Page 43 of Rogue
“What the hell?” I exclaim. A wall of muscle presses up against me. Warm and with a heartbeat that faintly drums against my back. “Jaxson,” I murmur, his name rolling smoothly off of my tongue. Like I’ve spent far too many waking hours thinking about him—which, of course, I have.
I sit up in bed and turn the light on the nightstand on.
“Nice jams. I’m hungry just looking at you.”
My eyes need time to adjust. Not so Jaxson’s, it seems with his super night-vision talents and his ability to cause havoc no matter the location . . . like in my bed.
My girls are perky, despite their loosey-goosey state. Underwire bras have trained them well. The traitorous duo pebble up and wave hello.
Jeez. Hellnois what they should be saying.
Hell no, not again.
My fingers clutch the end of the sheet, covering my lower half. I’m wearing an Andy Warhol knockoff T-shirt, with a bright yellow banana stenograph decal on the front. This nighttime ensemble is accompanied by my panties and nothing else. “You shouldn’t be in h— what are you doing?”
His head now hogs my pillow but that’s not what has me stammering. The devil’s worked his hand beneath the sheet, then beneath my shirt, placing his palm flat across my stomach, the abruptness of his actions turning my thoughts to air.
I lean into him slightly, ever so briefly relishing the warmth of his touch.
“Bringing you sweet dreams,” he says, smoothly sliding his hand beneath the elastic of my panties, not stopping until the heel pushes against my mound and the V of his fingers straddles my sensitive nub.
“Holy mother of Mary,” I say, my voice hoarse with surprise. He’s not wasting any time.
“The things I’m going to do to you. Get you off with my fingers. Lick the orgasm from that sweet pussy. Bury myself deep inside of you and make you shatter around me while I watch the blush from my fucking you spread across your fair skin.
“Have you knocked a screw loose?”
“Yep. But I’m a damn good handyman, aiming to fix things.” His fingers squeeze my nub, then brush across my sensitive hood, and it takes all my control not to arch my hips off the mattress.
I’m transparent, like stained glass that’s weathered over time until the colors fade to a pale resemblance of themselves. The player sees straight through me. Hell, he’s smashed the glass, weathered or otherwise, with the sheer magnitude of his smile. He’s good at reading me, and working women into a tizzy. A sexy, seductive seducer who knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “If anyone saw you come into my room . . .”
He presses a middle finger between my folds and curls it, the tip a whisper away from dipping inside my core.
I squeak, burying the sound deep inside my throat. “Oh my God” is all I manage to say.
“That’s right.” He rolls into me, nudges my shirt up with his nose, and grazes his teeth over the flat planes of my stomach. His movement causes his finger to slide an inch deeper inside of me.
My heart races as desire rushes through me. I feel moisture dampen my folds, coating his fingers and smoothing the way for more. Yes, please. More. A single touch and I’m a goner. He’s got the moves. This is his game. And I’m . . . unprepared . . . helpless . . . hell, no.
“Get out of my bed.”
“Come on, Kylie. Fuck it all—Hayden, TORC, everything else. Let’s do this thing.”
“You’re such a bed-hopping player.”
A V forms between his watchful eyes. “Bed-hopping . . . who else do you think . . . Sabrina?”
My throat hitches. “You aren’t denying it. Gross. Get out of my room.”
He stares at me without an ounce of guilt. Why should he feel guilty? It’s not like his “I like you” catapulted us from being allies into being involved in a relationship. A few uncomfortable seconds pass until he murmurs no words any woman ever wants tossed in their face. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not settling for her leftovers . . .”
My words seem to remind both him and myself that his finger is still nestled between my moist folds. He withdraws it, rolls onto his back, and stares up at the ceiling. And to my horror, a sense of loss grabs hold of me.
Green with jealousy. Horny. Lovestruck. Conflicted. Yep, that sums it up, all right.
“So it matters to you who I’ve been with?” I hear him ask. Thank God he’s not looking at me or he’d witness a blush of vulnerability walk all over me . . . trampling over me in a wild stampede of emotion. I’ve no business calling him out on his bed partners. I met him a month ago, for Christ’s sake. I barely know him.
