To Ruin a Rogue:

by Heather C. Myers

  "Do you trust me?" he asks, and I swallow at the depth of his eyes, the tenor of his voice. It's low but articulate and his eyes pin me to my spot, penetrates me in paralysis.

  I nod because I don't trust myself to speak. I keep my eyes firmly in his and my mouth goes dry and my stomach feels like when you step in an elevator and you're not prepared for the drop, so it jumps. I'm not prepared for this, for him.

  It's not long before I've shared three glasses of rum with Matt. He's downed the majority of them, and judging by the way he moves, he's getting tipsy. Once we finished the first glass, my head turned fuzzy and my body turned light. By the end of the third glass, I'm giggling at jokes no one has said out loud and I'm staring at Matt with half-hooded eyes and I'm not even ashamed of it. Like, why wouldn't I stare at this beautiful creature that's in front of me?

  "You," Matt says, his eyes narrowing in my direction. His body may be swaying, but somehow, he appears perfectly sober. He's not shifting from side to side. His eyes are heavy, but they're much more focused than mine. I wonder if his body is as warm as mine is. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes upon."

  "Took you a few drinks to tell me that?" I say, raising a skeptical brow. I decide I've had enough alcohol for the evening and when Matt offers me a fourth glass, I shake my head. He doesn't pressure me, and instead sets the untouched glass filled to the brim with rum on the bar.

  He shakes his head, his dark hair falling in his face. "No," he says. "I don't need a few drinks to tell you that. It speaks for itself."

  I feel myself blushing. "Stop it," I tell him. I don't know if it's from the alcohol or if it's because of him. It's probably both.

  "Never," he says. He walks over to me slowly. I'm not sure if he's doing it for dramatic effect or if the booze has finally gotten to him, but I feel my heart start to beat against my chest in anticipation. Every step he takes is a beat against my chest. I can hear it ringing in my ear.

  When he reaches me, he leans in close, so close I can feel his electricity mesh with mine. "I," he says. Then, his brown eyes get tender and he curls an errant strand of hair behind my ear. His finger drops to my cheekbone and then it traces downward to my chin. I'm holding my breath. "I'm going to kiss you right now," he says.

  I can't speak. I can't breathe. It's not that I'm holding my breath, it's that breathing is rather difficult for me, which isn't a good thing if Matt is going to kiss me. And he is, I know he is, because he's leaning towards me and I can feel him—oh my God, we're not even touching and I can feel him—and then his lips touch mine and I'm lost.

  I am lost, like Alice down the rabbit hole, through the looking glass, or wherever she decides to travel to. And like Alice, I don't want to be found. Not now, not ever.

  His lips are soft and gentle—at first. They’re tentative, coaxing more from mine because I think mine are frozen. I think mine are stunned, too paralyzed to respond. Until he moves them for me, and I suddenly realize that Matt Scott is kissing me, really, truly kissing me, and my eyes flutter closed gently, my eyelashes meeting their appropriate pair, and I purse my lips in order to press pressure back to Matt.

  He inhales sharply and his hand reaches up to my hair, cupping the back of my head and tilting it back so he has greater access to my mouth. Not that he needs to do that. I would have given him all the access he wants. But I like the feel of his fingers tugging my hair, I like the feel of his other hand tight on my waist.

  We’re in an awkward position, so he stands us up and moves me backward. I have no idea where we’re going, simply because my eyes are closed and my lips are locked with his, and I just don’t care. It’s only when my back hits a wall—roughly, I’m not going to lie—that I realize we’ve gone somewhere else in the room.

  But it doesn’t matter. None of that matters because I’m kissing Matt and I like kissing Matt and I would like kissing Matt if I were sober. I’d like kissing Matt no matter what.

  We kiss and kiss and kiss. I’m not even tired of standing. I would stand forever if it means I get to kiss Matt. His hands roam everywhere on my body, and it’s the first time I’ve ever wished I’m not wearing this corset so I could actually feel what it’s like when he touches me.

  The moment we have to break for air, he tells me things like, “My God, you’re beautiful,” or “You make me feel things I didn’t think were real.” I’m not sure if he even knows what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter because they’re perfect for the moment, and through my light, muddled mind, I store them away so I can remember them later.

  “Let’s,” I gasp out, once I feel him push into me, once I feel the desire he has for me that mirrors my own, “let’s go to my room.”

  “I…” He stops. Pulls away. His eyes are clouded too, but he looks at me, trying to read my eyes. “Are you sure?”

  I nod my head and open my mouth, ready to tell him that of course I’m sure, of course I want him, but my eyes roll to the back of my head and all I see is blackness.

  Chapter 13

  I hate drinking. This is why I don’t drink. The evening before is fuzzy, though I do remember all of it. It just comes back in broken pieces rather than all together, like a movie.

  It’s not even dawn. I was conked out for a few hours, but for whatever reason, I’m congested now and my head hurts and I’m more awake than I want to be. The problem is the pain prevents me from sleeping and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is fall asleep. Instead, I’m staring up at the ceiling, blinking away the pain, trying to get the room to stop spinning.

  I shouldn’t have drunk as much as I did. But Matt is an excellent drinking buddy and an even better kisser.

  My cheeks turn red, like an apple you’d give to a teacher, and I look away, out the window. The curtains are blocking my view because I don’t want people to see into my room—even if it is on the third floor—and try and get to the woman who sleeps alone. But the curtains are this beautiful blue color and even through the darkness, it’s a nice thing to focus on.

  I’m not sure if I regret last night—this morning?—or not. It’s hard for me to say. The way I feel when Matt and I kiss… My insides throb just thinking about it. His mouth on mine, that sizzle I’ve never felt before. I’m never nervous when I kiss, but Matt makes me nervous. Actually, he has this strange way of making me feel both comfortable and nervous at the same time. I’m on edge around him, but also relaxed. It doesn’t make any sense.

  We kissed. We kissed, and I know we were both drunk and I’m glad he stopped it from going too far. Actually, I’m not. But I’m glad his intentions were genuine. He didn’t want to take advantage of me. That’s commendable. That’s nice. That’s what a good guy does, and I don’t know very many good guys. I don’t regret the kiss because it’s what I’ve wanted to do for practically my entire time here. I don’t regret it. I just wish…

  I guess I just wish it were under different circumstances. I wish we weren’t drunk. I wish we were both cognizant and thinking clearly and we still chose to take that risk. The question remains, though: would we have kissed if we were sober?

  I don’t know.

  The alcohol gave us the necessary push we needed to actually do something about what we were feeling on the inside.

  Well, I can’t speak for Matt. But it gave me the courage to do something with my feelings. I wasn’t afraid when he looked at me with those brown eyes, the way he kissed me, the way his hands fit on the small of my back, the way his fingers tugged at my hair. Now I feel silly for worrying about my hair in the first place.

  It still hasn't given me any clarity on this whole tug-of-war about whether I choose to stay or go. But Matt reminds me of chocolate. I can't just have one bite. I want more. And I want more badly.

  Just thinking about him… I shiver, even with my headache.

  I may not know a lot about love and monogamy, healthy relationships with mutual respect. I don't mind admitting my ignorance. But I do know sex.

  I know how to please a man thanks
to practice and tips from Cosmo. I'm comfortable with my sexuality and have no problem being naked in front of guys. I love my body—mostly. When Matt was kissing me last night, I knew he wanted to take it further. I wanted to take it further. I still do. I feel like Matt would make an excellent lover. He would take care of me, bestow pleasure on my body, and worship me like I was a holy place.

  I know if I go to him now and I crawl into his lap and wrap my arms around his shoulders, if I tilt his head back and kiss him slow and deep, I know I could get him to connect with me in that way. And I know he'd enjoy it to the point where I’d be one of the few girls he'd want to be with on multiple occasions. I'm not saying I'm a maneater or God's gift, but I'm good at what I do. I like sex. It's fun, so I'm not nervous and I'm not shy. I like to experiment. I like to try new things. And that enthusiasm trumps any skill I've found. So maybe I'm cocky (haha), but I'm good at what I do.

  Here's my dilemma. If Matt was just another guy, we could have sex, no problem. But he's not just another guy. He's Matt, and he means more to me than just sex. He's worth letting my guard down for and being vulnerable with and trusting him enough to know I'm not perfect. I don't trust him with my body or my mind, I trust him with my very soul. He makes me feel things I've never felt before, like I'm flying and falling at the same time, but no matter what, he's right there with me, either ready to catch me or right next to me. I can't just go have sex with him, because the sex will mean more than sex normally means for me. Those endorphins we get from physical activity will bond me to Matt and make me think I love him.

  Maybe I do.

  Maybe I do love him and having sex will only strengthen those feelings because it will be a physical manifestation of my feelings for him and whatever it is he feels for me. I don't know if he loves me, but I worry if we do have sex, that would be a form of leading him on. Maybe I'm putting too much thought into this. Maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. Regardless, I know I like him more than I like anyone, and I know I want to have sex with him.

  Badly.

  But I still don't know if I'm going to stay. And until I figure it out, I can't pursue anything deeper.

  I decide to try and nap my hangover away because I got no sleep last night and I think that may be why my headache is so prevalent. Once I get my sleep, I'll go to the bar for water because I know I'm dehydrated, but the bed feels so comfortable and the thought of getting out of the bed and putting something in my mouth—much less my stomach—makes my entire body shudder in response.

  Instead, I curl up in the fetal position and wrap the blankets tightly around me. Sleep comes easy, which is a surprise, but hey, I'm not complaining.

  Something tickles my neck. Then, it disappears. Fingers drag along the curve of my bare hips and the tickling commences, now on my shoulder. They are lips. It's a kiss.

  "Wake up, my darling," a familiar voice drawls.

  Is that—? It can't be... But.

  It is.

  I crack my eyes open only to find Matt staring down at me with his wonderful chocolate brown eyes and that smile that brings sunshine indoors. I don't think about the ridiculousness of the situation, nor do I think about how this is possible in the first place. My only thought is Matt is staring down at me and I feel remarkably safe being underneath him. I don't care if this is a dream—it probably is a dream—but I'm going to ride it because this is perfect and it's exactly what I want right now.

  "The kids are waiting to break their fast," he says, sitting up so I can get a good view of his chest. I'm so distracted, the implications of his words completely go over my head. "You know how Isadora gets when she doesn't eat. She's like you, if I recall." He grins at this, like the very notion of me being cranky because I'm hungry is adorable, and then leans down and kisses my neck. "God, you're beautiful in the mornings."

  "Did you say we had children?" I ask, and I'm not terribly concerned with how this is turning out. I, myself, never really thought about having kids of my own—probably because I didn't think I'd ever meet someone I could foresee being in my life for the rest of it—but I've never been against the idea.

  Matt gives me a lopsided smile. "Three of them, if you recall," he says. "Isadora, Jane, and Ryan."

  "You're telling me I pushed three children out of me without a hospital or any medical drugs?" I ask, flabbergasted and somewhat impressed with myself.

  He smiles even though I can tell he has no idea what I'm talking about. It's hard to think when his hand has somehow found my thigh—my bare thigh, which has implications all on its own—and is caressing the inside of my flesh, in that sensitive area that somehow he knows about even though the guys I used to sleep with don't even know about it.

  "Do I like my kids?" I ask before I can stop myself. His grin gets wider and I'm glad he knows me well enough to not be offended by my comment. "I only ask because before you, I never thought I wanted children. And now I have three."

  Matt nods like he understands. "You told me that when we found out you were carrying our first child," he tells me, his voice warm as he remembers. I'm almost envious of him; I want the memory. He seems so fond of it. I wish I could pluck it from his mind and watch it like a movie. "I was so happy when you told me, I dropped to my knees and kissed your stomach and started talking to who would later be our daughter, Isadora. You told me she was the size of a bean and had not developed ears just yet. You knew everything about what it's like to carry a baby, what's healthy and what's not. Her birth was quick, with moments of pain for both of us. I think you may have broken my hand, if I'm being honest. But then you delivered our healthy baby girl. I've never seen you so in love. You're an astounding mother, a natural. I've never been so proud to be your husband."

  I clear my throat. Somehow, my saliva got stuck in there and I couldn't breathe for a second. "I'm sorry," I say and blink because I need to focus on him. "Did you say you're my husband? Are you telling me we're married?"

  "You're telling me you don't remember?" he asks. I know he's teasing me based on the familiar glint lighting his dark eyes.

  "I think I'm dreaming," I tell him honestly.

  "Are you?" He blinks like he's surprised by my assessment and glances down at me. He presses his hand further into my hip and his lips tease up into a mischievous grin. "You do not feel like a dream." I smile at him but there must have been something there, something in my smile that causes any indication of teasing to vanish momentarily. "Is this a bad dream?"

  "No!" My response is immediate and kind of sharp, which I don't intend. I look him in the eyes so he knows I'm serious. In fact, I reach out and cup his cheek with my palm. I have no idea when I got so bold, why I think I have any right to touch him so intimately, but I think that maybe because I know this is a dream, I can get away with more. I want to touch him this way. Maybe not all the time, but whenever I feel the inclination, I want to be able to reach out and touch him, remind myself that he's mine, that I'm allowed to do this.

  "Is this what you want?" he asks, and I can't blame him for the doubt that touches his tone, for the trepidation I see in his eyes. I've been going back and forth about what I want and what I don't. I know I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't led Matt on—drunken kissing totally does not count—but I still feel like he deserves to know what I want. I need to know what I want. I think I know but I'm afraid to really try and figure it out.

  "I do," I tell him. I don't even realize I've answered because my mind is foggy and thoughts are hard to come by. Something clears up in my chest as a result of that answer, however. It's like something I should have known.

  He smiles then. His face is literal sunshine and I have to squint because it's almost too much looking at him. He's beautiful, jaw-dropping, stunning... I can't even think of the appropriate word, and I realize then that of course this is what I want. I want to be the lucky girl who gets to make him smile like this all the time. How could I not have realized this sooner?

  "Excellent," he says. "This is good news. Now all you nee
d to do is tell yourself the same thing when you wake up. And"—he says, as though it's an afterthought—"you need to believe it."

  I wake up then, and for some reason, my eyes fill with tears and I'm crying. I'm crying, because the dream is perfect and now it's gone. I want it back. Which is just so strange because domestication is the last thing that's been on my mind, since before I can even remember. Even when I was a girl playing with my Barbie dolls, they were getting a good job or traveling to exotic locales, not playing house. And now, playing house is all I want, just as long as it's with Matt.

  My head throbs, reminding me of what happened last night. Maybe all that strange eighteenth century alcohol caused my dreams to get so vivid. Maybe I'm still a little bit drunk. Regardless, remembering his lips on mine, of us making out for hours or minutes—I can't remember the time frame but it doesn't really matter anyway—makes the tears come down harder, like the rain when thunder and lightning make their grand appearance.

  I'm never this way. Not only about this whole domestic issue, but when I'm hungover, I'm quiet and reserved up until my headache goes away and I get coffee inside my system. I don't cry. I'm not emotional.

  But that stupid dream…

  It wasn't stupid, a voice tells me, taunts me. It's everything you didn't even know you wanted. Don't blame the dream.

  I roll my eyes at the voice because clearly, I'm having issues in this moment. My head still hurts. I don't want to see anyone—I don't want anyone to see me this way, especially not Matt.

  Matt…

  What's going to happen between us, exactly? Are we going to talk about it? Are we going to pretend like nothing between us ever happened and go back to the way it was? Because I don't want that. I want to talk. I want to figure this out. Because I want him. I want to be with him so much…

  I shake my head and slide further under the covers. I'm not ready to leave the sanctuary that is my bed, and instead, I curl up under the covers and close my eyes. My intention is to fall back asleep and live in that dream, if only for a moment longer.