And also same as in the alley, that freed up his other hand to explore her breasts. Her breath grew shallow as he boldly ran his touch first across one heaving mound, slowly, thoroughly, deliciously, and then the other. She found herself glancing down, watching his large hand mold and caress. She saw both breasts heaving in rhythm with each ragged breath she took, their upper curves visible above her top. The sight added to her arousal at a time when she hadn’t thought that possible.
He kissed her some more as that same hand finally ventured downward, tugging the hem of her top from the waistband of her skirt. This time she let herself kiss him back. Or she forgot about not letting herself anyway, and her mouth moved beneath his with instinctive purpose, hungry for more of him.
When his tongue pressed its way between her lips, she felt pleasantly invaded and didn’t hesitate to meet it with her own. Why did merely kissing this man feel so much more intimate than with any other man she’d ever been with? Maybe this is true chemistry, true passion. Maybe you’ve never really experienced that before. Maybe you thought you had, but it’s taken this, him, to show you what all-consuming desire is really about.
Of course, they were doing more than kissing now—at the precise moment he pushed her tank up over her bra, he settled more firmly between her legs and an unmistakable erection came to rest between her thighs. It didn’t matter that they had clothes on—she couldn’t remember the last time anything had felt that good to that part of her body, and a heated sigh left her.
When he ended the kiss, she glanced down to glimpse the cream-colored lace that held her breasts, lifting them up, keeping them pretty and pert, and thanked the fates that she’d worn an attractive bra today. She watched his hand running over it, still making her feel good there, too, and bit her lip at the pleasure spreading through her.
“If I let go of your wrists,” he said low, deep, near her ear, “do you think you can be a good girl and not fight me too much for a little while?”
The truth was, she rather liked being stretched out the way she was, her position thrusting her breasts slightly upward, and again making her feel like she had no choice, which made doing this so much easier. Yet the practical part of her understood that he wanted to touch her with both hands, and she wanted that, too, so she relented, simply giving a quick, tiny nod.
And even when he released her wrists from his strong grip, she still kept her arms extended over her head, watching as he cupped the outer edges of her breasts in both hands, his thumbs curving around the underside. Then he bent to kiss them through the lace.
Her breathing grew louder again, and without ever making a conscious decision, her pelvis began to lift against the amazing hardness there and they fell into the hot motions of slow, rhythmic sex.
Soon enough, her big bad wolf curled his fingertips into the cups of her bra and drew them both downward until her breasts were fully revealed, now framed only by the creamy lace. Her nipples, not surprisingly, were taut and pointed, and having them exposed between them sent an electrical current through her body. And when he sank his mouth over one, she surrendered completely to the pleasure that pulsed through her.
She wanted to grip at something and found her hands closing into fists, her nails biting into the flesh of her palms. A few high-pitched whimpers left her, and now she could hear his breath coming more audibly, too. She didn’t know what it was about this man, but she loved knowing she excited him. Finally, she drew her arms down and found herself sinking her fingers into his thick, dark hair as he suckled first one breast, then the other.
Her hips rocked harder against his of their own volition, the response inside her growing, spreading, like something wild and consuming that swallowed everything it encountered until it was the only thing she was aware of. She was going to come soon just from moving that way against his magnificent hardness.
And it was only a few seconds after that realization hit her that it grew closer, reaching that perilous moment when she knew it lay only a few heartbeats away, making her whisper, “Oh God. God.”
And then the orgasm struck, blossoming inside her like some hothouse flower desperate to bloom, with thick, waving petals that fluttered through her almost violently. She cried out the consuming pleasure as it shook her body, over and over, and thought it was possibly the most satisfying of her life—and he wasn’t even inside her.
She went still when it was done, and it was only then that he released her nipple from his mouth and rasped quietly near her ear, “You’re so fucking hot, Ginger,” as the dark stubble on his jaw scraped lightly across the tender flesh of her cheek.
And that was the moment when the war inside her began again, when she remembered she was doing something unthinkable and didn’t want to accept the fact that she was a willing participant. It wasn’t thought but impulse that made her struggle anew, her body twisting and writhing beneath his again.
And when he once more pinned her wrists on either side of her face, it felt good.
Until he said, peering sharply into her eyes, “No—no more. Not now. Now you have to be a good girl. Be a good girl and let me fuck you—the way you need to be fucked.”
Chapter 6
She lay beneath him, bared breasts heaving. The fact that she wanted what he’d said—to be fucked—both aroused and repulsed her. The urge to continue fighting him, really fighting him now, trying to get out from under him and race away from this apartment, rose powerfully within her.
And yet she’d agreed to this. And the intense longing to have him inside her was at least as powerful as the instinct to run. And she’d come this far. Correction—you let him bring you this far. You submitted. You gave in. And it felt good. The fact was, the struggle and ensuing surrender had felt just as good as the rest of it; she still didn’t understand it, but it had enhanced every second since the moment he’d pulled her back down onto the couch.
She’d said nothing in a long while, and she continued to say nothing now—but she quit wriggling beneath him. And mmm, that simple act let that wonderfully hard part of him settle back against her mound, her legs still spread for him and her thighs still held down, locked in place, by his own.
“Gonna be good for me, babe?” he asked.
She nodded. That simple. Because it really did seem the only choice at this point. Or the only one that made sense anyway. She was under his control now.
“Good girl,” he murmured, then slowly, gingerly released his hold on her wrists. But he didn’t let his touch leave them completely—instead he ran his fingertips over where he’d held her, as if to soothe those spots. It sent a shiver through her that she couldn’t contain. They looked into each other’s eyes the whole time.
After a minute, he leaned back slightly, putting a little more distance between their upper bodies, and he gently lifted her hands and brought them to rest against his chest, pressing them there. Through his T-shirt she felt the sinewy muscles; she felt his heartbeat. And it was strange in that quiet moment how—even amid the stark arousal still expanding between them—it made him seem more human to her, as if they somehow had more in common than just lust. And it was an illusion, of course—she shared that same humanness with Kayla Gonzalez, and with Kayla’s husband for that matter, and it really gave her nothing in common with them—but in that moment, she clung to the notion that there might be something more between them than this strange and potent sexual connection. Maybe she needed that right now; maybe pretending it was more than purely physical would be the thing that kept her from struggling to break free now.
When he moved his hands, she experimented with touching him, letting her fingers splay across his chest, letting her palms roam slightly. She’d touched him this way in the alley, but this was different, more intense. Even if she’d mistakenly thought that nothing could be more intense than being in the alley with him.
His hands molded to her torso, then moved up to curve around her breasts. “Your tits are amazing, Ginger.”
“My name’s—”<
br />
“April,” he cut her off with a wolfish look. “I know that now, babe. I just like calling you Ginger. I like that red hair.” His gaze dropped. “I like those hard nipples. I bet they’re hard a lot, aren’t they?”
She wasn’t sure what hard nipples had to do with calling her Ginger, and she was pretty sure the answer was nothing, but she heard herself telling him a truth she’d seldom stopped to consider. “Twenty-four, seven.”
If it was possible, his gaze filled with even more heat. “Really? Even when you sleep?”
Her breasts began heaving again, slightly. “As far as I know. When I go to bed and when I wake up anyway. They just always . . . are.”
“God, that’s hot.” And then he dropped to scrape his teeth ever so lightly up one of the beaded peaks, as if in praise, and it made her gasp as the sensation echoed through her.
Their eyes met for a minute more, a minute that felt wholly intimate—as if they’d just shared secrets with each other—and then Rogan’s mouth came back down on hers, insistent with passion, and she’d seldom felt as purely, simply desired by a man as she did in that moment, because she could tell the kiss wasn’t calculated or planned but that he simply hadn’t been able to help himself.
And so now she was unable to help herself either, and she kissed him back with utter abandon, forgetting all about struggle or timidity and throwing herself into the kisses for all she was worth, wanting to soak up every second.
As they made out, his hands drifted south, onto her skirt, and hers circled his neck and she fairly clung to him, never wanting the kisses to end. And when his touch moved to her thighs, she knew things were amplifying again, and a tiny part of her suffered the compulsion to struggle, to run. But then she remembered that she’d told him she’d be a good girl, and so she was.
Pleasure and need climbed her inner thighs as his hands moved under her skirt, rising slowly toward her hips. His erection still pressed between her legs. And she knew her parted thighs had probably caused her skirt to lift long ago, but now she felt the fabric skimming higher still until his fingers met with her panties.
Yet then his touch was gone suddenly, even as they continued kissing, and she wondered why, because she’d had the sensation that they were getting closer and closer to actually doing it—and then that magnificent pressure between her legs lifted away, too, making the loss even worse.
She heard herself whimper her frustration against his mouth even as she let her fingernails dig into his shoulders—a silent plea of Bring it back. But he was still breathing just as hard as they exchanged still more hot kisses, and finally she somehow realized that he had only been reaching between them to undo his jeans.
She shuddered with need and eagerness, both of them panting now, and she thought, Please, please! But she didn’t let the desperate words sneak out because her behavior here was already insane enough without giving any more of herself away than she already had.
Kissing ceased at some point and when he rose slightly, she glanced down between their bodies to glimpse a large, rigid staff of flesh that made her gasp. And then his hand was under her skirt again, this time roughly pulling the fabric between her legs aside, and then came the firm, smooth thrust.
She cried out at the penetration, somehow forceful and gentle at the same time. And she clung to his shoulders anew. Oh Lord. He was in her. So big. So filling. It was as if she’d forgotten. What this felt like. How consuming. How it became almost the biggest part of her, feeling so infinitely larger than its true size. And even though they both lay perfectly still at the moment, she’d never felt more powerfully taken by a man.
Both of them breathed raggedly, audibly. Her lips trembled.
“You’re so tight.” The words came in nearly a growl. “And wet, babe. You’re fucking drenched.”
Neither observation surprised her. The first the result of not having had sex in a while, the second the result of . . . him.
“Please,” she whispered. Oh God. It had come out completely unbidden. It was because she wanted—needed—more now, needed him to move in her.
“Please what?”
“Fuck me,” she whispered. Words she’d never said before. Because she just didn’t talk that way. But that was what he’d called it a little while ago. And that was what she needed now—as badly as she needed air to breathe.
“Aw, babe,” he rasped hotly, and she still couldn’t quite believe she’d said it, but she liked that it turned him on.
And she also liked that it made him begin to move. Inside her. The first slow, deep, potent drive felt almost like being entered all over again. “Unh . . .” she moaned in response as it echoed through her body. And as he proceeded to deliver hard, smooth strokes that seemed to reach her very core, she began to meet them, the rough friction creating still deeper sensation that washed all through her, filling her more and more.
And he continued to look at her, through each and every powerful thrust, his eyes like hot, dark embers. She couldn’t quite meet them now, though—she wasn’t sure why—so she studied his mouth instead. The strong mouth that had kissed her for so long and so well. The mouth that had sucked her breasts. The mouth that had commanded, no less powerful even when speaking quietly, that she be a good girl for him.
Because her lips were trembling and she was so distressed by how very much she liked being his good girl, she lifted to kiss him some more. And mmm, it was a good distraction from both.
He returned the kisses with vigor, long and passionate at first but then ebbing into shorter, harder meetings of their mouths. All the while he plunged into her slow and thorough, each stroke making her feel utterly . . . dominated. And . . . tame. Like some well-behaved pet. What a foreign feeling. And yet . . . somehow it felt . . . safe. Even as he pounded into her so commandingly. She couldn’t understand that part. But she couldn’t understand most of this and, at the moment, had better things to focus on anyway.
She drank it in, soaked it up. There was nothing else to do now. The fighting was over, both inside her and out. All that remained was pleasure. And, of course, thoughts. About how strange and shocking this was. But soon enough even those dissipated. Especially when he pounded into her harder, harder, harder. Each impact jolted her whole body, consuming her, and all she could do was cling to him, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, as jagged cries of passion sprang from her throat.
She listened to the low moans that left him, enjoyed the feel of his hands on her flesh as he plunged into her moisture below, realized at some point that she’d hooked her legs around his thighs and hoped the heels of her shoes weren’t digging in to him too much. She began to relax into where she was, what she was doing. She let herself sink into it deeper, let it hold her, rock her, like a baby. No thought, no decisions, no responsibility. That was nice. It surprised her, because she’d never imagined a world where, even briefly, she’d be willing to surrender her very thoughts, her brainpower, in exchange for pleasure. But that was what happened the longer she lay beneath him, lifting her hips against his to take his wonderfully rigid shaft that much deeper.
When his moans grew shorter, sharper, almost like hot little growls coming through clenched teeth, she braced herself and welcomed still rougher thrusts into the softness between her legs. She held him tighter. And she no longer had trouble meeting his gaze.
“Aw, babe,” he said on a hot breath, “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come fucking hard deep inside your hot, tight, little pussy.”
Fresh, unexpected arousal flared within her—it was as if the part of her body he’d just referred to actually gripped him tighter. And the groan he emitted at that moment almost made her wonder if he’d felt it, too, if it wasn’t just a thing she imagined but in fact a physical thing that had really happened.
“Aw, fuck, now,” he murmured—and then his drives came even harder, harder, harder, making her feel nailed to the couch, thoroughly taken, thoroughly used, thoroughly fucked. Both of them cried out as he emptied himself inside her,
and her eyes fell shut as she took her own joy in his release—there was something inexorably pleasing about knowing she’d delivered him to ecstasy, even if she’d done so in surprising ways.
By fighting him.
And then surrendering. Being a docile little pet.
Unfortunately, now that he’d gone still inside her, his muscular body softly collapsing on hers, the acceptance she’d felt for a little while ebbed. Because it was over. And thought had returned. And that meant facing all this. Sex with a brusque cop she didn’t know. Pleasure from being subdued by him. Further pleasure from submission.
Who am I? Who have I just become?
And how will I ever get myself back? How will I ever be the same again?
The questions—the return to reality—nearly overwhelmed her.
The person she was and the person lying sprawled so inelegantly beneath this man, clothing askew, were two different people. With two different mind-sets. Two entirely different ways of approaching life. And at the moment, as Rogan Wolfe rose up, pulled out of her, and reached for a box of tissues on the coffee table, she couldn’t believe who she’d become for him tonight. And she didn’t know how to deal with it.
She lay there, stunned, trying to pull her bra back into place, instinctively pressing her bent knees together at the earliest opportunity, wondering what on earth a woman was supposed to do or say after an experience like that—the experience of letting herself be his good girl. Then he said, “Aw shit.”
He had regrets, too? Given that he didn’t exactly seem like a regretful sort of guy, this surprised her. She shifted her gaze from her skirt to his face.
“I’ve never done that before,” he said.
She drew in her breath and, even though part of her just wanted to disappear now, found the will to speak. “Done what?”
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