Tough Enough

by M. Leighton

  Mona waves me off, her expression saying she couldn’t care less now. She’s got something else to think about. And the thing is, Mona is like a dog with a bone. She won’t be letting this go until she can talk to me about it. In great detail, I’m sure. “I don’t care. Today is a good day. We should celebrate.”

  Before I can respond, Rogan speaks up beside me. “Maybe tomorrow. She owes me a lunch and I’m collecting today.”

  My insides beam with happiness and I try not to smile. “I guess that takes care of my lunch plans,” I tell Mona casually.

  “I want to buy her a piece of pie,” he adds, a bit too softly. I want to look over at him, but I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll see something naughty in his eyes and I’ll get all flummoxed.

  Her face splits in the world’s biggest smile and her eyes bounce back and forth between us. “Well, in that case, I’ll just make other arrangements. Maybe tomorrow,” she offers as she starts to back out of the room.

  “I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” Rogan says, making Mona giggle delightedly.

  “God, you two are too cute.” And then she’s gone, her excited squeal trailing behind her.

  Rogan waits for a few seconds and then walks to the door. He closes and leans against it. His eyes meet mine and electricity lights up my stomach. I know perfectly well that if we were any number of other places, he’d start undressing me. And I’d let him.

  He holds my gaze as he walks his sexy walk back toward me, not stopping until his hands are gripping the counter on either side of me and his face is about two inches from mine.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks in his low, velvety bedroom voice.

  I can’t think past honesty. “That you make my stomach feel like the fourth of July.”

  He grins and laughs, an evil, satisfied laugh. Moisture rushes into my panties. God, this man!

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That I didn’t realize how hard this is gonna be,” he admits.

  “How hard what’s going to be?” I play dumb, but I know exactly what he means. I just want to hear him say it.

  “Seeing you, being so close to you yet not being able to touch you.” As he speaks, he leans in to rub his cheek against mine, his lips brushing my ear and causing chills to spread down my arm.

  I clear my throat and swallow so that I can speak through the desert sand that has filled my mouth. “Well, you’ll just have to make do, won’t you?”

  “Mmmm,” he responds noncommittally as he presses his lips to the space beneath my ear and then drags them down the side of my throat to nip my collarbone with his blunt teeth. “Or maybe I’ll just have to think of something else.”

  “Like what?” My voice is already breathless.

  “Like where I can find you alone, for just a few minutes, so I can reach up under your skirt and find out if your panties are wet.”

  Before I can think to reply, Rogan reaches up under the knee-length edge of my skirt and slides his hand up between my legs, cupping my damp skin through my underwear.

  “Oh shit, that’s hot,” he moans just before he covers my mouth with his own.

  His kiss is meant to incinerate. And it does. My limbs burn with the need to wrap themselves around him, to hold him close as he buries his body inside mine. My back arches, an unconscious admission of my inner turmoil.

  All of a sudden, Rogan backs away. My eyelids flutter open reluctantly and I focus on his handsome, passion-filled face. He looks flustered.

  “Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his short, sandy hair. “Just . . . damn.”

  I grin. I can’t help it. This big, gorgeous man wants me. Me. The shy one. The short one. The dark one. The scarred one. In a sea of tall, thin, beautiful people, he wants me. I might never get over that. This is the land of make-believe, though. Within the walls of this studio, the unlikely happens every day. On film. So maybe, just maybe, it can happen for me, too.

  Rogan reaches down to smooth my skirt. It’s such a sweet, familiar . . . intimate gesture, my heart gives a great heave of contentedness, like a sigh. “So, I guess you gathered that I’m taking you to lunch today. Do you think you’ll have time to come and watch me film?”

  I want to. God, how I want to! “Probably not this morning. Mornings are always busier because everyone has to be in makeup. But maybe this afternoon. If there aren’t a lot of touch-ups and specialties . . .”

  He grins, that sexy, lopsided one I love. “Then I’ll look for you.”

  “Are you sure you won’t be too . . . distracted?” I ask, running my finger along the placket of my shirt and looking up at him from beneath my lashes. I feel gratified when I hear the air hiss through his gritted teeth. It’s been a long time since I felt the power of my sexuality, my femininity. It’s hard to feel feminine and beautiful and powerful when you’re hiding such ugliness. But somehow, Rogan makes me feel beautiful. Almost like my scars didn’t happen. Almost.

  “You’re evil,” he says softly.

  I laugh as I straighten, tipping my head toward the makeup chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Rogan. If I don’t hurry up and do you, I’ll be running late all day.”

  I hear a low growl coming from behind me as Rogan takes his seat. “You’re really gonna have to watch what you say.”

  And so begins the light, teasing, flirtatious tone of the day. And I’ve never been happier.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Rogan

  It isn’t exactly easy to concentrate, but considering the kinds of scenes I’m taping for the next few days, thinking of Katie keeps me in the right frame of mind for them. I only wish that it was her lips I was kissing, her body I was smashing up against mine.

  “Cut!” Tony yells, and I step away from Rayelle. Her eyes are wide and glazed.

  “Shit! I’m going to need my vibrator since you won’t rehearse with me,” she says with a pretty yet annoying pout.

  To this, I say nothing. Only smile.

  “Lunch, you bunch of hacks,” Tony teases as he stretches and makes his way over to me. He claps me on the shoulder. “Good job today, Rogan. I take it you got to run lines over the weekend.”

  “I did. It helped.”

  Tony grins as he glances between Rayelle and me. “I can see that.”

  I don’t disabuse him of the notion that I can plainly see he’s getting. The less I say, the less attention will be drawn to Katie, which is how I know she wants it. Me personally, I don’t give a damn who knows, but . . . this isn’t just about me.

  “Later,” I say briefly before I make my exit to go find Katie.

  When I reach her little room, she’s wiping off the counter, humming to herself again, hips swaying inside her chaste skirt. I love it when she does that. It’s a soft, soothing sound and, for some reason, I get the impression she only does it when she’s happy. And I hope she’s happy. I sure as hell am.

  “Wha’cha hummin’?” I ask, leaning against the doorjamb to watch her. This time, I can’t identify the tune.

  She whirls around guiltily at the sound of my voice. “Uhhh . . .” Her cheeks pinken, which intrigues me. Why wouldn’t she want me to know what song is on her mind? “Just a tune that’s stuck in my head,” she hedges.

  I just grunt my acceptance, willing to let her off the hook. This time.

  She tosses her wipe in the trash and takes her purse out of the drawer she keeps it in. As she walks toward me, I have to ask, “Was it called ‘I Wanna Get Naked with Rogan’?”

  She grins, which I’ve seen her do more of in the last two days than I have in the last four weeks. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

  I stuff my hands in the pockets of my black “set” slacks, resisting the urge to wind my arms around her tiny waist and pull her to me. “Maybe I’ll sing it for you tonight.” We haven’t made plans, but I figure this is a good way to test the waters without pressing her.

  “You sing?” she asks, scooting past me out into the hall.

  “For you, I’d sing like a mocking
bird.”

  She blushes prettily again, something I could get used to.

  I keep my hands in my pockets the whole way to the diner so that I don’t touch her. It seems so natural to want to be in contact with her that I don’t trust myself not to reach for her by accident. It’s like my hands gravitate toward her, my palms itch for her, my fingers burn for her. They have a memory of their own, one that can’t forget the way she responds to me, the way her body comes alive for me.

  I focus more closely on what she’s saying when I feel my dick stir in my pants. Shit! Why can’t we be going somewhere private? Or some place where she doesn’t care who sees? Like back in New York, where everyone is anonymous.

  For a few seconds, I’m lost imagining a version of Katie where she’d risk discovery just to be with me. Where she’d risk some sort of legal penalty just to feel me hike up one of her prim little dresses. I can imagine just such a scene—Katie looking out over the edge of the Empire State Building at night, me easing my cock into her silky smooth pussy from behind, her coming so hard she can barely enjoy the spectacular view.

  Shiiit!

  “Are you okay?” Katie asks. I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of the diner. My hand is on the handle of the door, but I haven’t opened it yet. I’m just staring down into the eyes that I see even when she’s nowhere around.

  Her forehead is wrinkled in concern. God, I want to touch her cheek, put my hands in her hair. Kiss her. But I don’t.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just . . . thinking.”

  “About what?” she asks, slipping through the door when I finally have the presence of mind to open it for her.

  “You don’t wanna know,” I caution. When she glances back at me, I wink and her eyes widen a fraction. “But then again, maybe you do.”

  She’s stopped just inside the tiny, retro restaurant and I’m less than six inches away. I feel the magnetism between us like a tangible thing. There might as well be hands on my back, physically pushing me toward her. I feel the pull that strongly.

  “Maybe you can tell me about it later,” she says softly, glancing around nervously. When her eyes find their way back to mine, they’re like coals of fiery want in the shy field of her face. She’s the most amazing contradiction I’ve ever met. I could explore her for days. Weeks. Her body, her mind. Her soul.

  “Promise?”

  Her answer is a single nod and a slight curve to the corners of her mouth. So prim. So bashful. Such a little vixen when my lips are on her skin.

  My balls throb in agreement.

  “We’d better order,” I say, my teeth gritted in determination. “Before I throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see her lips twitch up into more of a grin. I love teasing her. But I might love making her smile even more.

  After we are seated, the waitress brings our drinks. “You ready to order, sugar?” she asks. For most other women, that would sound too . . . old, but somehow this cute, young blonde pulls it off.

  I smile politely. “I think I’ll have the double bacon cheeseburger with fries and a side salad.”

  “That’s enough protein, even for a man like you,” says the waitress, eyeing me appreciatively. I don’t think much of it. It happens a lot.

  She watches me for a few seconds longer before she finally drags her eyes over to Katie. Her demeanor cools considerably, which pisses me off. I know how catty women can be, especially ones like this waitress and most of the conceited starlets I work with these days, but it rubs me the wrong way to see anybody treat Katie with anything less than kindness and respect.

  “And what’ll you have?”

  Katie’s small smile is the same polite, hollow gesture I’ve seen all too often. “I think I’ll have the Cobb salad. Ranch dressing, please.”

  She puts her menu back in the stand, but I tack on dessert for her. “And a piece of pie.”

  “What kind?” the waitress asks when she turns to me, all warm and smiley again.

  I look to Katie. “The green kind?” I can’t imagine what flavor it might be. Pistachio? Key lime?

  Although still small, her grin turns more genuine, this time reaching her eyes. “How do you know I like the green kind?”

  I don’t answer; I simply nod to the waitress. “The green kind.”

  “One piece of key lime it is.”

  “With extra whipped cream,” I add before she walks off.

  “The cream is the best part,” the waitress says, looking back over her shoulder.

  I ignore her in favor of bringing my attention back to the fascinating creature seated across from me. Her eyes are slits as she studies me.

  “How did you know about the pie?”

  “The day I was in here and Victoria found me, you were eating right over there,” I say, pointing to the booth she and Mona sat in. “You were right in my line of vision. I watched you eat your whole meal, but when you got to the pie . . . Holy. Shit.”

  “What?”

  “That first bite you took . . . God! You slid that fork into your mouth and closed your lips around it. Your eyelids sort of fluttered shut and you pulled the fork out so slowly, like you were already enjoying the taste on your tongue. You didn’t chew for a few seconds. You just sat there with your eyes closed, the expression on your face something like it is when you slide down on my cock. Like it’s so good you wanna savor every second of it. God! Damn, it was so hot.” Despite the fact that we’re in a greasy spoon, surrounded by people, blood gushes south to bring my dick to life. I shift uncomfortably. “I’ve never wanted to be a piece of pie so bad in all my life. To feel those lips wrapped around me . . . to feel that tongue licking my skin . . . Hell, I’d do almost anything.”

  Katie’s chest is rising and falling more quickly. She leans back, folding her hands together primly in front of her on the tabletop. “Well, we’ll see what the afternoon holds,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “I like more, ahem, flavors than just key lime,” she adds, reaching for her water and taking a sip. Despite her refusal to meet my eyes, despite her unaffected manner, I know she’s feeling this, too. Her hand trembles as she sets her glass back on the table.

  I smile. I’m sure it looks wolfish. It feels wolfish. “I can’t wait.”

  Her lips curl. Just at the corners. So demure. So deceiving. I know what lies behind it now.

  And I’ve never wanted her more.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Katie

  I wasn’t ready for lunch to end, but the bright side is that if I don’t get to see Rogan on set, I’ll evidently see him tonight. He hasn’t yet said when, but he talks about it as if it’s a foregone conclusion.

  Some feminists might take offense at that, but I don’t. I like that he makes it obvious that he wants me, that he wants to spend time with me. It’s not like I’m really man or dating savvy anymore. I mean, I had no clue that Ronnie would attempt what he did at the lake. I guess I’m to the point now where I kind of need things spelled out for me.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s two forty-five and I’m caught up with my work for the moment. I think of Rogan’s last words to me when he left me at my door after lunch. He had a hungry look on his face that made me ache to feel his skin against mine.

  “Come to the set if you get a chance. You . . . inspire me.”

  He reached out and brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, like he couldn’t not touch me anymore. He did it so quickly that I couldn’t complain, and then he was gone. My lip felt warm and tingly for at least half an hour after he left.

  I don’t know why he wants me to come and watch him, but I’m inclined to go, mainly because I want to see him. A few minutes this morning and an hour at lunch isn’t enough. It seems the more I see of him, the more I want to see of him.

  Throwing caution and my over-thinking ways to the wind, I lock the drawer with my purse inside and head to the other end of the complex, to the stage where Rogan is filming. I sneak in without much notic
e. Whether because I’ve perfected being unobtrusive or because I’m as unnoticeable as a wallflower, I don’t know, but no one seems to be attuned to me, especially not the way Rogan is.

  I’m standing along the back wall, watching the part of the scene that followed what Rogan and I rehearsed. I could only assume that there would be a steam after it. I mean, the dialogue seemed to be leading up to it, but also because it’s a cable show. Liberties are taken to add some naughtier material. I knew this. I just never knew what it might feel like to watch Rogan.

  He’s saying his lines a little more stiffly than he did with me, but I cease to notice when he leans in and kisses Rayelle. God, it’s like someone stabbed me in the chest with a broadsword. I have to look away for a few seconds to collect myself and remind my heart that this is all for show. It’s fiction. Make-believe.

  I drag my eyes back to the actors. They are separated now, still in character, and when Rogan’s eyes sweep out as he gestures, they stutter, flying back to meet mine before he continues on. His hesitation was barely noticeable, but it was enough to cause Tony, the director, to cut the take and reshoot it.

  I see Rogan’s jaw flex, but then his eyes are on mine again, heated and a little possessive. He and Rayelle take their places again for yet another take. I watch, even though I dread what’s to come.

  This time, Rogan says his lines much more smoothly, much more convincingly, but he also dives into his kiss with Rayelle much more . . . enthusiastically, too. As hard as it is to wait, I don’t leave until the take is over. I’m not surprised when Tony commends them on it. They certainly had me convinced.

  I don’t wait for Rogan’s eyes to find me again before I make my exit. I’m not sure I want to see them darkened with desire. Especially after kissing someone as beautiful as Rayelle.

  My feet feel heavy as I make my way back to my little place of peace in the makeup and entertainment world. I’m almost glad when a tech brings in an extra for a retouch on makeup. It’s fairly involved, what with their being blood and some torn tissue written into the scene. It takes up a nice chunk of my afternoon, keeping me from replaying Rogan’s scene over and over in my head.