Rogue Desire: A Romance Anthology (The Rogue Series)

by Adriana Anders

  Jesus Fucking Christ, I hope to God they are joking.

  I’m not sure, though. And that’s why I keep an eye on them. I’m not alone, either.

  Poppy stands and moves around the desk. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Marcus…”

  I pull her into my lap. “You were right. I did figure out who the Alt Park Service account was, and I gave them some pointers for staying under the radar. But that’s not the real story. That’s a distraction.”

  She softens, going from perched on my lap to molded against my body in a single, frustrated exhale. “But is writing about the dark underbelly of the internet feeding into that distraction model, too? Is it feeding the trolls? I feel like we need some light to balance the darkness. Don’t we?”

  If there was an answer to that question, we wouldn’t be where we are right now. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “I have to do something.” Firm. Resolved. Spirited.

  I smile into her hair. “You will.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good.”

  She taps my chest with her fingertips and makes a thinking sound. “But speaking of not careful…you spend your free time monitoring nihilists and racists in online forums?”

  “Everyone needs a hobby.”

  “I thought yours was rock climbing.”

  “I do that, too.”

  “Tell me about it. Off the—”

  I cover her mouth with mine. I know it’s off the record. I kiss her instead, because that’s so much better than the darkness out there. I kiss her because I trust her, because I don’t need her assurances.

  I just need her, for the short time we have left.

  I’ve always taken a pretty pragmatic view of the risks of the world. So why can’t I do that when it comes to Poppy?

  CHAPTER 9

  Poppy

  THERE’S something serious in the way Marcus is holding me. Kissing me.

  Serious and a little desperate.

  We could get lost in that need, and for a few seconds, I do. I let his kisses consume me, a rolling riptide of sensation.

  But we’re not going to get to do this again for…four months. And that’s if everything goes well. If we continue to like each other, if we keep in touch, if the world doesn’t implode…

  I trace a finger over his bearded jaw, then let it drop onto his shirt as I peel myself off his body. I really do like his uniform. “So let’s count our dates,” I murmur as I trace the buttons in a line. “Dinner last night—first date?”

  “Not lunch?”

  I shake my head. “That was work.”

  “But dinner…”

  It didn’t feel like work. “I think from the second you came to my room, that was a date.”

  His eyes darken. “Agreed. And coffee this morning. Not a great date, but we kissed. That counts.”

  I smile. “A mini date, and it was fantastic. That’s two. And lunch just now was date number three.”

  “Was?” His lips twist. “Is our date over? Because you’re in my lap right now. In my books, that’s a good sign for a date progressing.”

  I sigh regretfully—which takes some serious effort—and press my hand against his chest. “Was. Past tense.” I stand up and smooth my hands over my skirt. “If you leave food out on your desk, will the bears break in and destroy your office?”

  “I generally try not to leave food out, yes. Why?”

  I step back. “No reason. I just thought maybe our next date could start with a chase.”

  And I turn and sprint for the door.

  After I finished writing my story, I took a shower. I shaved my legs. Then I put on a dress, and by some small miracle, I chose my flats.

  I hear Marcus behind me. He swears under his breath, then he scrambles to pack up our lunch. That was mean of me. But I’ll need the head start, because I don’t know where I want him to chase me to. I stop at the rise and look left and right. Forest in all directions. It probably doesn’t matter.

  The door to the little log cabin office thumps open, and I take off again.

  I’m at the edge of the forest by the time he catches me. He swings me around, his arms banded about my waist as he hugs me from behind. I laugh as he brings me to the ground in a controlled tackle, then sigh as he rolls onto his back and pulls me, effortlessly, up to straddle his waist.

  “Just like this?” I ask as I wiggle against his erection behind me. “This is what you wanted to do to me yesterday?”

  He sets his hands on my knees. Warm, calloused fingers stroke my bare skin as he looks up at me with undisguised lust. “Pretty much.”

  “What else?”

  His grin is pure wickedness. “Show me your panties.”

  I lean just enough to catch the hem of my skirt. Instead of rucking it up my thighs, I lift it into the air.

  Beneath me, Marcus shudders.

  I’m not wearing any panties.

  My cheeks burst into flame as his fingers stroke up my legs, but I don’t move. I hold my delicate perch above him as his big hands curve over the tops of my thighs. His thumbs graze the sensitive skin where my legs meet my sex, and his fingers press into my ass as he urges me to shift forward.

  The first slide of his tongue against the swollen lips of my sex is unexpected, which is ridiculous. His head is between my legs and he’s pulling me toward his mouth. What did I think was going to happen?

  But this is so much better than I ever could have hoped.

  He’s giving head like he kisses. With disorienting thoroughness. Long, slow tasting licks and sweet, hungry pulls.

  He’s giving head like a committed pervert. He’s everything I wished for and more, and all of me throbs at the pleasure of his tongue between my legs. My breasts are heavy, my nipples tight, and deep inside me, arousal starts to pool.

  I could come like this. Out in the open, riding his face.

  My hands dip and sway as he urges my hips to rock against his mouth. Oh, yes. I will come like this. He latches onto my clit and sucks, and the eagerness is enough to put me over the edge. It’s a bright, sharp orgasm that shoots through me. I topple forward, but his hands shoot up and catch me, holding my body with superhuman strength as he licks me through the rippling aftereffects.

  My head is spinning now. This isn’t real. This is some kind of lust-induced dream, the way he moves me around effortlessly. He sets me down on the grass, then twists around and tugs me beneath him as we kiss.

  He tastes like me, and my breath catches hard in my throat.

  He tastes like he feasted on my body.

  I push against him, first with my hips, then with my hands. I can’t decide what I want next. I want it all. But first I want him on his back, so I can crawl down his body and take him in my mouth and on my skin.

  “Not here,” he whispers, palming my ass beneath my skirt as I try to wriggle south.

  Right. We’re out in the open, and he’s in uniform.

  “Sorry,” I say, breathing hard.

  “Nothing to be sorry about.” He laughs and hauls me up for another kiss. “Christ, that was perfect. Come on.”

  He leaps to his feet and gives me his hand. I stand, way less graceful—because I’m still shaking—and he scoops me into his arms.

  “Marcus!”

  “Yes?” He grins at me as he strides back toward the office.

  The porch creaks under his heavy steps, but he manages to swing the door open with ease.

  I guess I can’t protest his ability to carry me around.

  He locks the door behind us, and I immediately wiggle out of his arms.

  “Here, though, yes?”

  He groans as I push him back against the desk, sitting him where he sat me, because turnabout is fair play, and I drop to my knees. “Yes.”

  I make short work of his belt, his zipper, and then his erection bulges out at me from behind the now-tight black cotton of his boxer briefs. Oh, Ranger Boy is most definitely Ranger Man.

  My mouth waters. I’ve nev
er wanted to give a sloppy blowjob quite as much as I do in this moment. But I still take a minute to appreciate this moment—the way his abs have pulled taught. The dark line of hair that disappears under the elastic I’ve hooked my fingers over. The veins popping on either side, next to those cut lines of muscles…

  I lean in and lick along one of those delicious looking trenches.

  He tastes like warm, clean man.

  Oh, this mountain air is amazing.

  “Poppy…”

  I smile as he groans my name, his voice dropping into a rough, guttural note that makes me wet all over again. I may not like a BJ to be expected on a date, but come on—there’s nothing better than the heady feeling of controlling a man from my knees.

  Epic. Power.

  I trail my finger down the same groove I’ve just licked, but I keep going. I tug his boxers down, and with my other hand, I catch his cock as it bounces out. Hello, Park Ranger.

  Heat pulses through me as I stroke him. He’s nice and heavy in my hand, warm and solid to the touch.

  My crush was not misguided.

  The mountain man appeal has delivered in spades.

  In my peripheral vision, I see him clench his hands into fists and push them into his hips. That’s nice. Polite. Considerate.

  But I wanted a pervert. I grab one of his hands and bring it to the back of my head as I lean in and take my first taste of his erection. I slide the tip of my tongue over the velvety hard crown, circling the thick head before finishing my slurp over the slit right at the top, where a small burst of something delicious gets me humming.

  Let’s be real. Not all guys taste good to me. That’s no reflection of them, just chemistry. Or lack thereof.

  Marcus tastes yummy. Like let me swallow him all the way down because yes, I want more of that essence in my mouth right now.

  And as soon as I suck him in, he tightens his hand around my ponytail and that’s even better. He doesn’t push on my head. He does one better, and holds me back. He makes me work for it a little, although that’s really a sham. His thighs are shaking from the first swallow, and it doesn’t take long to push him over the edge.

  I swallow that, too.

  It’s a brief respite from reality, but it’s a perfect one.

  I press my face into his leg and smile.

  “Ah, Poppy.” He groans and laughs and urges me to stand after he tucks himself away. “I was so wary of you when you arrived yesterday,” he says as he tugs me between his legs. “I guess deep down, I’ve been waiting for someone to track me down. But no joke, Poppy, I’m glad you drove halfway up a mountain to find me.”

  “Me, too.” I fold into his embrace.

  “It’s going to get worse out there, though.”

  “Shhh, be a buzzkill later,” I whisper, and he laughs.

  “I was going to offer you a place to stay out here. Should you need it.”

  I blink up at him. He’s serious. And I don’t think this is sex related, although I’d probably—foolishly—say yes just for regular access to his tongue.

  I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into his neck. Stark sadness intrudes and I shove it away. Not right now, reality. You can intrude in a minute.

  “Here’s hoping the world stays upright enough that we don’t see each other until Thanksgiving,” I finally say.

  He nods against my head. “We’ll do our damnedest to make sure of it.”

  We stand like that for a while. He’s warm, and his chest is lovely and firm to lean against.

  But I have a flight to catch. And he has work to get back to.

  “Before you go…” He squeezes my hand and reaches across the desk. He picks up a National Park Service keychain and hands it to me. “A souvenir.”

  I turn it over in my hand. “Thank you…?”

  He chuckles. “Take out your phone.”

  Like we’re just going to exchange phone numbers, but we already did that.

  I look at him carefully and do as he says.

  He covers my hand with his, and with a firm push of his thumb, extends the metal neck on the keychain fob. “Search for Bluetooth devices.”

  There’s one new device nearby. I sync to it, and an app pops up on my screen.

  What the what…?

  Marcus keeps going. “Now that keychain can’t be paired with any other device. It can’t be read remotely. And if you notch the fob out like that again, it will immediately disconnect from your phone and take all the data with it. To reconnect, you do the same thing again. It’s slick and safe.”

  I stare at him, then down to the keychain, then back to him. “Who are you?”

  I expect him to say something cocky, like Marcus Dane, park ranger. Instead he gives me a serious look, then leans in to kiss me. “I’m just a guy in the mountains,” he whispers against my temple as I slide my gaze over his shoulder to the bowl of keychains on his desk. “Trying to do the right thing.”

  THE END (FOR NOW!)

  Want more stories in this world? Sign up for my newsletter! And check out Personal Delivery and Personal Escort, both available now.

  OTHER BOOKS BY AINSLEY BOOTH

  If you like silly, sexy, over the top fairy tale romances…

  Billionaire Secrets

  Personal Delivery

  Personal Escort

  And how about some Canadian erotic romance?

  Frisky Beavers

  Prime Minister

  Dr. Bad Boy

  Full Mountie

  Or you might want intense, off-limits book boyfriends…

  Forbidden Bodyguards

  Hate F*@k

  Booty Call

  Dirty Love

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mom by day and filthy romance writer by night, Ainsley is super grateful for caffeine, banana and blueberry muffins, and yoga pants. Born and raised in Ontario, she's traveled the world and come back home to write about book boyfriends with maple leaf tattoos. You can sign up for her newsletter HERE.

  ainsleybooth.com/

  LIFE, LIBERTY, AND WORSHIP

  TAMSEN PARKER

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Paige Robinson has been working out her angst about the new administration in spin class, until a handsome stranger with maddening politics harshes her mellow. Now she’s determined to get even…in the bedroom. Always awkward Carter Cox is shocked when his crush propositions him, but there's no way he's turning her down. Will their filthy assignation provide the catharsis Paige has in mind, or can they truly cross the aisle to find more?

  CHAPTER 1

  P aige Robinson didn’t hate people. Disliked them, yes. Disagreed with them, certainly. Could live a long, happy life without ever seeing or speaking to certain people, of course.

  But the man she’d come to think of as Dick? She loathed him. Also wanted to fuck him into next week, but that was beside the point. Mostly she hated him. A lot.

  Spin class was supposed to be her three times a week respite from the pressures of her busy job, her demanding boss, and her never-ebbing tension of working for an administration that would be delighted to put her out of a job and destroy everything she and her colleagues had busted their collective asses to build. It was supposed to be an hour of nothing but sweating through her clothes, letting the pounding music beats silence her worries, and following her drill sergeant of an instructor’s orders. That’s what spin class had been, until about two months ago when he had showed up.

  Wearing the dude spinner’s uniform of cycling shoes, commuter shorts, and a T-shirt, he’d walked in, set up at the bike in front of her, and never left. It would have been fine. Better than fine, really, because he was just Paige’s type with his casually in-shape body—slightly veined forearms, muscular calves, and, okay, an ass to die for—and his beginning-to-thin-at-his-crown sandy hair. There was one thing that had transformed him from three-times-a-week eye candy and potential date to nemesis.

  His goddamn T-shirts.

  Why the man had to use himself as
a walking billboard for his politics, she didn’t know. It’s not like she walked around wearing her Bartlet for President tee. Often anyway. At the farmer’s market? Sure. Doing laundry or chilling at her apartment on a quiet Sunday night? She’d have her HOPE shirt on, or one of her A Woman’s Place Is in the Resistance tanks. But here where it felt as though they were almost a captive audience, she wouldn’t shove her politics in other people’s faces.

  Dick felt no such compunction. Today it was Stop the War on Small Business. Monday it had been Keep Calm and Fight Socialism. God knows what he’d be wearing to make her blood boil on Friday.

  Paige could’ve moved, but this was her bike, dammit. It was the perfect distance from the speakers and the fans, she could see the instructor, and still beat the rest of the class to the showers when the sweat-fest was over so she wouldn’t be late getting to work. No way was she ceding ground to Dick.

  She’d take the rage that still lingered from last week’s What Would Milton Friedman Do? shirt, and channel it into a hell of a workout while she fantasized about grabbing him after class, dragging him into a broom closet and making him service her on his knees, his curly hair between her fingers, face pressed between her legs, and explained to him why he was so very, very wrong about everything he believed.

  If she wasn’t careful, she’d come on the bike.

  CLASS HAD BEEN ROUGH TODAY. Yeah, a good workout which was what Carter had been there for, but did the instructor have to make him sweat all the way through his shirt? After the few minutes of stretching at the end of class, he’d walked toward the locker room, looking for a dry spot on his shirt to wipe some of his forehead sweat with and couldn’t find one. Damn.

  It was a good thing he’d done laundry last night after he’d gotten home, even though it had been late and all he’d wanted to do was go to bed. But it had been a while—he knew himself well enough that he sent his work clothes out to be laundered or dry-cleaned every week and dropping them off was a recurring appointment in the calendar on his phone.