Rogue

by Katy Evans

  I want to feast on nothing but your mouth, your tits, your pussy, and that fucking lip you’re torturing with your teeth, teeth I want to feel rasping along my cock.

  “I’m a fan of international foods. Anything. Thai, Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, I like different tastes. I enjoy being . . . surprised when it comes to my palate. I like spices.”

  “Do you come into the city for work?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What do you do for work?” The genuine interest in her eyes makes me feel like a fucking douche bag.

  “Security.” I slap my menu shut. “In my father’s company.”

  “Really now? How interesting! I wouldn’t peg you for a man who worked with his father. With anyone, actually.”

  My lips curl in amusement as I signal for the waiter, then raise one eyebrow in question at her. “You mean to say you don’t believe I can play well with others?”

  “You just give off the impression of separateness.”

  “Do I?”

  There she goes again, biting that damn lip. “It’s intriguing.”

  “You give the impression of playfulness and comfort. I find that intriguing too.”

  She grins, a sheepish grin that can’t quite conceal the way her emerald green eyes flood with feminine delight. Maybe I don’t grin like she does, but trust me, I’m just as delighted with her. Once we order, she looks at me and plays with a yellow cuff bracelet on her arm.

  “My work is my passion. I’m absolutely obsessed with colors. I can’t leave the house without wearing at least three different colors. Two is too simple. One is absolutely drab and I don’t want to be drab.”

  I find myself laughing again, something which seems to come naturally around her. “No way you’re fucking drab. In fact, right here, sitting with you, I feel gray.”

  Her smile flashes the instant mine does, and we laugh until our drinks are set before us, and she sips from her straw.

  “I like this,” she says with a long sigh of intense pleasure as she sits back in relaxation. She takes an even longer look at me. “It feels like a date. And it feels like forever since I’ve had one of those.”

  In my peripherals, I just noticed that Derek sat at a table nearby, across from C.C.

  “It is a date. You invited me to your friend’s wedding. That’s a date in my book.”

  “I did not invite you. I said you could come . . .”

  “And we both know how much we love me coming.”

  She smiles wickedly, and it does nothing to calm my raging libido. I can tell she likes it when I’m bad. She likes bad boys.

  Fuck, princess, you don’t know I’m the baddest of the bad, I think and then, another thought, Hell, I’m not a bad boy, I’m a bad man!

  It brings me down a little to realize I’m no good for her.

  “Come on, admit it,” I press her, reviving myself with the playful glint in her eye. “I came, I conquered—at least getting you out to dinner makes me feel like a conqueror—and I even survived your angry black-haired friend.”

  “Pandora.” She laughs. “But she’s right asking about these, these are too much, more than I’m worth.”

  She absently strokes the necklace on her throat, and I whisper, a warning, “Melanie.”

  “Greyson . . .”

  Hell, I can see the seeds of doubt her friend planted almost spinning in her little head. I keep my voice level, low even, but stern.

  “Do whatever you want with the necklace. Just don’t return it to me.”

  Swear to god, if I could only telepathically send this woman the damn message to do what any smart girl bent on survival would.

  She may wait, but when the time dwindles, she’ll do it. I expect her to. Hell, when she’s spent enough time with me, she’ll be sick of me and anything of mine and she’ll dump it faster than she can say Greyson.

  The thought makes my gut heat up in anger.

  My hand edges higher up her thigh. This urge to touch her eats at me. I’m always gloved, but tonight my gloves are in one of my suit pockets and my hands are bare—and I can’t stop devouring the sensation of having her smooth skin under my fingers and palm.

  She twirls her straw as if she wants something to do, but most important of all, she knows exactly where my hand is and makes no move to remove it. “My best friend, whose wedding you just saw . . . When we were young, I used to be Barbie and she was Skipper whenever we played. I always used to get Ken. It just seemed that she wasn’t interested in Ken, so I used to make sure he was all mine. She didn’t even want to fall in love. I wanted to be happy, carefree, and fall in love one day, and she wanted the Olympics. But she was the one who ended up falling in love, hard, you know? The real thing. The real man. I could not be happier, she could not deserve it more. But now you look at me like her husband looks at her . . .” She lifts her eyes to me and absently rubs a pink fingernail up her glass. “But you’re not my husband, you’re not in love with me. What do you want?” She holds my stare with hers. “Pandora’s right, you don’t give something like this to just anyone. Men give diamonds to women they need to buy, or hide.”

  “And yet we’re in plain view. I’d never hide something as beautiful as you.”

  She touches the rim of her glass with one fingertip, and I let my eyes drag up her lean, toned arm, down her body, my craving to have her growing fiercer and fiercer every second. “You look stunning in this dress, princess.”

  Her cheeks flare. “Thank you. I almost thought I couldn’t wear it.”

  “You look lovely. The way your hair curls at the tips. I can’t take my eyes off you and I can’t wait to take that dress off you.”

  She drops her gaze to the table, biting on her smile.

  I lean forward, testing my limits; pushing them. “We’ve been intimate. You’re wearing my necklace. I have my hand on your thigh. Your friends have drilled the crap out of me. Why so shy?” When she just lets go of that delicious smile, I curl my index finger under her chin and tip her head back. “You been thinking about me?”

  “You mean dwelling on and pining over the guy who didn’t call?”

  I cock a brow. “The man standing at the church, waiting for you to throw him a bone? That was me.”

  “Oh wow, thanks for clearing that up!” The delicate sound of her laugh makes me stone hard.

  I slide my hand higher on her thigh, pulling up the silk of her dress so I can touch more bare skin. I am about to kiss her when a familiar face enters the diner. My eyes slide over to him and I ease back when C.C. makes a brief hand gesture to let me know he’s on it.

  Fuck me, I have no energy for any criminal bullshit tonight. I haven’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. The knife cut on my biceps aches like a bitch, and I’m running on pure adrenaline here. As I wait for C.C. to make a sign that it’s clear, Melanie picks at her salad, and the old familiar pattern of staying apart from the world settles over me.

  “Thanks for coming to the wedding,” she says, softly.

  “My pleasure,” I reply, low.

  I can suddenly sense the distance between us like a ten-foot abyss, keeping me from making a connection.

  “Why did you?”

  My eyebrows fly up. “Why did I come?”

  She nods, and I don’t know anything else except that I still crave a connection with her. Any sort of connection. I’m stroking my longest finger up the creamy inside of her thigh, all the while watching the newcomer leave in my peripherals. “I came for you, Melanie.”

  “I have had a thousand one-night stands in my life, Greyson.”

  “I’ve had a thousand and one.”

  “Counting me?”

  “No, princess. When we do this again . . . you’re on a whole other list.”

  We stare, neither of us smiling, my eyes greedily taking in the quiet curiosity on her face, her long golden hair, the pretty small breasts jutting against the fabric of her silk dress, the tender curve of her shoulder, and Jesus, I want all of that more than she will ever kn
ow.

  She sets her hand on my thigh. “What list?” She tilts her head and studies me. “What will this even be?”

  The unexpected feel of her hand on my thigh sends a primal heat across my veins. One second we’re talking, the next I catch her face and hold it still as I look into those green eyes, suddenly fierce as I study her small nose, her generous mouth. “For me, this is a fantasy. You’re the fantasy. For you, this will be a mistake. A long, pleasurable mistake.” I watch her eyes darken, and I’ve never been a man to mince words. “I’m going to be everything you never wanted,” I warn on a gruff breath, “nothing that you need.” I slide my other hand farther up her thigh. “Sometimes my work will take me away, and I won’t call, and I’ll piss you off.” I graze my longest finger over the silky V covering her sex. “I’ll be selfish. I’ll take everything I want, whenever I want it. I’m not the man of your dreams, Melanie, I’m your worst nightmare.”

  Her eyes glaze, and she stops my hand from caressing her and presses her lips into my ear. “I’m not your fucking toy.”

  I catch her by the shoulders and pull her back to me. “But you’ll let me play with you.”

  “If I wanted just sex, I could get that from anyone.”

  “Not the kind of sex you’ll get with me.” I push my thumb into her mouth, making her taste me. My whole body feels that lick. “I’ll make you want it. I’ll text you when I’m flying into town so you’re twitching and soaked by the time you see me at your door.”

  She bites my thumb and drives me so wild with lust, I’m about to slam my mouth down on hers.

  Fuck me.

  Maybe I will never make a worthwhile connection to anyone in my life.

  But I can have this—I can have her, her body, her wild, hot pleasure.

  I can have this.

  Oh, yes, I’m having this tonight.

  I lean over, ready to take a long, juicy bite out of the lip that’s been driving me crazy, when she stands. “You’re an asshole,” she whispers, panting. “Take me somewhere. Just for the night. Take me somewhere.”

  I peel a hundred-dollar bill from the stack in my pocket and set it on the table, slip my jacket over her shoulders, and usher her out.

  FOURTEEN

  * * *

  WEEKEND

  Melanie

  We drive to an apartment in a high-end neighborhood so pricey and coveted that everyone where I work would whore themselves out for a decorating gig in this zip code. It’s got a gated entry and high-level security on every entrance and exit. The apartment itself is covered in wall-to-wall windows, with limestone floors and stone fireplaces.

  I take in the spacious, mostly empty space with one wide-eyed sweep, jaw hanging. “Did you just get a place in the city?” I hand him his coat, his gaze a delicious, palpable thing on me as I walk inside.

  “You like it?” His voice holds no inflection, but something in his eyes tells me he wants me to like it.

  I notice that the only furniture is one massive king mattress in the middle of the room, and the sight of those paperwhite sheets and plump pillows gives me tingles. Both of us. In that bed. Touching, kissing, groping.

  The windows closest to the bed face toward my building and for a moment I wonder if he’s noticed that, even if somewhat distant, my apartment faces this way.

  “It’s such a stunning space but so very empty!” I spread out my arms. “I can already visualize exactly what could go where. Dare I say you came to the right woman?”

  “Dare I admit I’m not hiring your design services? I don’t like clutter.” And yet he looks amused by my offer—that almost grin I’ve come to really, really dig hovering on that full, dirty-talking mouth of his.

  Oh god, I’m still so turned on by what a sexy asshole he is. He makes me want to slap him and fuck him; no man has ever pushed my buttons like this!

  “How’d you know I was a designer?”

  Arms crossed, plus that almost grin equals to me almost panting. “You’re not the only one who can work Google.”

  “Pandora Googled you, not me.”

  “Right,” he agrees.

  I laugh because he’s clearly on to me, then admit, “There was nothing on you. Nothing.”

  “And there’s quite a bit on you.”

  “Well, I can make this place come to life with a flick of my fingers! I’m like a Mary Poppins of decorating!”

  “Princess, it’s already alive with you in it.”

  Surprised by the compliment, I slide my eyes back to him, and the very way he stands there screams at me that he’s someone, someone strong, someone you don’t mess with, someone you want on your side. His dark clothes can’t hide the muscles beneath, or the grace and virility with which he moves.

  I can hardly stand looking at him without launching myself at him like a rocket—a haywire rocket on a permanent, pretty worrisome detour. I restlessly walk around the place, wondering if he’s watching my ass as I move.

  I let my hips sway even harder on purpose and head down the hall; he whistles to call me back.

  “That room is off-limits.”

  “What? What do you mean?” He comes over and sets a hand on the small of my back, the very rough touch filling me with a sense of safety. “Do you realize that telling me that was an invitation to just try to pick this lock and find out?” I ask him.

  “You won’t be able to open it. I’ve got a mess of stuff there, nothing for a girl.”

  My interest piqued by this, I steer away from his hand and turn back to jiggle the doorknob. The door is steel, almost like a bank vault.

  “Melanie,” Greyson warns.

  I laugh and back off. “Okay. That’s your man cave, I won’t go in. Don’t look so worried.”

  “I’m not worried. You couldn’t open that door with a chainsaw. What concerns me is your determination to do exactly what I told you not to.”

  “I’m curious!” I say, laughing again. My laugh, I can’t explain it, but it seems to get to him. He looks hungry to quiet me with his mouth. When he licks his lips and scowls down at my mouth, the sudden memory of his mouth on mine zips through me, of my nipples against his tongue, and a shiver of anticipation bolts down my spine.

  “Do you mind if I freshen up?” I blurt out.

  “Babe, you’re spring incarnate, but go ahead.”

  I shut the bathroom door behind me and lean against the sink. I can hardly breathe, the flutters are everywhere in me, from my head to my toes. He’s a fucking asshole who openly admitted to probably just wanting to use me and I should’ve slapped him but instead, I’m going to fuck him because he makes me mad. Because he’s responsible for an awful, insistent throbbing between my legs. All these weeks wondering what he wants from me, if he was coming tonight.

  No matter what he says, he still looks at me the way he does—and the way he looks at me says other things. That he wants me. That he desperately wants, craves, maybe even needs me, like he said in my apartment that day.

  I have never worn anything a man has given me. Now my throat is adorned with a line of sparkly white diamonds and I’d never imagined a gesture like this could stimulate my mind, my heart, and my body so much.

  He wants to use me for sex tonight? Then I will use him back because it’s killing me. The way he looks at me kills me. The way he smells, walks, the sound of his voice.

  Tonight I’m not sleeping home alone no matter what happens.

  Quickly, I wash my hands, under my armpits, and then I lift my dress and glance sadly at the bruises on my thighs. I pull out my makeup kit from my clutch bag and start covering the purple stains with my concealer, one by one.

  When I’m done, I notice a towel with streaks of red and wonder if he cut himself. Shaving perhaps? A wave of protectiveness takes me over. Is he all right? Of course he is, Melanie. That man is about as penetrable as his steel door.

  As I grip the doorknob, the steady pulse between my legs continues to throb. By the time I pull the door open and quietly cross the room toward th
e bed, my heart races at full speed.

  I’ve never been to such a luxurious or empty apartment. He’s like some Spartan, with no belongings. I glimpsed his closet and he has the same three shirts, the same three jackets, same three style of shoes. Like some sort of methodical superhero—and as if he doesn’t plan to stay long?

  A pang hits me at the thought, but it’s quickly replaced with the bolt of lust I feel at the sight of him. He’s leaning back in bed, one lean arm folded behind his head as he stares out the window.

  Oh god, why do I like that so much? Because he’s staring at your building.

  The fact that he can see me from here might make me feel protected even when he never calls. Even if he will never look me up again. I need that little feeling of safety and I cling to it.

  “Can you see my apartment from here?” I ask. I start pulling down the side zipper of my dress. He turns to me, and a twinkle of moonlight catches in his eyes as he watches me approach. My heart thuds. He has a massive, self-confident presence, and an air of authority that makes my knees wobbly. He’s strong. Magnetizing. Vital. And he fills my whole being with crazy, wild wanting.

  “Yeah, that’s why I got this place.”

  I know he’s joking, but the words are sober—he’s looking straight into my eyes. “You’d think a player like you would have something better to do than stare out the window trying to get a glimpse of me,” I tease.

  “I do more than stare out the window, princess. It involves me taking off my gloves.”

  Bastard.

  Fucking delicious bastard.

  He’s like riding a motorcycle at full speed. He feels like the engine, the ride . . . the wind . . .

  I stop by the foot of the bed and I feel a ripple of excitement when I notice the way he watches me, his eyes shimmering like lightning.

  “Strip me, or strip for me. Lady’s pick.” He speaks calmly and succinctly, making no move to yank me down on him.

  Really now? So confident of this magnetic, electric pull, tugging me to him?

  My gaze greedily runs up and down his thick legs, the bulge I’m mad over, up to his chest, which stretches the material of his snowy white shirt in the best possible way. Feeling heavy and warm, my pulse thundering in my veins, I crawl over him, his gaze boring into me with silent expectation.