Tough Enough

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 a

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 Wa

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 mockingbird.”

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 wa

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 wa