Tough Enough

But he could end up being a dream for you, too, my i

Three firm knocks on my front door have my insides snapping with the electricity of attraction. Probably not the best way to start an evening where I need to maintain a cool head so that I can keep a charming, gorgeous man at arm’s length.

“You can do this, you can do this, you can do this,” I mutter under my breath. The thing is, I don’t know for sure that I can. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone in a long time. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been this attracted to someone. Period. Not even my ex, who basically ruined my entire life. He’s part of my aversion to Rogan. Him and the horrific memories that he and he alone is responsible for. The other part consists of the things about me that would surely run Rogan off, things I would never let him see.

Those sobering thoughts are like a bucket of ice water right in the face. My breathing levels and my face cools, so that it’s with my usual calm that I open the door and greet him.

“Hi,” I offer with a mild smile.

“Hi, yourself, darlin’,” he drawls, leaning against the doorjamb and ru

I glance down at my low-rise jeans and simple pink tee that reads Fat Lewey’s across the chest. “I am?”

“You are. I didn’t have to bring the van tonight.” He nods toward the curb, where his glossy motorcycle awaits.

I glance behind him at the gleaming yet intimidating machine. It looks dangerous, much like its driver, which is something that I’ve made a point to avoid in my life.

Until Rogan.

“I see that. You must have a death wish,” I comment wryly.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs in a voice that moves over my skin like rich, dark molasses. He straightens with a crooked smile and holds out his hand. “Come on.”

For the space of five or six heartbeats, I wonder what I’m agreeing to, what this night will mean in the grand scheme of my life. Before I can come to any conclusion, he’s reaching forward to curl his fingers around mine, sending a shiver up my arm and a thrill down my spine.

I follow him out onto the stoop, turning to close the door behind me. “Sleep tight, Dozer,” Rogan calls to my cat where he sits on the back of a chair near the door. As I’m pulling the door closed, I see Dozer wink one yellow eye and then promptly fall asleep.

Rogan pulls me down the sidewalk behind him, his grasp firm and warm. He stops beside his bike to unstrap another helmet from behind the tiny perch that qualifies as a backseat. “This is for you,” he says, gently sliding the smaller version of his helmet onto my head. I reach up to keep my hair in place as he buckles a strap under my chin. “Shit!” he says in irritation.

“What?” I ask, mildly alarmed.

“How the hell can you look hot in a helmet?” he asks, slapping my face shield down.

He can’t see my smile as he turns to ready himself, throwing one leg over the motorcycle. He rights it from its reclining position before he raises his hand to assist me. He says nothing and neither do I as I slide my fingers across his palm and climb onto the Death Machine (which is how it will forever register in my head).

I sit clumsily on the little perch, not knowing what to do with my hands or my legs. Rogan fires up the engine, revving it a few times before he twists to reach back and put my feet on the two little chrome stubs sticking out on either side. The action brings my knees up higher and forces me to lean forward slightly. A little yip escapes because I feel like I might fall off. Rogan grabs my hands and pulls them around his stomach, bringing my chest to his back.

“Just lean into me and hold on,” he says, his voice coming through loud and clear into my helmet. So clear, in fact, that I can hear the smile he’s wearing even though I can’t see it.

I like this, this bike, this anonymity. I can enjoy touching him, being wrapped around him without having to explain myself or worry about his all-seeing eyes. Maybe a motorcycle isn’t such a bad thing after all.

That’s what I’m thinking right up until he darts away from the curb and accelerates so fast that I fear the front wheel will come off the ground. After that, my only thought is survival.

I squeal, surprised and excited and a little afraid, to which Rogan’s only response is a throaty chuckle. It vibrates along the surface of my skin much like the motorcycle vibrates beneath my butt.

As we zip along the streets of the outskirts of Enchantment, I concentrate less on the landscape that’s speeding by and more on the intriguing man that I hold in my arms. He’s obviously had some bad things happen to him in his life. He’s obviously fought to overcome them. Only now, rather than hiding away from life and danger and risk, he embraces it. He hunts it down and conquers it. I can see it in the way he masters the curves of the road, in the way he tips his chin up to the world, gri

We both fought to survive. But only one of us fought to live. Really live. And he won. He’s still wi

Like sunshine creeping into the skies at dawn, I feel a ray of light break through the darkness that I’ve been drowning in for so long. It’s inspiration. It’s motivation. It’s the sight of someone rising up and overcoming.

It’s Rogan.

Feeling eases back into places that went numb a long time ago, places I thought were all but dead. The things that Rogan has made me feel, most of them against my will, are like thin wires feeding electricity into my nerves, my muscles, my heart. They tether me to him and pull me inexorably closer. This common ground between us, this way in which we could understand each other like most people never will, might just be the strongest one so far.

Rogan turns off the road on which we’ve been traveling for several minutes. I knew we were heading toward the foot of Brasstown Bald, which is the mountain that sits behind Enchantment, because I know that’s where the luxurious homes were built for the elite of the studio’s employees (i.e., the actors). I assumed that’s where Rogan would be staying.

When we reach a small brick guard shack to the left of an enormous wrought-iron gate, Rogan slows to wave at the guard. He jumps to his feet, smiles politely and triggers the mechanism to let us through. Rogan waits patiently, easily balancing our combined weight on his bike. It seems effortless, and I understand why when I glance down at the long muscles of his thighs. I can see them standing out, bulging inside the denim of his jeans.

As soon as the gate is open enough for us to squeeze through, Rogan sharply twists his wrist, sending us hurtling between the slowly opening halves. He cuts it so close I can almost feel the cool metal of the gate brush the skin of my arm. Almost.

Less than two minutes later, he pulls to a stop in the circular driveway of a sprawling contemporary home. It looks like little more than a sea of glass amid a field of sharp angles. He raises his hand, which I take to use for balance as I dismount. I work on unfastening the buckle beneath my chin as Rogan settles the motorcycle on its kickstand and kills the engine. My fingers work clumsily and slowly in my distraction. I can’t seem to take my eyes off the man as he tugs off his helmet, runs his fingers through his hair and drags his lean body off the machine.

He casually hooks his helmet on one handlebar and turns to face me. One side of his mouth quirks. “Need some help?”