Tough Enough

He dives into my mouth like it’s an oasis in a barren land. His tongue swirls around mine in a ravenous rhythm that’s like a drug. And I’m drugged. Out of my mind under his influence. “My hands feel you. Even when you’re not around.” As if to prove his point, Rogan backs away just enough to slide his hands under my skirt and up the outsides of my thighs. He runs his fingers under the edge of my panties, tracing the elastic to the damp material between my legs. Frantic and not thinking, I reach for his zipper. I need to feel his hardness. I need to feel that he wants me. I need to have it in my hands, a tangible thing. When I wind my fingers around it, it jumps against my palm. “And my cock . . . it throbs to be inside you,” he says, moving his fingertips into my crease. He moans loudly as he spreads moisture over my clit and gently massages it.

Flexing his hips toward me, Rogan covers my fingers with his own, gripping his length and guiding it toward my body. He nudges my legs farther apart and rubs the head between my folds, the silken knob gliding smoothly over my clit.

Back and forth, he moves over me, pushing me closer and closer to the edge. “If I could make a living finding new ways to make you come, that’s all I’d do. Every day for the rest of my life.” He teases me with the wide crown of his shaft, the friction unbearably delicious. He eases down toward my entrance and then moves away again, a dance meant to torture. And that’s what it’s doing. “My mouth waters when I think about the way you taste. Better than pie,” he says hoarsely, reminding me of our lunch conversation.

Suddenly urgent to mark him with moments and phrases and memories like he’s marking me, I push against his chest until he releases me, and I drop to my knees on the floor in front of him.

Reaching around and sinking my hands into his firmly perfect butt, I lick the glistening head and then ease my lips down over Rogan, taking as much of him into my mouth as I can, which isn’t nearly all of him. I taste the essence of me mingled with the flavor of his skin, a salty, intoxicating cocktail that has heat and more moisture gushing into my panties.

I moan against him and Rogan threads his fingers into my hair, hissing his approval as I consume him with mouth and hands, even ru

I work my way back up his shaft, sucking and licking until I feel him tighten against my palm. “I’m go

I take every drop, savoring him as the ache between my legs increases. And then hands are reaching under my arms to pull me upright. Rogan’s mouth covers mine in a savage kiss as his fingers find my core, thrusting into me and stealing my breath. “Oh God!” I cry, my knees going weak.

Rogan wraps one strong arm around my waist and lifts, carrying me the few feet to my makeup chair, where he deposits me, dropping one leg over the arm, leaving me wide open to the assault of his mouth. It’s his turn to drop to his knees, push my panties aside and bring me racing toward the precipice, sucking and thrusting me all the way over it.

Pleasure crashes through me like a violent electrical storm, i

Slowly, his aggressive penetration turns to soft, leisurely strokes as though he senses exactly where I am and what I need. I lie limply in the chair before him as my body drifts down from the hazy heaven of my climax. After two long, languorous minutes, Rogan begins to rain butterfly kisses across my stomach, which is partly bared by the drastically skewed position of my skirt.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for all day,” he says, glancing up at me as he rights my panties and tugs my skirt down to cover me. “Can I give you a ride home?”

“Yes,” I breathe, giving in to the urge to smile.

Rogan, about to rise, stops and leans forward to run his forefinger over the curve of my bottom lip. “And this . . . this smile is what I’ll wait for all day tomorrow.”

Neither of us says another word as I cut off the lights and Rogan leads me from the building.

TWENTY-SIX

Rogan

“You’re sleeping with the wrong brother. You know that, right?”

Sitting at the bar, munching on a carrot as I finish making di

“You’re an ass, man.”

“What?” he asks, like there’s nothing wrong with his comment. “Oh, I forgot. It’s Wednesday. Therefore I ca

I shake my head. “Sore loser,” I mutter.

“I didn’t lose. Hell, you didn’t even give me a chance to get in the game. Some of us are stuck here all day instead of on a television set kissing hot actresses and lying to beautiful makeup artists.”

I see the little frown that appears between Katie’s eyes as she listens. “I don’t lie, you dickwad.”

“Everybody lies.”

“Somebody didn’t get his nap out today,” I needle, knowing that will piss him off so bad he’ll just leave. And he does. Kurt whirls his chair around to face me, his expression filled with bitter resentment.

“Sometimes I hate you,” he spits, and then he wheels himself around the bar and down the hall to his room where he slams the door shut.

“Is he okay?” Katie asks cautiously.

I shrug. “He’s just got issues. That’s all.”

“Is he always like that? I mean, the first time I met him . . .”

“He was on his best behavior. Smitten, I guess you could say. But yeah, that’s more his normal state of douchiness.”

I’m matter-of-fact about it because I’m used to it. Kurt feels like he has a million reasons to hate and resent me. I only understand one of them.

“Why does he resent you so much?” Katie’s eyes are puzzled. Then she starts to stammer, like she regrets her question. “I—I mean, he seems to, anyway. Not that it’s any of my business.” Her voice trails off as she drops her gaze down to her hands where they’re fiddling with her napkin.

I laugh, reaching across the bar to still her fingers. “Hey, it’s fine. You can ask me anything.”

“Okay, then why does he seem to resent you so much? Is it just because of his handicap?”

I resume assembling the salads that will accompany the filets I’ll be grilling. I lay slices of cucumber on each one as I answer her. “He thinks that the reason I never went to the cops or social services, the reason that I kept my mouth shut, was because I was weak. He thinks I didn’t love him enough to get him out of there. I never told him that everything I did I did to spare him.”

I hear Katie’s gasp. “But why? Why would you let him believe that? When you sacrificed so much for him. Why?”

I glance up to meet her horrified eyes. “Because it would’ve eaten him up with guilt—knowing that I stayed around because of him. Knowing that I kept taking a beating so that he wouldn’t have to. And I didn’t want him to have to carry that around for the rest of his life.”

“Oh God, Rogan,” she whispers. Her face is pale, like she can literally feel the pain of it all.

“It’s fine,” I tell her with a smile. I’d rather blow it off than this end up in pity. It’s probably dangerously close already. “We both survived.”

“You never said what happened to your father.” I can tell that she wants to change the subject as much as I do.