Rogue

by Katy Evans

  “Look at me.”

  I tried, moaning.

  He slid his hand up my back, under the fall of my hair and held me by the skull, tipping my face up. “Say you love it,” he commanded. “Say you fucking love it.”

  “I love it,” I moaned.

  His mouth crashed down on me and he gave me the kiss of a lifetime, the fuck of a lifetime. When he peeled our mouths free he slowed his pace and said again, huskier, “Look at me,” filling me to the hilt with hot, pulsing live flesh.

  I looked and he looked back at me, greedy, strong, driving over and over inside me. Not holding back. Every move telling me he needed this as bad as me.

  My climax took me over like a storm. With every shudder that passed through me, another, deeper one ran through him until we were both panting and undone. I clasped my thighs and arms tighter around him, holding his hard, heavy body to mine, keeping him a little longer inside me.

  I didn’t want to let go. My face was wet again from my orgasm but all of a sudden I felt like crying an ocean.

  I’m afraid of what he makes me feel, and of the reality of my circumstances.

  I’m afraid that I will owe all this money and have had no buyers for my Mustang, and when my time runs out three days after my birthday, a dozen angry mobsters will come knock on my door and nobody will be able to help me. Nobody will be able to stop them. Not even him.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what to do. But nobody makes me feel as emotionally vulnerable and as physically safe as he does when he holds me.

  The fact that he came to brunch, unexpectedly, told me more than all his warnings have. He exhaled in my neck and rolled us to a more comfortable position, where he kept me to his side, and I felt strange emotions swamp me.

  Don’t be needy, I told myself, but I felt like an imposter. I still heard myself whisper, “Everything my parents said . . . don’t believe it. They just think I’m perfect, but I fake it.”

  I eased away from him and clutched the sheet around me.

  He sat up in bed. “I know about faking it.”

  “My life came at a very high price and it’s just hard to live up to it.”

  Instantly he reached out and set a hand on my shoulder, tracing a circle on my skin with his thumb. “My life has come at a high price too. Every day of it.” He brushed one lone tendril of hair back from my face, our eyes locking. “So many days trying to find some fucked-up meaning in it.”

  The revelation left me breathless, and I waited and waited and waited for more, saw there was more in his eyes, but he got up and grabbed his clothes.

  “I’m glad to be wanted here, Melanie,” he said, shooting me one of his many winning smiles.

  When he started getting dressed, I turned away to the window and clutched my arms around my stomach, trying to ease the ache there. Ugh. Hate that he’s leaving again. Hate that this could be goodbye.

  I wanted to ask if I’d see him again, but before I could, he spoke from the door.

  “Stay safe, princess.”

  I forced myself to answer, “Bye, Greyson.”

  How can I know so little about someone and yet need him so much?

  He hasn’t called, but this Monday morning I got another kind of call, and with it, an offer for my Mustang.

  I ask Pandora as we settle in the office, “So what do you think, is it a good offer?”

  Her answer is to ask me why I am selling my car.

  Fuck. I try to think of anything but the truth, that it needs to go and I probably need to sell everything but the shirt on my back, and even then the math may not add up, but I just can’t tell her. “It’s impractical.”

  “Dude, you live for the impractical.”

  “It got flooded! It squeaks now.”

  “Which is cute considering you squeak too.”

  “Urgh, you’re impossible.”

  “Melanie . . . stop buying shit and you wouldn’t need to sell your car. See this shirt? I do something that’s called washing it three times a week. I only need a couple of these and that’s it. See these boots? They’re my signature. I don’t need another pair of shoes.”

  “This is not a shopping problem, it’s a different kind of problem.”

  “What, like an addiction?” Her brow wrinkles with concern.

  “I want to sell it, that’s all,” I mumble.

  “Want to sell, or need ?” Perceptive dark eyes suddenly probe into me in silence. “I have an idea. Sell the necklace your boyfriend gave you.”

  “Pfft! Don’t think so!” I wave that off with one hand, then I become somber. “I want to sell my car, and I need your advice. Is that a good offer, Pan?”

  “I’m a fucking decorator like you, I don’t know shit about cars. Ask your dad. Hell, ask your precious boyfriend.”

  “You know what? I will! I will ask him right fucking now! He will be delighted to hear from me.” I pull my phone out. “He even came to brunch.”

  “Wow, you dragged him off to your parents’. Really,” Pandora says, then she clucks at me in warning.

  “Oh, bug off, Maleficent!” I angrily cry, slapping her with a client’s newly upholstered pillow I was checking for quality.

  I’m not going to tell her shit anymore.

  I won’t even explain to her the complexities of two single people doing . . . what are we doing?

  We’re having sex, that’s what we’re doing.

  But I don’t want it to be just sex.

  I don’t know how many secrets Greyson keeps, but he has a secret room, and he refuses to talk on the phone near me, both of which are odd. Still, I have a secret of my own, so it’s not exactly fair to feel this way. I would love to tell him, and only him, about mine. Yet at the same time I pray he’s the last man to ever know.

  How to relate to a guy you’re dating or sleeping with or whatever, a guy whose respect and admiration you want, that you asked—that you begged—a group of mobsters for more time because you owe them more money than you thought you had? How to tell him that they lifted your skirt and told you they’d give you an extension—of their dicks—if you didn’t pay on time.

  I want to puke remembering the night in the alley. I could never tell this to anyone out loud.

  I check my text messages. He was the last who’d texted me. Eons ago when he visited my apartment, and I asked who was coming to visit, and he’d said Me.

  I tell myself I don’t want to go through all the guessing games again. If he wants me, he wants me. Right?

  But my cardinal texting rule niggles at me. Nowadays relationships are so much more equal.

  I slowly inhale and text him, Will you be in town this weekend?

  And to my surprise, he answers right away.

  Yes.

  My heart starts thundering. I text back, Any plans?

  I planned to look up my princess.

  Gahhhh. I love that too much.

  She wants to cook you dinner. Will you come?

  I will. And so will you.

  I grin in delight. Sexy cad.

  8 pm Friday?

  I could not be happier when I tell Pandora, exaggerating, “He’s coming into town this weekend just to see me.”

  “Yoohoo for you.” She sounds bored.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  DURING THE WEEK, I bury myself in work and in getting some of my personal belongings shipped off to an eBay store so I can liquidate, and fast. My closet suddenly seems huge since I only kept one pair of sneakers, one pair of pumps, one pair of sandals, one pair of Uggs, and one pair of rain boots. I also went down to only three pairs of slacks, two pairs of jeans, a small assortment of tops, and the most basic dresses. My accessories were the most difficult to part with. But I kept the most colorful ones to ensure I could continue wearing three colors daily, even if the splashes of color mostly come from my accessories.

  On Friday afternoon, I go splurge at Whole Foods because I’m not cooking cheap food for Greyson—I just couldn’t. So I bring home a brown bag fu
ll of healthy and fresh items, slip on the only apron I kept—a frilly yellow one from Anthropologie—and I cook a homemade dinner for him because it just seems like a nice “welcome home” thing to do.

  Menu-wise I went for arugula and pear salad with goat cheese and a light vinaigrette, my special pasta pesto, a loaf of homemade bread, and apple tarts dusted with cinnamon for dessert.

  I’ve always done my best thinking when I’m cooking. This time as I’m chopping and prepping the food, I think of how I’m slowly beginning to recognize my own needs, as a woman, needs I’d never realized were not being met by sleeping with a dozen different guys, needs that couldn’t possibly be met until you make a real connection—scary, powerful, inexplicable—with someone. Someone you least expect. Greyson’s face haunts me—serious, smiling, thoughtful. I can’t stop recalling and replaying his different kinds of smiles. The smirky one, the sensual one, the indulgent one, the sleepy one, the flat one he gives Pandora, and the one that’s almost there, but not quite, as though he won’t give himself free rein to give in to it . . .

  I love that best.

  Because it feels like I’m pulling it out even when he doesn’t want me to. Like he’s yielding something to me he didn’t plan to give me.

  “Something smells good around here and my bet is that it’s you.”

  My blood soars when I recognize the warm, smooth voice behind me. Somehow, Greyson got inside and crept up on me! Without making a single noise. And now he slides his big arm around my waist and spins me around, the move placing over six inches of bad boy with his lips only a hairbreadth away from mine. My senses reel as I absorb his nearness and slide my hands in a fast, greedy exploration up his thick arms.

  “Hey,” I gasp, “I—”

  He kisses me for a full minute.

  A minute and a half.

  Our lips moving, blending, my knees feeling mushy because his kisses are better than anything I’ve ever had. And now I can’t think or talk or hardly stand on my own two feet.

  He pulls away and I feel myself blush at his heated appraisal. “I like this,” he whispers and signals at my apron, and the delighted light in his eyes makes me feel like I just won top prize on Iron Chef—and he hasn’t even tasted my food yet.

  “You’re going to like it even more when you realize I plan to feed you dessert myself,” I whisper. His dirty mind seems to get the best of him, for he looks instantly ravenous. Laughing, I urge him down on one of the two stools at the end of the kitchen island. “It’s not what you think, it’s actual food!”

  “Are you taking this off for me?” He tugs the sash of my apron.

  “Maybe if you finish your food like a good boy.”

  He chuckles, a rich, full sound, his grin devastating, taking over my brain. “You like it better when I’m bad,” he points out.

  Biting back my grin, I pull out the pasta dish with a glove, aware of him noticing that I’m only wearing a short dress under my apron—maybe he can even see I’m wearing no panties. The thought sends a tingle through me.

  There’s a silence and a creak of the stool as he leans back, kicks off his shoes, and there’s a confused, almost amused tone to his husky voice when he speaks to me, rubbing his jaw as he watches me wind around the kitchen. “I keep wondering what you’re doing all the time.” He pauses, then, his voice lower and thicker than ever, “You miss me?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  He gives me a roguish grin. “One I want to know the answer to.”

  I return the grin with one of my own as I serve us both, and when I set down his salad and pasta, he clamps his bare hand around my wrist. “Do you?”

  Our eyes meet, and he gently stokes a growing fire in me as he rubs his thumb along the inside of my wrist.

  “Do you?” he asks, softly.

  “Yes,” I whisper. I trail my free hand across his jaw and impulsively lean over to kiss his cheek. Adding, near his ear, “A lot.”

  He watches me like a predator as I go take my seat on the stool across the island.

  We smile at each other, those smiles that seem to spread our lips simultaneously; from the moment we met it’s always been like that. I notice, at last, that he’s brought wine, and I watch as he pops open the bottle, searches my cabinet for glasses, and comes back to pour a glass for me, and another for him.

  We clink glasses, smiling, and before he drinks, he murmurs, “To you, princess.”

  “No, to you,” I counter, taking a sip.

  “You like going against me, don’t you,” he purrs, still swirling and sniffing his own glass.

  I laugh and suddenly I feel like the sexiest thing in existence as I start to eat. As if my every move is meant to entice him, excite and exhilarate him.

  Not even my breaths escape his notice.

  I feel him look at my fingers, my bare arms, my bare shoulders, my lips. I fork some salad and watch him tear off a piece of bread and stick it into his mouth. We sip quietly, watching each other, savoring each other’s company. The look of each other. The energy of each other. I’m a decorator who believes in feng shui. I believe in yin and yang. I have never felt such a yang to my yin. Ever.

  “Do you like the meal?” I ask him.

  “Am I the first man you’ve cooked for?”

  I narrow my eyes, sipping a bit of red wine for courage, but there’s no cure for the nervous spinning in my stomach. “Truth? Yes. You are. So think very well about your answer,” I warn.

  “Every spoonful was as delicious as you.”

  I smile. “Really?” Feeling insecure, I check his plates and notice he’s wiped them both clean.

  He edges back, and his gaze drops from my eyes to my shoulders to my breasts. “I’m ready for dessert.”

  “Wait, mister, I’m not finished. I have some actual dessert that’s not me, you know!” I twirl some pasta onto my fork a little faster and ram it into my mouth, licking some pesto off the corner of my lips.

  Greyson watches me intently, and he looks so big, dark, and sexy in my apartment, I’m not accustomed to the deep little pangs of longing springing up inside my chest.

  “How was your week?” he asks.

  A flash of feelings stabs me when I remember all the nights I’ve lain in bed, more frightened than I want to be, and more lonely than I’ve ever felt in my life. Maybe it’s because I know who I want to be with right now. Maybe it’s because I feel vulnerable and scared.

  “Actually, good,” I lie. “I wanted to ask you. I got an offer for my car.”

  “You’re selling your car?”

  I gaze at him in despair and notice the sudden grim set to his mouth. “Yes, I’m selling it.” I get up and go get his empty plates as I tell him how much I was offered. “Do you think it’s a fair price?”

  He’s silent as I carry his plates to the sink, tracking me with his gaze as he asks me, “Why do you need to sell it?”

  I can’t help but notice he looks more than a little curious. He seems determined.

  So I try going for lighthearted, including adding a casual shrug to my explanation. “Just have my eye on something else.”

  One dark eyebrow goes up, followed by another, and then an achingly slow, clearly smart question. “Another car?”

  He’s not buying it.

  I wrack my brain for something to say that will be as far away from the truth as I can, until he speaks, sighing as though I wear him out, “They’re low-balling you. Don’t sell your fucking car, princess, not for that, not for anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he grits out, “you need your car.”

  “Not to go to the office,” I lightly counter, “and I can hitch a ride with friends to go out during the weekends.”

  When he continues looking displeased, I feel instantly suspicious. “Why are you so protective of my car, Greyson?”

  After a rather interesting silence, during which my heart melts in my chest, I answer for him. “Because thanks to that fucked-up car, I hooked u
p with you.”

  He hikes up one big shoulder in an angry shrug. “That car is you. It doesn’t go with anyone else.”

  I feel giddy thinking he might feel protective of the spot where we met, but I’m also sad that I can’t explain to him that no matter how attached I am to that car, I’m more attached to myself. “My buyer is a young eighteen-year-old, she’ll have as much fun with it as I have.”

  When he speaks again, his voice carries a unique force, almost like a command. “Nobody can ever have as much fun as you do. You are fun, Melanie. And life. And so is that crazy, sweet little blue Mustang.”

  I bring my hand up to stifle my giggles, because he’s being terribly cute and protective, and when he scowls, I tell him, “I think it’s adorable, Greyson.”

  “That word and I don’t go together, princess.”

  “It’s adorable. You’re adorable.”

  He stands as though he’s going to make me pay for that. I run toward my room, laughing, and say from the door, “Greyson, I know this will break your tender heart, but I really need to sell my car. I’ll just ask for a thousand more. What do you say? God, even that scowl you’re wearing is adorable.”

  He throws his head back and laughs—the sound rich and deep—and when I realize he won’t ever get the direness of my circumstances, I excuse myself to the bedroom for a moment and call the interested party to ask for one thousand more.

  The girl tells me she’ll talk to her dad and let me know. When I come back out, Greyson’s standing with his arms crossed, looking at me with the kind of look a man wears when he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with you.

  “I counteroffered,” I explain, once again the word “adorable” whispering through my hair as he rubs a hand through his own in frustration.

  “Ahh, princess. Really. I can’t even . . .” He shakes his head in obvious frustration.

  “Greyson, it doesn’t matter!” I cry. “Even if the car is gone, you’ll always be both my and my Mustang’s hero, you know.”

  Somehow aching to appease him—hey, his volatile energy feels like a tornado in the room—I approach him and brush my hand through his mussed-up hair as I try to smooth it out again, loving the softness, which is just about the only thing soft on his hard head. He growls and catches me by the waist, surprising me when he drops his head and sets his nose between my breasts and kisses my cleavage with fierce tenderness.