Rooke

by Callie Hart

  If only he knew how well…

  “I’m clearly disturbed,” I tell him.

  Rooke shakes his head. “If you were disturbed, you’d be telling me to take the job. You’d be telling me you’d come along for the ride.”

  I stare at him, unblinking. Was that an idle, off-the-cuff comment, or was he making a veiled suggestion? I narrow my eyes at him, trying to decide. “That really would be crazy.”

  “Yeah. Only a really badass woman would go on a boost with her insane boyfriend.”

  “Do you want to take the job, Rooke? Are you asking me if I’ll come with you to steal a car right now?”

  He laughs, picking up a small silver pocket watch from the desk by his window. He opens it and glances at the face, then he lifts his head and looks me dead in the eye. “Yes. I am. What do you say, Connor? Are you in, or are you chicken?”

  No. No fucking way, Rooke. That is categorically the most stupid, erratic, dangerous suggestion anyone has ever made to me. I work at a museum, for crying out loud. I am a curator. I go to bed at ten thirty every night. I’m not that kind of woman. I’m just not…

  These are the thoughts that stream through my head, making their way to my mouth, ready to be spoken, but when I open my mouth an entirely different string of sentences come out. “I’m not chicken. I’m brave enough. I’ll do it. I’m just kind of sick, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Rooke snaps the pocket watch closed. “You’re right. You are sick. And I’m just screwing with you. I am never going to be the reason you find yourself in danger, Sasha. Never.”

  I’m kind of relieved he wasn’t serious. I’m also kind of shocked at myself. What the fuck was I thinking? “Does that mean you’re going to stop working for these people altogether?” I ask.

  He goes very still. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. And then, very quietly, he says, “Are you asking me to?”

  “No. I don’t know. I don’t think I am.” I’ve never really asked myself this question. I’ve known he’s involved in illegal activity for a while now. Why hasn’t it crossed my mind that I should ask him to stop? Why haven’t I asked him whether working in Williamsburg at the antiques shop is ever going to be enough for him? Perhaps it’s because I look at him, even now, and I see his tattoos and the quiet hum of anger that always seems to be there, regardless of his mood, and I know there’s no way for this man to live a normal life. One where he wakes up and goes to work to mend watches, comes home, runs errands, takes the trash out, watches TV or reads, and then falls asleep at ten thirty like I do. There’s a darkness inside him. The night owns him, or at least it owns a decent-sized chunk of him. There will always be a side to him that needs rebellion and destruction. The real question is, can I accept that? Can I make my peace with it? And if I can, then how does that kind of chaos fit into my life?

  “You’re overthinking it,” he says under his breath. “I can see it on your face. You’re worrying. You’re trying to paint pictures in your head. Don’t do that.”

  “How am I supposed to stop?”

  “You just…let go.”

  I just let go? He has no idea how impossible it would be for me to do that. I’ve been fighting for control for so long now that relinquishing it goes against every single instinct I possess. The way he says it makes it sound so easy, though, like it should be as simple as breathing.

  It never will be for me. It really never will be.

  “You’re repressed,” he says. “You hold back. You come between yourself and what you want all the time when you overthink shit, Sasha.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do. Take right now, for example. You’re watching me. Checking me out. You want me, but you’re not going to do anything about it, are you?”

  I have been watching him. I’m not some crazed, drooling idiot who can’t keep her emotions from her face, but Rooke picks up on everything, and I mean everything. If there’s anything I’ve learned from spending every day with him for the last two weeks, it’s that he’s so perceptive to changes in my mood. He reads me like a book. Often he knows what I’m feeling or thinking before I even do. It’s both frustrating and amazing to be so in tune with another person like that. I sigh, frustrated. “What am I supposed to do? Climb up into your lap and demand you to fuck me?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. Better yet, don’t make the demand. Take what you want, Sasha. Just fucking take it.”

  Just like back in the antiques store, he gives me a look that poses a question: Are you brave enough? Will you accept the dare? He just loves to push my buttons and fuck with me. I’m incapable of backing down when he does this and he knows it all too well. Bastard.

  I don’t know where to begin, though. He’s so fucking full of himself. Trying to wrestle power from him seems like it would be a fruitless task. Still. Maybe it’s worth a shot. Maybe he’s right, and I do manage to talk myself out of the things I want purely because I’m worried what he will think or feel.

  “C’mon, Sasha. Show me. Show me what you’ve got.” His voice is laden with sex. His eyes have taken on that predatory intensity he gets just before we fuck, and I can feel myself instantly getting wet.

  “All right. Fine. But don’t say you didn’t ask for it.”

  His smirk is phenomenal. “I’m ready for you, Connor.”

  “Stand up. Take your clothes off. Strip, then lie down on the bed.”

  He’s not even remotely embarrassed. He gets to his feet and undresses without saying a word. His lack of embarrassment is understandable then. He has to know that he is just…fucking…ridiculous. He looks like a professional athlete. He looks like he’s spent years training and sculpting his body to look like this. He’s breathtaking.

  His cock is growing harder and harder by the second. He hasn’t touched himself, but he’s obviously getting more and more turned on as he lies himself down on the bed. I’m doing that to him. I’m responsible for his excitement, and that in itself is a heady, powerful thing. I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never felt like a sexual being.

  “I would never have expected you to hand over the reins like this,” I tell him.

  He looks amused. “Why not?”

  “Because. You love being in control. You love being dominant. Ordering me about in the bedroom is your favorite thing to do.” Over the past two weeks, he has done nothing but order me around in the bedroom. To see him hand over his control so easily is really surprising. He arches his back, his chest raising a little as he stretches. I’ve never seen anyone so comfortable in their own skin. His confidence has been a huge turn on since day one. I love watching him when he’s naked. It feels wrong that I even get to, though, like I’m going to blink and he’s going to vanish any second, a brief, hazy figment of my imagination.

  “You’re a grown-ass woman, Sasha. You can handle the responsibility. I have faith in you,” he says.

  It’s a good thing he has faith in me, because personally I’m freaking out a little. It’s easy being submissive. Being submissive means everything is taken care of. All you have to do is commit and hand over your will. Being in charge of a situation like this is a huge responsibility. What if I can’t turn him on the way he turns me on when we have sex? What if he’s bored in the first ten minutes and decides I’m too vanilla for him?

  There’s a lot going on in my head as I get up from the bed and slowly take my own clothes off. Rooke watches every movement I make with complete focus. He barely even blinks as I kick out of my jeans, carefully slipping the straps of my bra down over my shoulders, wriggling my hips as I remove my panties.

  “Your body is incredible,” he says quietly. “Watching you strip is the sexiest thing in the fucking world.”

  That agent of self-sabotage in the back of my head wants to downplay this compliment. She wants me to blush and tell him he’s being silly. She wants me to say something self-deprecating, telling me that I’ll look stupid if I don’t. I’m learning a lot about this bitch
in the back of my head, though. She doesn’t want me to be happy. She’s the voice of negativity, of scorn and of derision. She doesn’t lift me up. She doesn’t make me free in any way. Listening to her only ends in me feeling damaged and unworthy of love and respect. I trust Rooke. He’s incredibly smart and he knows his own mind. He doesn’t say things flippantly. He’s direct, and he’s honest. He wouldn’t say something like that if he didn’t mean it.

  So fuck it. I choose to bask in the warmth of his admiration, instead of shield myself from it. Life is too fucking short. Drawing my shoulders back, angling my chin a little higher, I smile. “Thank you.”

  Rooke props himself up on one elbow. His eyes are shining, a huge grin of his own spreading across his face. He begins to clap. “Yes. My girlfriend is a motherfucking boss.”

  My cheeks redden, an out of control burn spreading down through my body. “Is that what I am? Your girlfriend?”

  He nods sagely. “I’m afraid you don’t get a choice in the matter.”

  “Wow. Most guys avoid that word at all cost.”

  “Most guys are fucking idiots, Sasha. Idiots. They’re too afraid of what they’ll be losing if they commit themselves to one woman. I’m very aware of what I’ll be losing if I don’t in this particular instance.”

  He constantly surprises me. I’m constantly wondering what I did to invite this strange, wonderful, out-of-this-world man into my life. We do not work on paper. In real life, our lives have slotted together so perfectly that I can hardly seem to remember what being without him was like. I’ve known him less than a month, and I’m infatuated with him. No, it’s way more than that. Far, far beyond infatuation. I’m just too scared to admit the true depth of my feelings, even to myself.

  I climb up onto the end of the bed, and Rooke lies back, no longer leaning on his elbow. I’m no longer worried about this. With a few words, he’s set my nerves to rest. Now, I just want to make him feel as amazing as he makes me feel. “Don’t touch me,” I tell him. “Do not touch me until I say you can.” He places his arms at his sides, watching me as I slowly crawl my way up the bed. His eyes are on fire, his lips parted. His cock is fully erect now, straining against his belly. I hover over him, straddling him, our bodies only a couple of inches apart. Rooke bites his lip as he looks up at me—I can tell he likes what he sees. I can also tell that he’s struggling not to touch me already. His shoulders tense as I lean down, skating my mouth over his. My nipples graze his chest, and I shiver, a wave of sensation relaying all around my body. I want to lower myself, to grind my whole body against his, but if I do that it will be a very short step to sliding down on his hard-on and fucking him like a wild animal. I don’t want this to be over that quickly. Now that I’m feeling a little calmer, I want to draw this out. I want to tease him. I want him to be begging me to let him come by the time I’m through with him.

  I inch down a little, so that my breast is frustratingly close to his mouth. “Open,” I command.

  Rooke gives me a savage, entertained smile that lets me know I’ll probably be paying for this at a later date. I’ll take his punishment gladly, though. I plan on earning it. “Lick,” I tell him.

  His tongue darts out between his lips, and he does as I’ve told him. He runs the tip of his tongue over the erect, tight bud of my nipple, and I have to suck my bottom lip into my mouth. He’s so fucking hot. It’s not just the way he looks, or the way those light brown eyes of his remain trained on me as he swirls his tongue around my nipple. It’s the fact that this monster of a man is going against his very own nature in order to please me right now. That’s what’s driving me insane.

  “Bite,” I tell him.

  A wicked glimmer flashes in his eyes. “How hard do you want it?” he asks slowly.

  “As hard as you think I can take.”

  “Careful, Connor. I know a lot about the human pain threshold. You can take way more than you think.” There’s a challenge in his voice that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “Do it. I can take it. Bite.”

  Rooke growls, a low, rumbling sound of frustration. Carefully, he fastens my nipple in between his teeth and he gradually, slowly bites down. The pressure is pleasurable at first. I can feel the need building between my legs, my pussy getting wetter and wetter. The pain intensifies as he applies more and more pressure, until I’m arching against his mouth and I’m gritting my teeth together. I’ve never had anything pierced before, but I imagine having my nipple pierced would feel very similar to this. The pain shuttles through me, a stabbing hurt that is mirrored in my other breast, and down the backs of my legs, into the soles of my feet.

  “Ahhh!”

  Rooke doesn’t stop. He continues to bite down while I ride the wave of sensation. It’s dizzying. I can stop it at any time, I know I can, but that only makes it harder to say the words. He thinks I can take this, so that’s what I do. I take it. When he finally stops, I’m holding my breath and my eyes are screwed tightly shut.

  “Fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  “Suck,” I tell him.

  My nipple throbs when he takes it into his mouth. The ache is bittersweet, half tempering the sharp, stabbing pain from his teeth a moment ago, but introducing a new, burning pain now. It fills my head, sends me spiraling down a deep, dark well of sensation. I gently rock back a little, so I can feel his cock between my legs, rubbing up against my pussy. I’m so ridiculously wet, and he’s so ridiculously hard. Rooke hisses, sucking in a sharp breath, his body jolting underneath me.

  “Fuck.” His voice is strained. I reach down between our bodies and I close my hand around his cock, guiding it so that it slides against my clit as I begin to rock against him. His eyes roll back into his head as he releases a jagged sigh. “You’re going to fucking kill me,” he says.

  “No. I’m going to sit on your face and you’re going to make me come with your tongue,” I reply. I let go of him, moving up his body before I can change my mind. I’ve become accustomed to just how much he loves to eat my pussy over the past few weeks, but I’ve never done this before. I’ve always been on my back with him down between my legs. I kneel over Rooke’s head, and he groans, swearing under his breath. I swear I could come just from hearing that sound. The second his tongue touches my clit, my back is bowed and I’m regretting the position. It feels too damn good. Too perfect. I’ll climax so quickly like this, I know it. I wind my fingers into his hair as he licks and sucks. He reaches up and takes hold of me by the thighs, pulling me down harder onto his mouth. He’s breaking the rules, but it feels too good. I let him get away with it.

  “Fuck me with your fingers,” I pant. “Right now.”

  He snarls as he obeys. I feel like I’m swimming with sharks right now. Trying to tame a lion. Going head to head with a predator that is way, way stronger than I am, easily capable of destroying me. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. Rooke slides his fingers inside me and the fire that’s burning in the pit of my stomach rages out of control.

  “Jesus. Holy shit.” My mind shuts down. I rock against his mouth, taking my pleasure, just as he told me to. When he slides his hand back a little, his fingers teasing, playing over my ass, I can’t cope anymore. I reach back and place my hand over his, holding it in place, letting him know what I want.

  I want him inside me there too.

  Rooke rumbles beneath me, a sound of extreme need. He’s gentle as he pushes a finger into my ass, but I can tell it costs him. He wants to be rough with me. He wants to flip me over and fuck me so hard right now, but he has himself on a leash.

  With his tongue on my clit and his fingers in both my ass and my pussy, my body feels like an Edison bulb, a flow of electricity charging and snapping through a filament that loops and arcs through my body. “Shit, Rooke. Shit!”

  He would be swearing too, if he wasn’t busy with his mouth. I’m on the brink of coming when I tear myself away from him. I need him to be inside me. I need it more
than anything.

  I shift back and sink myself down onto his erection, doing my best not to cry out. Having his fingers inside me is one thing, but his cock? I don’t know if my body will ever be able to take him easily. I’m always going to need to be seriously turned on before he tries to fuck me. Rooke bares his teeth as I rock back and forth, taking my pleasure from him here too.

  “Damn, Sasha. You’re so fucking wet. I can feel you all over me,” he hisses. “Such a fucking turn on.”

  I know it’s just a matter of time now. I’m edging closer and closer to a cliff face, toward a fall that is inevitable for both me and for the beautiful man beneath me.

  I stretch it out though, delaying, teasing, tormenting… Every time Rooke is about to come, I hover over him, so that only the very tip of his cock is inside me, and I command him not to. He has remarkable self-control. He wants to physically own me. He wants to turn me over and fuck me like a freight train. He wants to coax my orgasm out of me just as badly as he wants to come himself, but each and every time I tell him no, he curses and grits his teeth, head back, chest proud, muscles in his throat working over time, and he beats it back.

  When I do finally allow him to come, he roars at the top of his lungs, his fingers digging into the mattress, his body flexed and bowed, and I can do nothing but come right along with him. Watching him lose himself like that would make me come on the spot, no matter what.

  My orgasm winds me, knocking the air right out of my lungs with its ferocity. I collapse on top of him, panting, hyperventilating, and Rooke wraps his arms around me. His whole frame is twitching and shaking, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. I want to stay like this forever, staring at the blissed-out pleasure on his face, him still inside me, his come slick on the inside of my thighs, his sweat and my own, so salty on my lips.

  We fall asleep, tangled up in each other. I don’t know how long we’re unconscious for, but when I wake, Rooke is sitting on the end of the bed. His face is in shadow, and I find myself wanting to trace my fingers down his creased forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his lips, his chin, down his throat. He’s carved out of stone. When you look at him, there’s no real visible softness to him. He’s a hard man to study without feeling a faint glimmer of panic sparking in your gut.