A couple of weeks ago, it would have been so hard for April to admit that—even to herself. But things had changed, so she kept her answer simple, and honest. “Yes. Very much.”
“I bet that sweet little cunt is practically dripping,” he said, the dirty words feeling like an intimate touch.
“Yes,” she breathed again, wanting him more than she could even have imagined ten minutes earlier. Her big bad wolf often had that effect on her.
With their eyes still locked, his expression slowly transformed until he was offering her a slight—even if still completely sexy—grin. “Eat before your food gets cold,” he instructed her.
“What? Oh,” she said then. She’d practically forgotten about the food, that fast. Her every thought had turned to fucking him.
Eating in such a condition, it turned out, was both irritating and . . . sensual. She really couldn’t have cared less about dinner now, yet the very act of putting food into her mouth became something she felt more than usual. Because she longed to touch and be touched, because their legs mingled flirtatiously beneath the table, every physical act or sensation became something she experienced much more viscerally than ever. Every bite of her lasagna became tastier, spicier on her tongue; every sip from her wineglass seemed to trickle down her throat.
They ate in silence, and April suspected—or maybe it was more of a hope—that Rogan was experiencing the meal with the same odd intensity she was.
And when they were both done and he’d paid the bill, he waited only a few seconds before saying to her, “I’m going to go outside and around to the back of the building. Wait a minute, then slip out and join me.”
“What’s going to happen then?” she asked—for once not out of fear or trepidation, but simply from the anticipation of the pleasure to come.
“I’m going to eat you for dessert,” he said.
Chapter 15
Rogan could barely breathe as he waited for April to come outside. The idea of her perfect pussy being drenched for him had him hard as a rock. She’d gone into the bathroom and removed her panties so easily—like a true submissive sex slave. And from that moment on, he’d just been plain gone—wild with wanting her.
As they’d stepped into the restaurant, he’d spotted the entryway to the small courtyard where he now stood. He was pleased to find that while it was a softer setting than their alley outside the Café Tropico—the walls draped with vining roses and sporting an old tree that grew up between buildings that had been here a far shorter time—it felt the same in terms of risk. Chances they’d be caught here were slim, but they would be outdoors, in a small common area between several buildings that held art galleries and restaurants, so it still felt dangerous. And hot as hell.
The second she walked through the arched trellis that served as the entrance, he was on her. He hadn’t planned it that way—to be rough and fast—but her easy obedience had moved him unlike any other time she’d given in to him before. Or hell, maybe it was just being outside with her again, someplace that did feel a little racy, risky.
Shoving her up against the nearest brick wall, he dropped to his knees and pushed her serious-looking skirt to her hips in one upward thrust of his hands. Her thighs were soft and supple beneath his rough fingers—and God, her naked cunt looked more delicious than any sweet treat he’d ever eaten.
“Spread your legs,” he instructed, and before even giving her a chance to comply, he thrust his hand between them and drove two fingers up inside her. She cried out, and he loved knowing the sound was one of heat and pleasure.
He didn’t waste another second before pressing his face into the moist pink flesh visible between her legs. He licked deeply there, tasting her sweetness, smelling it as well, and listening to the skittery moans of delight from above. Maybe it made him all the more a selfish bastard, but he loved that she seemed inexperienced at more urgent and extreme forms of sex—it made her extremely responsive, and being the man who opened her up to more than she’d had before felt like a special privilege.
“This pussy tastes so fucking sweet,” he pulled back to murmur after one particularly deep, luscious lick into that most intimate part of her.
“Oh, lick me—please lick me,” she breathed—and he nearly came in his pants.
Of course, a truly dominant man would chastise her for daring to make a command of him—but this new openness on her part excited him far too much for him to want to punish her for it. Instead, he decided to go another way with it. “Beg me, baby. Beg me some more. Tell me what you want.”
And she did, without hesitation. “Lick my pussy, Rogan—please! Don’t make me wait—please lick me.”
“More,” he said when she stopped, feeling a twinge of wicked guilt for withholding it.
Above him, she whimpered, clearly desperate, and he loved it. “I’m going crazy. I need your mouth there so badly. Please.”
Mmm, nice. And his dick was even harder for her efforts.
And so then, thinking of it as a reward, he simply did as his sexy little submissive bid him—he licked her hot cunt like it held the gooiest, tastiest chocolate ever. He licked her long and deep, listening to her every response, and feeling the contractions of her wet pussy around his tongue.
When he dragged his attention upward onto her clit—ah, damn, it was so fucking swollen with excitement that his instant urge was to suck it deep into his mouth like an engorged nipple. Above him, he could sense her biting her lip to keep from crying out, and the female flesh around his mouth trembled with lust.
He sucked more, harder, finding a rhythm that led her to fuck his mouth. And when her fingers threaded through his hair, as she pulled his face tight against her mound, he thought he’d die from pleasure. He was dominant by nature, but there were moments when it felt strangely powerful to give that up—it felt powerful to deliver that much pleasure by making himself into a tool, a toy, whatever she needed him to be in order to make her come.
When the orgasm washed over her, he felt it echo through her pussy and outward through his mouth. “God, yes—yes,” she bit off through clenched teeth, her drives against his face that much harder now as the heat and release took her away.
He gave her a moment to come back to herself—gave himself a moment, too—before he pushed to his feet, ready to reassume control here. Game face on, he cast a steely glare on his hot little Ginger and said, “On your knees. Suck my hard cock, baby.”
And when she parted her lips to answer, Rogan almost expected some sort of protest—because that was their history, what he’d gotten used to—so it pleased him all the more when she said, “There’s nothing I want more right now than for you to fill my mouth.”
He didn’t think he’d ever seen April as enthusiastic as when she dropped down to her knees on the old paving tiles lining the courtyard and practically tore into his pants. She was like a rabid animal, and by the time she got to his dick, he feared he would come too soon.
So he struggled to get control, even as perfect as she looked and felt wrapping her hand around it, even as amazing and beautifully obscene as she appeared vigorously going down on him.
And damn, she worked magic with her mouth and within seconds had him pumping between those pretty, welcoming lips of hers. Her hair had started out pulled neatly back from her face, but now long red locks had snuck free and fell across her cheeks as she delivered a perfect blow job.
So perfect, in fact, that it wasn’t long before he had to pull out of her wet and lovely little mouth.
It was both frustrating and exciting as hell when she objected. “No, I want more. I want you to come in my mouth, Rogan.”
Aw God. At that, his cock nearly exploded in her soft, warm hand instead. And he wanted to argue in a way. Just because that wasn’t what he’d had in mind. He’d wanted to haul her back up on those sexy high heels, turn her to frisking position again the wall, and fuck her naughty little brains out from behind. And besides, he couldn’t let her keep calling the shots here—he neede
d to remind them both exactly who was boss.
But for a woman like April to make the offer to suck him off—shit, how was he supposed to resist that?
So he didn’t. But he turned the tables, took back the position of authority. If she wanted him to come in her mouth, he was going to make sure she knew she no longer had a choice.
He was so excited that when he spoke, his voice came out in a deep rasp. “All right then, babe. I’m gonna come hard and deep in your hungry little mouth—I’m gonna shoot my come all the way down your throat. Now suck that cock, baby—suck it good and hard and deep until I fucking explode between your lips.”
April had never wanted this before, but now she did—she wanted it like she could scarcely remember wanting anything before. That was how it was with Rogan—her wild desire for him kept surpassing itself again and again.
Now she didn’t think, or fear anything—she simply followed the hot compulsion to suck his big cock like there was no tomorrow. Like she needed it in her mouth in order to stay alive. Like nothing else mattered. She wanted to feel the power of his perfect erection erupting between her lips, wanted to taste the hot come, even if the sensation overpowered her.
He prodded her onward with more sexy, dirty talk. “Suck it, baby—suck that big dick. You love my cock in your mouth—you love having me stretch your lips wide as I thrust it toward your soft little throat.”
Lord, every word he said felt insanely true. And even as she experienced one brief moment of wondering who on earth she had become with this man, a much bigger part of her let all that go because she knew the woman she’d been with him in the beginning didn’t exist anymore—he’d made her into someone new. Someone freer. Someone happier. And someone who—oh Lord—had possessed no idea how wildly much she loved and craved sex until he’d come along.
“That’s right, baby—suck it. Suck that big cock. Keep on. I’m gonna come so hard in your mouth. I’m gonna come . . . aw fuck, now. I’m gonna come now, baby.”
She instinctively went still on him, trying to brace herself for the ejaculation. And then he was pumping between her lips harder, faster, but in blessedly short strokes that didn’t overwhelm her.
And then came the shocking burst of warmth. Swallow. Swallow it. And then it came again, again. Keep swallowing. So warm. Somehow she suffered the sensation of that warm wetness spreading all through her pussy, too, even though it was nowhere near there.
The second she released him from her mouth, two things happened. She experienced that sense of what he’d alluded to—of her lips feeling stretched, tired, sore, well used. And he yanked her to her feet by one arm and kissed her like there was no tomorrow. And it was the most amazing kiss they’d ever shared, because even if it came without words, she understood. She and Rogan didn’t always need words. But she knew that he was needing her the same way she’d begun to need him.
And as much as it was still about hot, kinky sex, in other ways it had begun to be about much more than that.
* * *
An hour later they’d driven back to South Beach and sat on the sand, staring out over the water, the neon lights of Ocean Drive’s art deco hotels behind them in the distance. April had long since given up worrying about how her skirt and blouse would come through this night, but they shared a laugh over it, agreeing he was hell on her wardrobe.
They stayed quiet for a while, too, simply holding hands, and April was again filled with a lovely sense of closeness to him. He was so different from any other man she’d dated, and yet she’d slowly come to appreciate his quiet strength—and in fact, now even found it quite mesmerizing in ways.
At the same time, though, she wanted more from him. She couldn’t help it. She wanted that closeness, but she didn’t know how to be truly close to someone who wouldn’t open up to her.
“Don’t suppose you want to tell me any more about your family,” she suggested, half smiling, half playful, but also serious.
As usual when she broached this topic, though, he stared straight ahead, this time out at the rippling waves. “Nothing to tell.”
“I think you’re lying,” she said teasingly.
“Think whatever you want, Ginger,” he told her, not sounding angry, just matter-of-fact.
Okay, another strikeout. But that didn’t mean she had to give up entirely. “Then . . . tell me more about the girl, the one you loved in Michigan.”
That’s when he turned his head her way. “Why are you so nosy?”
Fortunately, she felt connected enough to him at this point that the accusation didn’t even begin to daunt her. She simply replied, “Because maybe I care about you or something. Now tell me.”
He lowered his chin in a chiding way. “You’re not being very submissive,” he pointed out.
But she simply shrugged. “Sometimes that works for me. Other times not so much.”
And even as he took a long, deep breath next to her, it surprised her when he actually began to talk, began telling her about a girl named Mira who ran a bookshop and who was now engaged to marry a friend of his this coming summer. “She’s a good person—you’d like her,” he went on to say. And she was touched by how honest she sensed him being, and she held his hand tighter as he confided in her further about the relationship.
“And that afghan you asked me about at my apartment?” he said after telling her how things finally ended between them. “Just so you know, my neighbor made it for me after I tried to get her back but couldn’t. And even though Mrs. Denby never said, and it wasn’t like we chatted a lot, I always kind of thought she just knew I was in a shitty place after that, and maybe she noticed I didn’t have a lot of people in my life. And the fact is, when she gave me that afghan . . . well, it meant something to me. I’m not sure anybody’s ever made anything for me before. Or since. So there. Now you know the whole damn story. Happy now, Ginger?”
“Yes,” she said. “I mean, like I said last time we talked about this, not happy you were hurt, but happy you told me.”
And maybe I’m also a little bit happy that Mira didn’t take you back—because if she had, I wouldn’t have you now. Thank you, Mira—wherever you are.
* * *
April sat in her living room, looking at her phone like a silly schoolgirl; she was rereading text messages from Rogan. Yesterday evening, just after she’d eaten dinner, he’d texted her, informing her she was to be at his place Saturday night at nine.
She’d not argued—for the usual reason; it had grown shockingly easy and even pleasing to be compliant with him. And she’d realized that, deep down, it didn’t really take away any of her power, especially now that she had learned to accept her desire to be with him and felt like they’d actually developed a relationship of sorts. And besides that, Allison often came looking for a babysitter on Saturday nights, and she wouldn’t mind in the least having a good reason to say no.
But what really had her looking at her phone, feeling a little giddy and romantic inside, was the fact that he’d texted her again later, closer to eleven, and the message had contained two simple words: GOODNIGHT, GINGER.
Which maybe wasn’t a big deal. But it just meant that he was thinking about her. And not just about dominating her—meaning his every thought about her wasn’t about sex, just as her every thought about him was no longer only about sex, either. And it just felt . . . normal. Like what people in a normal relationship did.
She’d sent him a goodnight text in return, and then he’d said: GONNA THINK ABOUT ME WHEN YOU GO TO BED? ; )
She’d been more than a little surprised to see that Rogan Wolfe used emoticons. But she’d liked that he was flirting with her.
And so she’d let her answer be bolder than usual. I’M SURE I WILL. I USUALLY DO.
He said: REALLY NOW. I DIDN’T KNOW THAT.
WELL, NOW YOU DO, she’d typed.
I LIKE IT, he told her.
GOOD.
I THINK ABOUT YOU, TOO, GINGER.
She’d simply sent back an emoticon sm
ile and another goodnight, and that was all, the end of the conversation. But nearly twenty-four hours later she was still pondering it, still liking it.
Given that it was Friday night, she wasn’t sure if she’d waited too late for this, but she had an idea, something she wanted to do—at least if Amber didn’t have plans. Which was why she was sitting in the living room with nothing better to do than ruminate about last night’s texts—she was also waiting for Amber to get home from her brand-new job at a local boutique. It was still part-time, but it somehow felt more substantial to April than Amber’s usual temporary stints at mini marts and ice cream shops.
When her youngest sister walked in a few minutes later, April asked her, “Any chance you’re free tonight? I could use your help with a project if you don’t mind.”
Amber looked understandably surprised—it wasn’t often that April needed help from her or Allison; life had arranged things so that it was usually the other way around. “What kind of project?”
“Well, you know that guy I’m seeing?”
Amber shrugged. “Sort of. You’ve never even told me his name.”
Hmm, she supposed she hadn’t. But things had still seemed so . . . well, dark and forbidden then. Now the relationship felt just as intense, but much less dark. “His name is Rogan. He’s a cop. He recently moved here from Michigan.”
Amber looked generally pleased as she said, “Cool.”
“Anyway, I noticed that the walls of his apartment are completely bare, and I was thinking it would be nice to give him something to hang over his couch. And . . . I don’t know if this is even possible, but I was thinking it would be nice if I actually made him something to hang—like painted it myself. And this is insanely short notice, but is there anything simple you could help me paint, like, tonight?”
It surprised her to see how brightly Amber’s eyes lit up—and it occurred to her that maybe she should ask for her sister’s help with things she was good at more often. “Oh, totally. There are a million easy things you could paint. And I have plenty of spare canvases. Come on—let’s get you in a smock. This will be fun!”
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