Page 67 of Rogue
“No need to go through all the trouble. I’ve already gotten a taste of what’s inside.” He sucks the sugar off of one finger, then another. Intentionally reminding me exactly where those fingers had been the last time we met. Then he cocks his head slightly and stares at me in the mirror. Daring me to say something.
Speak? My heart is jammed tight in my throat, then expands and cuts off the tiny gasps of air I can’t seem to draw into my lungs when something in his gaze shifts. From hate to . . . what . . . hurt?
“Please. Let me explain.”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I have my orders.”
“So this is it. You reported in.”
“No.”
“What? Why not?”
“Leave the bag and come here,” he demands. His tone is harsh yet his order is in complete opposition with his head shake. “Fucked up as it is, I’m wanting a final taste of rotten,” his voice rumbles, his tone low and dangerous.
Sweet mother Mary. This isn’t the reunion I dreamed about. It’s sick and twisted, ripe with hate and an intense, all-consuming tension that’s impossible to cut through. He’s changed. Before me is a newer, angrier, meaner version of the nonchalant playboy I fell in love with. A more muscular, more powerful, impossibly hotter Jaxson than before. A dangerous man who’d hurt me as quick as he’d fuck me. Impossible, this dream I want. Unless we’re talking wet dreams, the kind women with high hopes and distorted dreams have.
But this is my one-more-chance. Of feeling him close to me. Of reliving what we had together—or at least trying to. Of hope, that maybe, just maybe, he’ll forgive me.
I kick a crumb with my toe. Should I stay or should I go? Like the song says. But by go, I mean get the hell out of Paris. Fast, before things really start to spiral out of control. But I can’t walk away from him. From whatever this moment is. I want it. I want him. I’ve never stopped wanting him. Yep, no ifs, ands, or buts, I’m pretty much fucked.
What the hell. One final taste. Maybe it’ll sink in. Maybe he’ll be ready to talk. Maybe it won’t have to beau revoir—France’s fucked up way of saying good-bye that doesn’t literally mean good-bye forever—which is exactly the kind of send-off I’ll be giving him if this doesn’t resolve things.
With a false sense of confidence, I cross the short distance separating us, feeling a bit more confident as I notice the slight stiffening in his spine.Beware the traitorous Kylie, his body language says.
The thought pisses me off. I might be physically prepared to fight him—this could be a ploy on his part, after all. But emotionally, I’m on the base of a wildly steep cliff I mean to conquer. No time to be a meek mouse. No damn buttercup suck-up, either.
Tigress it is.
I stop behind him then, with a full forward thrust of my hips, push my groin into his ass, pinning his lower body against the mirror. “Sweet’s overrated, anyway,” I say, running my hands up both his arms as I rub my body fully up against him.
His eyes narrow at me in the mirror and I smile. He makes a noise deep in his throat. He turns on a dime, and I catch my breath as he grabs me by the waist and spins us both around so my back is to the mirror and his big, beautiful body is facing me. “You called. I came,” I say, my tone full of faux confidence.
“Yeah. A day late and a dollar short.”
I gasp, his words piercing me to the core, but he’s far from done with me. I try to step away, out of reach and out of sight and in desperate need to lick the wound the truth of his accusation has slashed open, but he grabs hold of my boho dress by the V-shaped neckline, then with a horrifying downward tug, rips the material apart, sending tiny buttons scattering around like victims of a sinking ship. The dress falls open but that’s not enough for him. He works the material over my shoulders and free of my arms until it falls in a pile of way-to-go-boho mess at my feet.
I’m an aching, quacking disaster in the making. My legs shake and are in sync with my quivering knees and the offbeat rhythm of my heart. I’m feeling everything; hurt, anger, regret, passion . . . hope. Slightly afraid with a whole lotta lust.
Forgive me. Forgive me.
He places his hands high on my chest, just below my throat and at the top of my breasts. I come up on my toes, earning a slight caress of my girls before he moves his hands lower. I let out a silent moan when he sinks his thumbs up inside my lovely new purple bra, the one—thank God—with a sheer lace front that hides nothing, and strokes my nipples.
“I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. You’re going to take everything I give you without discussion. I say drop to your knees, you get on your goddamn knees. Spread your legs and play with yourself on the bed, you hop to it. Wrap your breasts around my cock and milk me, you do as I tell you. Understand?”
I place my hands over my bosom and push his thumbs into my nipples. “Got it. No talk, all play. So shut up and fuck me already. Or is this a new form of foreplay . . .”
He pinches a nipple hard and I stiffen in surprise.
“Harder.” I flash my eyes at him, daring him.
His lips tighten and then his hands are gone, leaving one lucky nipple on fire. I’m tempted to give the second a naughty pinch. Except my attention is riveted on him as he kicks off his shoes, removes his pants, retrieves a foil packet from the wallet in his back pocket, then without the slightest bit of embarrassment, works his boxer briefs over his hips. Exposing his massive erection. His tip is moist. Jesus. No hiding it. Despite him hating my guts, I feel a glimmer of hope. He still wants me.
I lick my lips, catching his undivided attention before lacing my thumbs into the straps across my fancy new G-string and, wiggling my hips, slide the thin minuscule bit of lace over my hips and down my thighs.
He fists his erection and I bite my lip, refraining from telling him, “Let me. Let me take you in my mouth. Let me take care of you.” I give my pulse time to slow before asking, “Are you going to take off your shirt?”
“No.”
