaks into the most satisfied grin I think I’ve ever seen. All proud peacock. He knows what I was doing. He knows I was mesmerized. And he’s loving it.
My face stings with embarrassment at being so blatant. And getting caught.
“I was just saying that I think it’s weird that they’d put makeup on my body just to show me working out, ya know?”
“Yeah,” I say dazedly.
“Where do you want me?” he asks, one brown brow shooting up suggestively.
My stomach churns hotly. Why, oh why does he have to be the one guy on the planet who can break through my thick layer of ice and scar tissue? Why, why, why?
I bend to gather my notes from the floor, and I study them closely as I straighten. Not because I need to see what they say, of course, but because I need a reason to look at something else for a minute.
“Looks like the closest shots will be of your back and shoulders as you’re doing some pull-ups. They want the tattoos left intact, but any other imperfections covered, so I’ll do your face and then let you lie down for the rest.”
My heart is thumping so hard, I worry that Rogan will hear it when he sits down in the chair. I set about applying the same products I’ve used on him most other days, going a little heavier on blush to give him a slightly flushed look. That’s all my role entails. They’ll spritz him to make him look sweaty right before the filming starts.
I try not to think of Rogan sweaty. Smooth skin glistening, muscular chest huffing, flat stomach gleaming. No, I need not go there. It’s just . . . it’s just not a good idea.
He’s uncharacteristically quiet as I brush and swirl and dab, but not once do his eyes leave my face. Even if, in my peripheral vision, I couldn’t see them following my movements, I’d still know he was watching me. I can feel it all the way down to my nerves. His gaze, his scrutiny strums them like strings on a harp.
When I’m finished with what little I can do to make his face even more gorgeous, I lean back, giving him a tight, nervous smile. “Okay, you can go lie down on your stomach. I’ll do your back first and then when you sit up, I’ll work on your chest a little.”
Rogan nods, rising to head over to the long, padded table that’s used for bodywork and more extensive specialty applications. I grab a few pods of makeup that match his skin tone, some cream and a few different-sized brushes, taking my time and inhaling huge, calming gulps of air as I gather. When I turn to face Rogan, he’s lying on his stomach with his arms folded under his head, his face turned toward me. His emerald eyes, trained on me, glint in the light, but his expression is unusually serious. I want to ask if something’s wrong, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what he’ll say, what I’ll learn about him. I don’t dare let him get under my skin any more than he already has.
I clear my throat and pull a small rolling table closer to me, setting my supplies on it. Applying the makeup is something I could do in my sleep. That’s not what I feel I must ready myself for. Putting my hands on Rogan’s skin, touching him all over his body this way . . . That’s what I need to prepare for.
I notice that my hand is shaking when I squirt a dollop of cream into my palm. I rub my hands together to warm it before I lean forward to smooth the lightly shimmering lotion onto his back. I feel the muscles twitch and flex under my fingertips, and I try to ignore the way my belly reacts. “Th-this is just to give your skin a bit of a glisten, like you’ve been exercising. You have enough color that I don’t need to add any tint to it,” I explain in a voice that sounds breathless even to my ears. Oh God!
Rogan says nothing, makes no comment, which is something else I find odd. Normally, he doesn’t miss a chance to tease or taunt me.
Touching him feels good. It feels too good. Right, even. At least touching him this way means I don’t have to worry about him touching me in return. I don’t have to concern myself with keeping hidden things that I don’t want him to see. With that in mind, I let myself go, just enough that I can really enjoy having my hands on him.
His skin is so smooth and warm. Supple. I can feel the reaction in every muscle I touch. It incites a corresponding squeeze in my stomach.
I’m so caught up in these sensations, in this moment, that I find myself asking about his tattoo in order to prolong the pleasure of the skin-against-skin contact.
“What does it mean?” I ask, tracing the angry-looking letters that span the top of his back from shoulder to shoulder. At first glance, I thought it was just some sort of tribal tattoo. It looked a little like a twist of teeth or claws. But on closer inspection, I can see that there are letters intricately woven into the wicked-looking spikes.
“It’s Latin. Pugnare superesse. Vivere pugna. Fight to survive. Fight to live.”
Makes sense for a fighter, I suppose. It doesn’t register that the words might have a deeper meaning until I more closely examine his skin.
When the cream is rubbed in thoroughly, I make myself pull my hands away. Holding back a sigh, I reach for a dish of makeup, swirl a small brush through it and lean in to attack a scar that runs around his shoulder blade in a semicircle. It’s an odd shape, but I don’t ask any questions. For all I know, he had some sort of surgery that he doesn’t want to talk about. It’s as I’m applying coverage to the pale pink line that I begin to notice other things that I was too distracted to notice before, when I was rubbing my hands over Rogan’s flesh and asking about his tattoo.
There are three long white gashes that run down his back. Not like claws, but at different places, like something scratched or cut him in separate lashes. On his lower back are five small dots in an orderly pattern that’s a little bigger than the size of my palm. And on his right side, just below his ribs, are two perfectly round scars about the size of a pencil eraser. I can’t imagine what the other marks are, but these two look suspiciously like cigarette burns. Old ones.
Fight to survive. Fight to live.
What has he had to survive? What has he had to fight for?
As I’m working, my mind is running a mile a minute. Unfortunately, my hands are nowhere near keeping up. In fact, I’m rubbing my index finger over the tiny dots when Rogan speaks, causing me to jump guiltily.
“I bet you weren’t expecting to have to work this hard for your money today, were you?” I glance up at his profile. One side of his mouth is quirked, but there’s no humor anywhere else on his face. He’s covering up. I know that for a fact. I recognize it because I’ve been doing it for years.
“I would expect nothing less from a man who fights for a living,” I reply softly, letting him off the hook. I would want someone to do the same for me if the situation were reversed. Some scars can’t be talked about for fear of opening the old wound and bleeding to death. I know that for a fact, too.
A grunt is the only reply I get from him. As I set about camouflaging more quickly rather than so rudely examining this enigmatic man’s body, I can’t curb the sense of sadness that fills me. Or the sense of connection.
For all his cute winks and sexy grins, for all his charisma and devil-may-care comments, this man has a past. A violent past. And something tells me that it has nothing to do with fighting for money and everything to do with fighting for his life. Despite the attraction that I feel toward him, Rogan just became more dangerous to me than ever before. Now I can relate to him on a deeper level, a purely emotional level. I can relate to a violent past. And the desire to escape it. Now we share something important. Now it will be even harder to fight him.
When I’m finished patching up his back, making it so that the world doesn’t see what’s been done to him,
I tell him quietly, “You can sit up now.”
I back up as Rogan swings his long legs around and pushes himself into a sitting position, muscles flexing everywhere as he moves. As always, I’m aware of his beauty, but now, as perverse as it sounds, he’s even more appealing to me. He seems real and fallible and maybe a little bit broken. He hides it well, of course, but now I know. And I can’t unknow.
I avoid his eyes as I treat his chest to the same consideration that I gave his back, only with slightly less attention to detail since the camera shots will be focused mainly on his back. I’m fully aware of his mossy gaze on me as I squirt more cream into my hand and rub my palms together. He watches me as I reach for his pecs. He watches me as I let my fingers trail up to his collarbones, across his shoulders, over his bulging deltoids. I make my way back to his midline and then down his abdomen. It’s when the ridges of muscle tense under my hands as I near his waistband that my own stomach begins to react. Warmth blossoms in my core, turning my insides to hot, twitchy mush.
“Careful,” he whispers, drawing my eyes away from his torso.
His pupils are wide and there’s heat in his gaze, but it’s subdued this time. Vulnerable almost.
Ignoring his warning, I respond as though I didn’t hear him. “I—I won’t have to highlight your abs. They’re already defined well enough for the camera,” I say, clinging to thoughts of work to diffuse the tension. Not that it’s effective.
Rogan’s eyes narrow on me just before fire of a different kind appears inside the luminous emerald of his irises. So fast I gasp in surprise, his fingers flick out and snap around my wrists like iron cuffs, stilling my movements. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
I’m stunned. “Wh-what?”
“I don’t want your pity,” he growls.
Although he shocked me with his quick movement, I calm immediately, understanding his reaction. Being pitied is an awful sensation. “I don’t pity you. I—I just . . .” I don’t know how to tell him that I feel closer to him now than I did last night when he was kissing me. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. He doesn’t need to know that. He never needs to know that. “I get it.”
