Page 39 of Rogue
But his eyes tell me differently on the latter as his gaze runs over me. From my worn sneakers, to half-on, half-off sweatpants, across my dirtied bare abdomen, to pause on my still attentive nipples, before coming to rest on my face. His eyes fix on my cheek. He grins. It’s a sexy, smug one. Like he knows that the secret to my heart lies between my thighs. Or at least, that’s what he intends to find out.
“It’s our secret. Don’t let anyone, especially Hayden, in on it.”
“In on what? That youlikeme?” That you just fingered me beneath a decomposing tree and gave me the most earth-shattering orgasm of my life?
“Let’s go before they backtrack,” he says, changing the subject.
I put my hands on my hips. “Not so fast. You’ve been toying with me since the moment you set eyes on me. How is that even the slightest bit secretive?”
“That’s who I am. My reputation.”
“So you’re admitting you’re a ladies man?”
He shrugs his shoulders. Answer enough. But not surprising—I’ve known this all along about him. Damn it. I didn’t expect his admission to hurt. The thought of him getting other women off . . .
Jesus, I’m an idiot.
“Ready?” he says, watching me, morph from postclimacticbliss into such-a-bitch.
God, I’d love to give the player’s balls a quick, tight squeeze.
“Just remember what I said. Now wipe off your face and let’s get the fuck out of here.” He hands me a tissue along with a silver-plated lighter.
I stare down at both.
When I glance back up at him in confusion, that maddening, knowing smirk of his is back. “I’ll do it, then.”
Grabbing the lighter, he holds it up near my face. I can see a foggy version of my muddied reflection. Specifically, my right cheek. My lips form in the shape of anO. Oh. OH! as understanding dawns on me.
He’s branded me.
Earlier, beneath the tree when he’d been caressing my cheeks . . . he’d etched a deepJinto the caked mud.
Jfor Jaxson.
A bold, less-than-subtle sign oflikingme? Dumbfounded, I stare at him as he rubs his initial off my cheek then quietly wipes off the remaining mud.
When he’s finished, he drops the tissue to the ground. “There. None the wiser.” Reaching around me, he smacks me on the ass. “Race you back to the barn,” he challenges me. Before I can respond, before I can patch all of my brain cells, before I can recover from everything he’s come at me with, everything he is, off he sprints.
I stare helplessly down at the tissue. ThatJmuddying my thoughts just like it’s done to the tissue. I hesitate, one second, two before chasing off after him.
11
Paris
The hotel shower feels like heaven after my close call with hell. I turn the nozzle until the water approaches scalding, savoring the heat raining down on me and cleansing my pores of sewage slime.
My hair’s been shampooed three times today, the suds like my sins bubbling up before washing away in a cleansing cluster down the drain.
I dry off then wrap the big fluffy white towel around my body, luxuriating in its softness. The high-end toiletries—like the amazing green tea–scented body lotion that leaves my skin smelling like paradise, along with a feathery-soft bed dreams were made of—make this expensive hotel room worth the extra euros. And thanks to Mama’s savvy investments, I never have to worry about money again.
As I do so, I assess the damage. A blister is forming on my right foot from running back to the hotel in a wet leather sandal. There’s a scrape on my left elbow and the beginnings of a bruise on my thigh. Even wet, my hair looks amazeballs.
There’s a spring in my step as I move around the bathroom. I’m going to be better prepared for my next sojourn down into the belly of Paris. Figures that Prick’s operating out of some underworld hellhole. But now, I know what to expect.
The bedroom’s dark as I enter . . . yet the shades were . . .oh sweet hell.
I’m hit from the side and tackled down to the carpet. The wind’s knocked out of me as his weight lands on top of me. Using the heel of my hand, I punch him beneath the chin and roll, dislodging him.
