Give In To Me

by Lacey Alexander

  A few seconds later, still next to her on the couch, Rogan held her panties out to her between thumb and finger. For some reason, her eyes lifted quickly to his and their shared gaze was an unspoken reminder that they’d just fucked. Fucked. It was getting easier to think of it like that. It didn’t sound as dirty anymore. Except maybe in a good way, in a way that reminded her how animalistic it had been at times, and how powerfully, wildly connected she had felt to him in those moments.

  Glad she’d just happened to be wearing a cute pair of blue undies with a little lace at the edges, she took them from him and then withdrew her gaze to begin slipping them on, pulling them up under the afghan. As for why she still felt so modest right now, she couldn’t say. But maybe it was about . . . just feeling so very exposed in so many ways. She wasn’t used to that—at all.

  She grabbed up her capri pants and put them on as well. Her bra had never come totally off, so she’d long since adjusted it back into place, and only when Rogan got back up to fetch her peasant top did she let the afghan drop away.

  “Hold your arms up,” he said, and she raised her glance to see him with the top gathered between both hands, ready to put it on her as if she were a little girl who needed help getting dressed. And while one part of her wanted to balk at that, the greater part of her just . . . kept on surrendering, in more ways than one, by lifting her arms.

  He silently slid the top down over her head, her arms going into the short sleeves, and she then pulled it down the rest of the way. Next came the sandals she’d worn, which had gotten kicked off at some point, probably around the time her pants had been removed. Rogan now picked them up, one by one, and slipped them onto her feet.

  After that, he took her hands, pulling her gently up off the couch, then kept hold of one of them as she picked up her purse—the phone back inside it now—and led her to the door.

  Once there, she was about to say goodbye—less anxious to escape than before but still aware that being alone after all this would feel like a relief—when Rogan moved his hands to her waist and began kissing her senseless, just like when she’d first arrived.

  She couldn’t resist, didn’t even try—her arms looped around his neck of their own accord and she accepted his passionate kisses, sank into them, drank them into her apparently still-hungry body, letting them fill her senses with still more of him. She couldn’t deny that she loved the feel of his mouth on hers, loved the deliciousness of being desired by him, and that she even equally delighted in finally accepting how much she wanted him, too. It was good to kiss him with a little . . . joy in her soul about it.

  Of course, that joy was short-lived. Because kissing was one thing—and as she came to feel a little closer to him, a little less like he was a stranger—it made sense to enjoy his kisses. But what had taken place here, what kept taking place between them, was far more complex than kissing. And even as one part of her wanted to just keep on giving in, keep on accepting the bizarreness of it, another part of her still instinctively rebelled. And as the kisses finally ended and their eyes met, her palms pressed to his chest and his on her shoulders, she felt almost dizzy from the conflicting feelings.

  When Rogan let go of her, reaching down to open the door, it was both a relief and a disappointment. “I’ll talk to you soon, April.”

  A wave of uncertainty rose in her chest. “I’m not sure—”

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” he repeated firmly, cutting her off.

  And she knew he would.

  * * *

  Rogan stood on the fanciest patio he’d ever seen. Laid in stone, it was sunken, circled with a curving rock wall to match, and it looked out on one of the intercoastal waterways and the mansions on the other side. Most of the partygoers at the soiree he was attending were indoors because it was hot out, even now that the sun had set, but the house was too fancy for Rogan’s comfort. He wasn’t easily or often intimidated, but the moment he’d set foot inside this place he’d had the paranoid fear that he was going to break something really expensive. He was pretty sure that even the wineglass he was drinking from would cost the better part of his weekly paycheck. And he’d rather have a beer anyway.

  “Hey, dude, why ya hangin’ out here by yourself?”

  He looked up to find his buddy Colt at his right elbow. After leaving traditional law enforcement not long after their H.O.T. training together, Texas-born Colt had headed south from Michigan to Miami and had not only established himself as a high-priced bodyguard but also built a lucrative security company in the bargain. Which meant he sometimes hobnobbed with rich people—and snagged invitations to swanky parties like the one he’d dragged Rogan to tonight.

  “Eh, not really my scene,” Rogan replied, jerking his head slightly toward the enormous home behind him.

  “Since when?” Colt asked, laughing.

  And Rogan realized the question made sense. This wasn’t the first lavish shindig Colt had brought him to since he’d moved down here, and he’d never balked at them before. Oh, he’d found the people just as pretentious and plastic, and the decor just as ostentatious and overdone, but he’d still stood around enjoying himself as much as possible. And the fact was, big money bought a lot of fake boobs and well-done nose jobs which, even if not real, often created women worth looking at. So what was different about tonight?

  “I don’t know, man—I don’t mean to knock your friends,” he said, giving his head a slight shake.

  But Colt laughed that off, too. “They’re not my friends, they’re my clients—there’s a difference. But most of ’em aren’t bad people. A hot little redhead I was talkin’ to even asked about you—saw you come in with me.”

  “Yeah?” Of course, this piqued his interest and even perked his dick to life a little, unexpectedly. But then again, his dick had been pretty damn perky lately on its own—every time any thought of April Pediston came to mind. Hell, even a commercial for a law firm on TV last night had aroused him some—which made him feel ridiculous inside, but he still couldn’t deny it. So he doubted his reaction was as much about some hot redhead inside as it was about the redhead he’d bound and fucked on Saturday night.

  “You should come say hi,” Colt suggested.

  And Rogan weighed the opportunity in his mind. “I probably should,” he agreed. Because what he and Ginger shared was . . . a wild chemistry that led to some very satisfying kinky sex, but they had nothing in common. He wasn’t even sure she liked being around him when they weren’t kissing or fucking. So what he had with her . . . well, it was compelling and he sure as hell wasn’t done with it yet—but he didn’t want to get too wrapped up in it. And getting a hard-on over a commercial for some ambulance chaser in a bad suit made him feel a little too fucking wrapped up. Maybe a distraction would be good.

  And yet . . . even without seeing the woman in question, there was something inside him that just . . . didn’t want to. Didn’t want to meet her, didn’t want to flirt with her, just didn’t want to go there, period. “But don’t know if I’m in the mood.”

  “This about the lawyer chick?” Colt asked, eyes narrowed, sandy-haired head tilted skeptically.

  He’d given his buddy a brief rundown of the situation on the way here, but he’d thought he’d sounded more casual about it. Like sharing locker room talk. So now he only shrugged. “Nah—she’s too different from me for it to go anywhere. It’s just good sex.”

  “You sure, dude? Because hey, far be it from me to make somethin’ out of nothin’, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But . . . I don’t know, you sounded . . . into her when you were tellin’ me about her.”

  “I am into her. But not like in a ready-to-get-serious way. I’m just . . . into what happens when we’re together. It’s like . . . something fucking ignites, man.” He felt that something tightening his groin now, just thinking about it.

  “See? That’s what I mean. And it’s not what you’re sayin’, it’s the way you say it. The sound in your voice. The loo
k in your eye. Like she’s somethin’ special.”

  But Rogan automatically shook his head. “Nope, it’s not like that. Like I keep telling you.”

  In response, Colt pointed toward the French doors he’d exited through. “Then come on in and meet Skylar. She’s got a rockin’-hot body and she’s wearin’ a real tight little white dress that shows it off nice.”

  Rogan forced a grin and told his friend, “Like I said, just not into it tonight.”

  Colt’s look grew more lascivious and his Texas drawl even a bit more pronounced when he said, “What if I told ya she’s got a tall, sexy brunette friend named Shana, and she said they’d pretty much gotten in an argument over you? And then she giggled all hot and naughty and said they’d decided they might just have to share ya. Whole lotta bedrooms in this house, bro. And this is Shana’s daddy’s mansion and he’s not home.”

  Given all this new information, Rogan looked up. “Are you shittin’ me?”

  “Nope. Just hadn’t got around to that part yet is all.”

  Rogan thought back to times he’d shared a woman with another guy, and even with more than one guy. And it had been hot as hell. But he’d never been with two women, which was, of course, what every man really dreamed of. And if these chicks were as gorgeous as Colt said, maybe he should consider seeing where this led.

  After all, hadn’t he been telling himself that one-night stands were still just fine? Hadn’t losing Mira reminded him that hot, easy fun was a lot better than searing pain and heartache? But the fact was—he was already veering from that plan with April, at least a little. And maybe he was getting a little too obsessed with how hot things were between them. So maybe this would be just the thing to take the edge off—and live out a fantasy at the same time.

  Just then, the door opened and a cute redhead in a short white dress peeked out. Her cleavage rose practically to her neck and her tits looked all too luscious, nipples poking prominently through the fabric. She flashed him a come-hither smile, then licked her lips.

  “Come on, man,” Colt said under his breath. “Don’t be an idiot. Come on inside and meet Skylar and Shana.”

  But the strange thing was—he wasn’t even tempted. He didn’t know why. It was just like he’d told Colt—he wasn’t in the mood. Which was weird, because he loved sex. He loved everything about it. So no matter how he looked at it, he should be very turned on right now. And he just . . . wasn’t.

  He slapped Colt on the back. “Why don’t you go talk to them instead. Tell ’em I’m being an ass and maybe get yourself in between ’em. I think I’m gonna finish this glass of swill and head on home. Shift starts early tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  April walked along the shore of South Beach after dark, listening and watching as the waves washed in and out, in and out. She carried her sandals in one hand, fingers looped through the heel straps. She made a silent game of walking close to the water on the flat, packed-down sand created by the tidal ebb and flow, but she never let her feet get wet as the waves continued foaming in and out.

  She hadn’t taken a walk on the beach at night in . . . probably years. But it had been a hell of a day and she’d just felt the need to do something different, something to get away from her life. Amber, a beach bunny of the highest order, often reminded her that she never took advantage of living so near the ocean, and just a few days ago she’d at least thought about walking up the shore—even if she’d ended up going to Rogan’s place instead. So tonight she’d decided a walk in the sand might relax her.

  And the sound of the rushing tide, along with the soft, cool sand on her feet, was indeed soothing on some level. But the day’s stresses still played in her mind.

  Mostly it was work stuff piling up on her. She and her associate, Tom, weren’t seeing eye to eye on a big case they were preparing for together. And Tom had a bit of a superiority complex, so he wasn’t her favorite person to co-chair a case with anyway. She continued to be behind on paperwork and billing. And Kayla Gonzalez seemed to be getting wishy-washy about her divorce. It was that—garnered from a phone call with Kayla today—that bugged April most of all. She hated seeing women let themselves be held down by the men in their lives.

  A jolt shook her body when she realized the bitter irony in that thought. She’d let herself be held down by a man. Just three short nights ago. More than held down—tied down. And she’d liked it.

  She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. And fortunately—or unfortunately, perhaps—there was plenty to replace it. She’d come home expecting Amber to have dinner ready, only to find that she’d forgotten she’d promised, was on her way out to meet friends, and could she borrow twenty dollars? April, out of habit, had started to reach for her purse—but then she’d remembered her talk with Rogan about this and gingerly reminded her sister that she’d given her a fifty just over the weekend. Amber had acted hurt and embarrassed, even crying—until April had relented and given her the money. Yet then it had become a big game of shoving it back and forth along with a repetition of, “No, I don’t need it,” and “I want you to have it.” Just recalling the conversation now made April feel tired.

  After Amber’s departure, April had found a message on her answering machine—Allison needed her to watch the kids Friday night. Needed, not wondered if she could—like April was her servant or something. She’d not returned the call, and she had every intention of refusing whenever Allison next approached her.

  But the truth was, she’d probably give in, just like with Amber and the money. She sighed at her own weakness—she had a lot of nerve judging Kayla for being wishy-washy. And she was surprised Allison hadn’t texted her about Friday by now, given that April was usually quick to return a call.

  Of course, Rogan had added to her stress, too. Funny—it was almost like a catch-22. Her strange surrender during their kinky sex had left her oddly . . . relaxed in a way, right afterward. Though she’d left his apartment sure she needed to escape, be alone, once she finally was alone, she’d found herself quietly . . . calm. Acceptant. Practically happy. But the catch part was that the more she thought about that, the more it disturbed her. To be happy while a man dominated her, in any way whatsoever, went against everything she was.

  And she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about this situation—she had no idea at all. So maybe it was good she had so much going on at both work and home to occupy her time and mind. And maybe that was why she was walking up the beach right now. It seemed a . . . safer stress reducer than, say, calling up her new lover. And when that idea had actually occurred to her an hour ago, she’d briskly shoved it away. Changed into shorts and a tank. Then grabbed her keys to go get something to eat. And it was over a grilled chicken salad at a neighborhood deli that she’d decided to drive to the beach.

  Of course, the fact was, Rogan’s apartment wasn’t far from here. And there were other beaches she could have walked on.

  But the other facts were that Miami Beach was certainly the best, biggest beach for taking a nighttime stroll—and although quiet, the occasional couple or elderly person she passed on the shore helped her feel safe. It was a populated area, and not all beaches in the vicinity came with that luxury.

  So coming here had nothing to do with him. This was about relaxing, unwinding, getting away from her troubles. In a nice, normal way.

  So quit thinking about him. Quit thinking about anything. Just concentrate on the shushing sound of the waves. Look out on the dark water. Clear your head for a change. That’s what you came here for.

  And so she did. And maybe she’d forgotten how at once calming and invigorating the ocean could be. She took it for granted, she knew. And maybe . . . maybe she even resented it a little. She’d never wanted to come live here, after all. Having her whole adolescent life uprooted had just added to the cold, hard reality that her parents were dead.

  Yet this seemed like a good time to stop resenting it and start appreciating it, maybe in a whole new way. So she stopped
walking and looked out on the water, a nearly full moon casting a ribbon of sparkling light on the surface. And she took in the beauty and felt thankful for it. And glad she’d come. And like . . . like she was exactly where she was supposed to be in this moment.

  When her phone softly chimed, indicating the arrival of a text message, she cringed inwardly. I knew it—there’s Allison. Then she reached into the purse hanging from her shoulder, both irritated and curious to see her sister’s next plea about Friday night.

  Only then she gasped. Because it wasn’t Allison. The name ROGAN WOLFE blipped at the top of her screen.

  She drew in her breath.

  Though maybe I shouldn’t be so stunned. But three days had passed without a word from him, and somehow she’d begun to think maybe he wouldn’t contact her after all. That maybe he’d wait to hear from her, and when he didn’t, he’d drift quietly away, right back out of her life. The truth was—seeing his name on her phone was both unnerving and thrilling. She clicked to read his message.

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

  It was a simple question, harmless enough. But she immediately decided to lie. She didn’t want to let him know she was so close to his building. She typed in a reply: READING A BOOK. She scarcely had time to read for pleasure, but she thought it sounded like something she would do.

  COME TO MY APARTMENT.

  She drew in a quick, hard breath. So much for small talk. NO.

  YES.

  I CAN’T. DUE IN COURT IN THE MORNING. Another lie. She didn’t care. Self-preservation seemed much more important.

  When an answer didn’t appear right away, she began to think maybe she’d won, that easily. Maybe he was even angry at her refusal. But she didn’t care. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about this whole thing—the whole bizarre relationship they’d somehow fallen into—yet right now her instinct was to rebel against it all as usual.