Tough Enough

by M. Leighton

  My knees go all soft at his words. It’s been so long . . . So, so long . . .

  Rogan spreads kisses across my collarbone and down the center of my chest. His hands come up to palm my breasts. He grazes my nipples with his thumbs and I let my head drop back on my shoulders, the sensation tingling all the way down my arms to my fingertips.

  “So beautiful,” he says as his lips travel to cover one nipple. The first touch of his tongue, hotter than any real fire, causes me to gasp. “Do you like that?” he asks, swirling wet heat around the sensitive peak. I don’t respond. I simply thread my fingers into his hair and hold him to me. He laughs, a deep throaty chuckle that vibrates through my breast. “Mmmm, that’s what I thought.”

  When he sucks my turgid flesh into his mouth, I arch my back, pressing into him. I feel as much as hear his groan. His response is immediate. He pulls and tugs and nibbles at my nipple as his fingers twist and tweak the other one. My stomach clenches and moisture floods my panties.

  Switching from hand to mouth at my other breast, Rogan treats it to the same pleasure as he moves his palm down my stomach to the closure of my jeans. With a flick, he releases the button and slides the zipper down, running his fingers just under the elastic of my panties to cup my hipbone.

  He releases my nipple and drags his lips down to my bellybutton, where he swirls his tongue inside, his hand coming around to cup my butt and push my jeans a little farther down.

  “Seems like I’ve wanted this forever,” he murmurs against me, kissing lower. “And it’s even better than I imagined.”

  I steel myself against the urge to flinch when Rogan tugs the denim of my pants down my legs, his fingers grazing more scarred flesh. The burns splatter my hip and leg, running all the way to my knee. He doesn’t seem to care, though, which relaxes me. He only presses his lips to each expanse of battered skin, as if he’s telling the universe that it’s okay for me to look this way. “So beautiful,” he whispers, nothing but sincerity in his voice.

  When he reaches my feet, he slips off my shoes and then my jeans, leaving me standing before him in nothing but my panties. I glance down, my skin burning up under his gaze as it travels slowly up my body to meet mine. What I see in his smoky green eyes makes me feel elated and excited and . . . happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.

  “You’re amazing,” he claims sincerely. Reaching up, he runs his hands from my ribs all the way down my sides, his fingers skating over both healthy and scarred skin to curl into the edges of my panties. He pulls them off as he explores my legs. When I step out of them, I watch his face, eating up the pure lust I see there. I never thought anyone would look at me that way again. Not when they could really see me. But it’s there. Plain as the nose on my face. More incredible than the sun in the sky.

  His eyes don’t meet mine as I watch him. He seems oblivious to my scrutiny, in fact. His attention is focused on the small triangle between my legs.

  I throb when he licks his lips, my muscles clenching as though his tongue touched me.

  I hold my breath as he leans forward to press a single kiss to the space between my navel and the top of my aching folds. My mouth drops open on a silent moan when his tongue sneaks out to flick and tease me all the way down to my crease. Air leaves my lungs in a hot rush when he dips it inside, laving my clit with the pointed tip of his tongue.

  “Unh.” I can’t help the sound that escapes. I can’t hold it in for one more second.

  As he massages me, Rogan runs his palms up the insides of my thighs, urging me to spread them for him. So I do, opening me up to more of his fiery mouth. He licks me in long strokes, nearing my entrance, but not giving me the satisfaction of feeling him there.

  Just when I’m beginning to feel frustrated, with his tongue still licking at my clit, Rogan eases a single, long finger into me, nearly causing my knees to buckle. He pulls out slowly then slides back in with two fingers this time. My lids drift closed as he thrusts into me, in and out, each stroke a little harder and a little deeper than the one before. Faster and higher he pushes me until I’m riding the edge of climax.

  And then he stops.

  I’m panting, my body tense and achy, as Rogan stands to his feet in front of me. “Not yet, baby. Not yet.”

  With my wanting eyes glued to him, Rogan pulls his own T-shirt over his head. In the low light pouring through the door from the living room, his muscles flex like malleable bronze. My fingers tingle with the need to touch the satin skin covering them.

  His biceps twitch and the ropy muscles of his forearms glide as he works the numerous buttons on his jeans. I can’t take my eyes away. As he bends to push them down his legs, I see his abs contract. And when he stands, straight and tall and naked before me, they relax and I see what lies south of them. He takes my breath away. Literally.

  I feel lightheaded as I look over Rogan. I’ve never seen anything more perfect. I’ve seen a few bits and pieces, but the whole package . . . displayed all at once . . . just for me . . . it’s overwhelming.

  With curious, reverent hands, I reach out to test the smooth skin of his broad chest, to cup his rounded pecs, to palm his rigid stomach. When I reach his hips, I drop down to my knees in front of him, amazed by the sheer beauty and size of him. His erection is as long and thick and strong as the rest of him. Straight and perfect.

  Without thinking, I wind my fingers around his satiny length, reveling at the way it expands inside my grip. I see a drop of fluid appear on the crown and I lean forward to capture it with the tip of my tongue, wanting to taste him like he tasted me. When I hear the hiss of his breath, I look up in question.

  “Maybe you should save that for later. This has been a long time coming.” His grin is crooked and charming and . . . Rogan. All Rogan.

  Rogan moves so fast that he startles me, so I yip when he bends to scoop me up and throw me onto the bed. A laugh bubbles up in my throat and I set it free.

  Rogan puts a knee on the end of the bed and crawls slowly up the mattress toward me. Like a predator. A beautiful, heart-stopping predator.

  His lips are curved in a smile that makes my insides quiver. When he reaches me where I’m half-lying with my legs curled up toward me, he grabs my ankles and yanks gently, pulling me to him and spreading my thighs wide at the same time. I suppress the excited squeal and lie back to see what he does next.

  His eyes are dark with passion. I’d never know they were green, they’re so smoky with what’s between us. “Now, where was I?” he asks me, his gaze boring hotly into mine before he bends his head to bury it between my legs.

  With pressure from his hands, Rogan bends my knees and pushes them apart, exposing me fully to his ravenous mouth. He licks and strokes me with his tongue. He kisses and thrills me with his lips.

  He brings one hand up, spreading me wide with his fingers so he can suck my clit into his mouth. I cry out in some feral sound that I’ve never made before. I can’t help myself. It’s a sensation like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

  With my flesh in his mouth, Rogan flicks his tongue over it until my hips move against his face. I spiral upward, mindless and completely out of control.

  As though he can sense how close I am to orgasm, he eases back just enough to make me want to scream. “God, you’ve got the most amazing pussy. I could drink come from you like wine. Sweet, creamy wine. But not this time. This time,” he explains, his voice gruff and sexy, “I wanna feel you squeezin’ my cock when you come.”

  He gently rubs his soft lips back and forth over me as he rustles a wrapper. Somehow he manages to keep me poised right at the edge, but not quite able to reach it. It’s almost tantric in its torture.

  When he’s sheathed with a condom, Rogan increases his pace, making quick Zs with his tongue until I feel like I might explode. Just before I do, he stops. Quickly, he kisses his way up my body until he’s covering me with his own. With his eyes on mine, he reaches down and hooks one arm under my knee, simultaneously tipping my hips up and widening my l
egs.

  I can feel his engorged head hovering at my entrance, my body clutching at it. He remains still, green eyes melting into my blue. “You’re beautiful. Every inch of you. Do you hear me, Katie?” he asks insistently. “You’re more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.”

  I don’t answer. I’m not sure I even can. But he wants me to.

  “Tell me you hear me. Say it.” He’s panting now, his muscles trembling with his restraint.

  “Yes. I hear you.”

  “Good. Uhhh.” His fierce groan, forced through his gritted teeth, echoes the explosion of my heart as Rogan plunges into me.

  My back arches in the pleasure-pain of his size as he stretches me in every direction. He pauses just long enough for me to relax around him and then he withdraws to thrust into me again, going all the way this time, so deep I gasp.

  He grinds his hips into mine, his body hitting mine with the most delicious friction. I want to hold on. I want to enjoy this as long as I can. Forever. But it’s too late. It feels too good. I can’t wait one second longer, so it’s with his third thrust that I come apart.

  All the buildup of the last several minutes hits me like a tsunami. Waves of intense bliss roll through me, all through me. It tingles in my legs, throbs in my belly, squeezes in my core. Blood and pleasure rush through me in a hot release, like the bursting of a dam.

  As my body contracts around his, Rogan growls, dropping his face into the curve of my neck. “Holy mother of God you feel so fucccc— Uhhh!” He sounds savage. Out of control. And I love it.

  He pulls out of me, returning quickly to thrust sharply into me. Hard. Deep. He tilts his hips, reinvigorating my body’s response to him. I wrap myself around him. I’ve never felt such powerful, consuming pleasure. My ears even ring with what’s happening inside me.

  After a few seconds of more intense spasms, Rogan pushes back onto his haunches, ready to chase his own peak. He presses my legs up and out, leans back and pounds into me. It isn’t until he reaches between us and circles his fingers around the base of his cock that my eyes follow his. He’s touching both of us at the same time, his long, thick erection disappearing into me like a jackhammer. It’s shiny with my juices, the noises decadent and intimate.

  When his eyes rise back to mine, I see in them what I’m feeling. Something hot and wild, something that makes me want to bite and lick and savor. I don’t know how, but I find myself climbing as we watch each other, our bodies still colliding with a nearly brutal force that’s the most delicious thing in the world.

  Then I see his body tense, the muscles in his neck, in his chest, in his abdomen straining as he stiffens. His breath comes in several harsh gushes that sound like an animal getting ready to attack. Seconds later, he flexes against me and I feel the first pulse of his body inside mine. It’s as though he’s massaging me from within and without and it’s more than I can bear.

  My second orgasm washes over me in a series of unexpected ripples. I milk him and he presses against my walls and we drag each other deeper.

  Finally, Rogan collapses onto me, both of us drained and boneless. As my heartbeat quiets and the ringing in my ears subsides, I hear him whispering against the side of my neck. “Incredible. So incredible.”

  Over and over and over, he vocalizes the feeling that roams on a circuit through my head.

  “Don’t ever forget this,” he says. “Don’t ever forget how beautiful you are.”

  I won’t tell him, but he need not worry about that. I will never forget this moment, this night.

  Or this man.

  • • •

  I feel like myself, yet not at all like myself. Not at all like the woman I’ve come to know. I’m not the child born as Kathryn. I’m not the old Katie, known to her friends as Kat. I’m not even the Katie I’ve been for the last five years. Right at this moment, I feel like a new creature, like a melding of all the lives I’ve lived—so separate, so different, yet ones that have come together to make me whole for the first time since I was a girl. I feel like I’m finally at peace with who and what I am.

  Rogan is asleep behind me, his front pressed to my back in the best kind of spoon. His warm breath is tickling the scarred side of my neck. It’s not as sensitive as the skin around it, but because I normally have the area covered with my long hair, it’s not stimulated very often either. For that reason, the sensation of having someone’s breath touch it is distinct. And liberating. And enough to keep me awake to enjoy it.

  “What are you smiling about?” comes a rough yet soft voice from behind me. My smile grows.

  “How do you know I’m smiling? You’re supposed to be asleep.”

  “I am? You should’ve told me,” he teases, nuzzling me with his scratchy chin. I shrug my shoulder automatically because it tickles. “Please don’t hide from me like that.” His voice is audibly pained, like my action was a grave insult to him.

  I turn to look back at him, reaching up to stroke his cheek, noting the worry in his eyes. The curve on my lips turns tender. “I’m ticklish. That’s all.”

  “Oh. My bad.” His face relaxes into the lopsided grin that I love so much and he pulls me in closer, hugging me tighter with his strong arm. “I just don’t want you to think that they bother me or that they’re all I see when I look at you or touch you. I’ve felt that way before and it sucks balls.”

  I settle back in against him, cradling my head on my folded hands as Rogan’s fingers rub soothing circles on my stomach.

  “Felt what way?” I ask.

  “Like my scars are worse than what they are.”

  “Your scars aren’t that bad, though.”

  “To me they are. I just learned a long time ago that I couldn’t let them, or that part of my life, ruin everything for me. I had to fight to survive, yes. But I also had to fight to live. To have some kind of happiness in life.”

  His tattoo. Fight to survive. Fight to live. Not just a tattoo. A credo. His credo.

  I pause, debating the wisdom of asking the questions that are burning to be voiced. I mean, I did just share a huge piece of myself with him. And not only the physical; I shared the hardest part. But that doesn’t mean that he’s at a place where he will feel comfortable sharing with me. In a way, my hand was forced. His is not.

  Before I can talk myself into or out of asking, Rogan starts to talk again. So I let him.

  “I wasn’t always comfortable with violence. I wasn’t always a fighter. The first few years, when Kurt was just a baby, things were pretty good, pretty normal. It was after Mom died that it all went to shit.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Cancer. We didn’t have much money and she always put her needs last. Eventually it cost her her life.” I’m quiet while Rogan is quiet. I don’t know if he needs time to collect himself, but I’m giving it to him anyway. I feel the storm of his story brewing, like an uncomfortable static in the air. “He didn’t start drinking or anything. That’s what the social workers always thought—that he was a mean drunk. But he wasn’t. He was just a mean son of a bitch, period. He didn’t need anything to bring it out. Life did. Just life. When Mom died, she took the only good in him with her.

  “I was ten the first time he hit me. He was mad because I’d left my basketball outside. He found it when he came home from work. I was watching cartoons with Kurt and he walked in the door and threw the ball at me. Hit me right in middle of the face. Smashed the shit out of my nose. I started crying and he walked over, jerked me up by the arm and punched me in the stomach. Told me to stop acting like a little pussy bitch. Told me I wasn’t tough enough, but that he’d make me tough. Tough like a man.”

  My hand is pressed to my mouth and my eyes are squeezed shut. Too easily I can picture a young Rogan, abused and grieving, struggling to make it from one day to the next.

  “It only got worse after that. The older and bigger I got, the more creative he was. He’d burn me with lit cigarettes if I didn’t wake up on time, he’d whip me with my football c
leats if I missed a catch, he’d slice at me with a box cutter if I ran from him when he was mad. And there was nothing I could do. He told me if I told anyone about what happened, he’d kill Kurt. I believed him. And I think he would’ve done it. But I knew as long as I was around, he’d never lay a hand on him.”

  My stomach sloshes with nausea at the pain, at the heartache. At the betrayal and the loneliness he must’ve felt. I have to wait a few seconds, swallow a few times so that my voice doesn’t reflect my inner turmoil.

  “You mentioned social workers . . .”

  “Yeah, I had a couple of concerned teachers over the years. I always made excuses, though. I knew if Dad ever found out, he’d hurt us. Hurt Kurt. And I couldn’t risk that. And if they were able to help get us away from him, Kurt and I might’ve been separated in foster care. I guess to a kid like me, there were too many unknowns, too many risks. Besides, Dad was careful. He never broke bones and he was a star employee at work. But still, I heard them whisper. All my teachers thought he was a mean drunk that no one could catch.” His laugh is bitter. “Anyway, he started working nightshift for the extra money when I was sixteen. I thought that might put an end to it, but it didn’t. That’s when I knew I had to find another way to protect us, so when I got my license, I started taking his car while he slept. I’d drive down to this dojo on the other end of town and I’d watch the boys in there as they trained. I practiced in my room after school, just waiting for the day when I could fight back.

  “The old man who owned the studio caught me watching one day. I thought for sure he’d tell me I could never come back, but he surprised me by being cool about it. Not too many people were nice to me for a lot of years, but he was one who was. He offered to teach me how to defend myself.

  “He didn’t show me just one style, and none of the pretty stuff that they like to do at exhibitions. He taught me a little of everything—Muay Thai, Taekwondo, Krav Maga. He showed me how to take a man twice my size down to the ground. He didn’t instruct me like he did his students—that violence was a last resort. No, he taught me how to fight so that I could survive. He knew that, for me, to survive was to fight. And so I did. I fought to survive.”