Page 55 of Reluctantly Rogue

This woman is magnificent.

Linnea Olsen is good at everything.

Even giving the silent treatment.

She does not want me on this trip, but instead of throwing a fit, she decided we were going to make the seven-hour flight from Cara to Washington, D.C., overnight.

It’s brilliant, really. She was able to avoid me by reading and then sleeping most of the flight.

And I didn’t push things. I didn’t try to make conversation. I sat as far away from her as I could. I also tried to keep myself occupied with other things.

I ignored the fact that her very casual travel outfit of loose blush-pink pants, matching zippered hoodie and tee is still silky and perfectly pressed and expensive looking. That even with her hair pulled up into a high ponytail and no makeup on, she’s still stunningly beautiful. And that being in close confines with her, just the two of us, late at night, dressed down and relaxed, reminds me of our late-night kitchen talks.

Because I’m trying to preserve my sanity.

I realize my method of ignoring and denying is not perfect, but I’m a desperate man.

I miss her like hell.

I know facts about her and what she’s been doing. But I miss talking to her, I miss getting herfeelingsabout the facts I’m privy to, and I’ve collected facts I probably shouldn’t be privy to—like that she went to the doctor two weeks ago for a UTI since I haven’t been around to make her drink water. Now I’m pissed about that too.

I miss hearing her laugh. I miss hearing her sassy remarks under her breath that no one else catches. I miss her searching the room for me and her shoulders visibly relaxing as soon as she sees me. Her shoulders have been tense and her mouth pinched when we’ve been in rooms together over the past month. And I haven’t been brave enough to stand close enough to hear her muttering under her breath. Because then I might catch a whiff of her perfume. Or put out a hand and catch her when she trips over one of the rugs, which would require touching her. Which would make me think about how perfectly her ass fits in my hands.

I almost broke a tooth clenching my jaw, and my hand, when she tripped two weeks ago.

And her fucking mouth. That I couldn’t keep from looking at before is now taunting me in a new way. I don’t like the angry set to it that’s been present since…that night.

Now that I actually know how soft and sweet and addicting it is, I’m really definitely…fucked.

I crossed the line. And I fucking want to cross it again. That line and about a hundred others.

And it would really only take one word from her.

Maybe not even a word. A sigh. A moan. Her hand on my chest, her fingers in my hair, certainly her mouth against mine.

For the first time in my life, I lost myself.

Kissing Linnea, I forgot who I was, what was important.

My entire world narrowed to a single focus. That woman.

And it was just a kiss.

Yes, it was a hot kiss. Maybe the hottest of my life. But still just a kiss. If I ever got her naked, if I ever had her legs wrapped around my waist, if I was ever buried inside her, God knows what I would do. Or what I wouldn’t do. What I would give up. What I would forget.

It scared the shit out of me.

This trip is a bad idea. For so many reasons.

Iris isn’t happy about it. The king is displeased with Torin for not coming along.

And none of them even know that I want to ravish the woman I’m supposed to be escorting on dates with other men.

I also want to hug her, rub her back, make sure she has cranberry scones every morning, and take her bowling.

Normal little things that would let me justbewith her. Just us. Just two regular people spending time together.

And that’s almost more dangerous than the ravishing.

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