Tough Enough

Rogan starts to whistle. It’s a happy sound from a happy man. Or at least he seems to be happy. There’s a glimmer to his eyes, and they want to crinkle at the corners, like he has a secret. Or maybe a wink on deck. And that makes me happy. I shouldn’t care about his state of contentment. But I do. I feel so good that it would seem far less “good” if he weren’t good, too. But he seems good. We both seem good. And that is very good.

Although I keep my attention focused straight ahead, I’m aware of the sidelong glances we are getting as we make our way along the hall to my little cubby. I’m not at all surprised when I walk through the door to find Mona standing in the center of the room, arms crossed over her ample chest, toe tapping in agitation. She looks like a stripper dressed in school-teacher attire. She’s wearing a pencil-slim black skirt and a white blouse that’s at least two sizes too small. Her long legs are encased in fishnets and her feet in stilettos. All she needs is a riding crop, some smart glasses and hair that’s piled messily on top of her head so she can whip it down dramatically.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking in her petulant expression and rigid posture.

“I’m feeling very disenfranchised,” she explains.

I glance over at Rogan, who’s already smiling and shaking his head.

“Word of the day?”

She cracks a grin. “Yeah, why? Did I use it wrong?”

“Depends on what you were trying to say,” I tell her as I walk past her to lay my purse on the counter. I turn back to her, feeling both pleased and nervous when Rogan comes to stand beside me, leaning his tall body against the counter next to me and crossing his arms and ankles. I can literally feel the warmth from his body. It teases me, beckoning me closer. I plant my feet and make a point to stand up straight, not giving in.

Mona’s eyes are narrow now as she looks back and forth between Rogan and me. I can see the wheels of her romance book–polluted mind going a mile a minute. Finally, her posture eases and her face lights up with glee. She taps the tips of her fingers together in a tiny clap.

“Eeeeeee,” she squeals in a hushed voice. “Okay, I’m not mad anymore.”

She knows. I don’t even have to ask about her reaction. I know how to interpret it. It’s nothing that I really want to talk about with her, though, especially not in front of Rogan, so I steer the conversation elsewhere. “If that’s what you were trying to say, then yes, you used the word wrong.”

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 go

“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 i

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, ru

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, ru

“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 ru

I hear a low growl coming from behind me as Rogan takes his seat. “You’re really go

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