Rogue (Real #4)(44)

“Oh?”

“Any shoes around or . . . lamps . . . could find themselves flying . . . crashing . . . and dying.”

“Is that right?” he asks, a mocking light in his eyes.

“So right. I’m a slow boil but when I boil, I BOIL!”

As I force myself to slip into my clothes, he’s still in the nude, and before I can zip up my dress, he’s cornered me against a mirrored wall, my breasts squished against him.

My nerves crackle at the brush of his lips. I set my hand on his chest to push away again, but my fingers just seem to lie there instead, absorbing him, spreading over thick, hard, delicious muscled pec.

“I have to go,” I whisper, rubbing his nipple ring with my thumb.

Mischief glitters all across his eyes as he brushes his mouth against mine. “You know where the door is.”

He licks into the seam of my lips. “I really, really have to go.” I loop my arms around his neck, intending a quick kiss, but he seems to have a different, slower, headier kiss in mind.

He makes it happen.

His hand eases into my wet hair and cups me by the scalp as he angles his head and kisses me, deeply, our mouths tasting of toothpaste and heat, my body arching to get closer to him while he seems to stand there, hot and hard, supporting us both as I melt under his mouth.

“Greyson . . .” I protest.

He runs his fingers through my hair and takes a kiss from another angle. “Nobody’s stopping you, Melanie.”

I turn my head to get more access into his mouth too, rubbing my tongue against his, my nipples to his chest. “God, you’re danger, Grey.”

“You have no idea, princess.” He tongues me hard and unapologetically. More kissing, deep and slow, the kind of kiss that makes me hear our breathing, our slow, slick sounds.

“I think you do plan to tie me up and make me pick out safe words,” I breathe in between lazy, hungry sucks of his tongue.

“Just pick one.”

A soft moan leaves me when his lips trail my throat as I think of my word. “Dickhead.”

His chuckle vibrates right between my legs, where my clit feels extra sensitive this morning, and suddenly very, very achy. “That filthy f*cking mouth just begging to be quieted,” he rasps. “But FYI, the word I want to hear the next time that I’m in you is Greyson. That’s the word I want to hear when I’m behind you . . .”

“We won’t . . . we won’t be doing that.” I can almost hear the flutters in my stomach in my voice as I try to escape.

He trails his hands up the small of my back, locking me to him. “Soon, we will,” he softly promises me.

“We won’t. I don’t trust you!”

He seizes my chin and looks me directly in the eye, speaking with deliberate slowness, as if I’m an idiot. “You can trust . . . that I won’t let any other * . . . into your sweet, tight little *—you sure as f*ck can trust that.”

I groan. “Your mouth is filthier than mine. Why are you even after me?”

“The same reason you go out there, bang the brains off some dude, get hurt and keep looking for what you want. There are three things I’m not big on. Trust. Being ordered the f*ck around—I get enough of that from my father. And denying myself what I want.”

“And you want me?”

I fall still under the hot feel of his lips suddenly pressing into my throat, trailing up to my ear, where he whispers, a warning, “That’s an understatement, but yes. I want you.” He steps back. “I want this in a way I have no business wanting, Melanie. Just don’t confuse me with your prince charming.”

The words, they hit me. Straight and true.

They hit me so hard, they knock the wind out of me.

“If I did, you just ruined it,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Bye, Greyson.”

I hate the silence that follows me out of there.





FIFTEEN




* * *





WHERE I’M HEADED


Greyson


“Next thing you know, you’ll be going to f*cking church on Sunday to sing choir,” Derek cackles as he drives me over to Melanie’s parents’ house.

Why is he driving me to her parents’ house, you wonder?

Because it looks like I’m doing brunch today.

“Shut the f*ck up,” I growl.

Derek chuckles and shakes his head, and I stare morosely out the window.

“Aaaaahhhhhh, god, I can’t believe this,” I tell myself as I rub my face and look down at my clean clothes. I took the risk of not wearing any weapons and I feel beyond naked—I feel stupid. Like some prom boy about to pick up his date.

There are some things that you just know are right or wrong. And I know that sitting at a Sunday brunch with a woman’s parents is not where I belong.

My crewneck itches. I angrily tug it as I walk up to their townhome. I know exactly where their home is because I’ve hacked Melanie’s every system, read every page, receipt, and article with her name on it. I could be a plague on legs approaching the two-story home, that’s how out of place I feel as I rap my knuckles on the door. There are flower beds nearby. It smells . . . of freshly mowed lawn. I almost remember helping my mother mow our lawn thirteen years ago. In a home like this. It’s been thirteen years since I stepped through doors like these, in a neighborhood like this. I don’t f*cking belong here anymore.