Rogue (Real #4)(9)
“Why?” I counter.
“Why not?”
“You don’t even know my last name,” I accuse.
“I know the length of your legs.” He reaches out to touch a strand of my hair with his long fingers, his eyes never once leaving mine. “I know that you’re ticklish behind your knees. That you like to pant in my ear.” He leans back against the wall and just watches me. “I know that I’d like to kiss you again. That knowing you were in that bed, I couldn’t get on the damn elevator. I wanted to see these . . .” He leans over and rubs my eyes with the pads of his thumbs. “Again. So the risk analyst in me says no. This is a bad idea. But you look like a determined woman, and my guess is you’ll be going to that bar, continuously, picking up men, until you find what it is you were looking for. And my risk analyst says that’s far worse. Who will these men be? Who will you be picking up, Melanie?”
I feel embarrassed all over again, but I don’t want him to know, so I shrug.
“Well, it may surprise you to know that I’m not okay with that. It may surprise you to know that if any man will be doing any number of things to that body of yours, it will be me.”
The look. Oh god, the look. “So.” A probing question comes into his eyes. “Am I taking you home?”
God. I’m defenseless against that look. That look I’ve wanted, I’ve memorized, I don’t want him to break through my walls and make me cry, but I’m a little drunk and my walls are made of paper today. I bluff in self-defense.
“So chivalrous of you to come back. You’ll make my eyes water.”
“That’s right. And when you orgasm your hardest, you shed a couple of tears too.”
My cheeks flare bright red as I remember, and I roll my eyes at him. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. That was the highlight of my night.”
I strap on my shoes, beet red, and he pulls off his shirt. “This one’s dry. Put this on.”
I slip into his shirt and his scent and warmth engulf me as I watch him ease into his damp turtleneck, and it’s with complete disbelief that I walk out of the room with him, with this beautiful god, feeling his gloved hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the elevator, his eyes studying my profile with an odd smile.
“Not exactly what you imagined when you woke up this morning, was I?”
My body is so well f*cked I can barely walk, and my eyes, my eyes hurt, I can’t tell him every day of my life I’ve tried to imagine him. “Not exactly what I imagined,” I say. “Today was nothing like I imagined.”
He tips my head and kisses me. Not with lust. Just a kiss.
An after-sex kiss that reaches to the deepest levels in me, pulls open my nerve endings and makes me feel exposed, and wanted, and raw, and I have to fight not to cry for real like you do when you made that last wish on your very last penny and it came true.
Men have mocked me, ruined me, used me, abused me. I like to get in verbal fights. I like to cuss, spit, scream, and be myself. Nobody has ever made me want to cry while just talking to me. Nobody has ever made me want to cry, but one lone memory and now this man, who’s giving me the look, seems to manage it.
“What’s your last name?” I whisper.
“King.” He grins a panty-melting grin. “No majesty jokes, please.”
I laugh, and then I stretch out my hand as if we’ve barely met. “Meyers.”
He takes my hand in his, his grip warm, firm, and curling my toes all over again. He lets go and pulls out his phone, typing a password and handing it to me, watching me with eyes that seem the most intelligent eyes I’ve ever seen. “Meyers, type your phone number down for me?”
I add it under Hottest Piece of Ass I’ve Ever Had.
The barest hint of a smile pulls at the corners of his lips, enough to give me flutters. “Nice.”
He writes something on his keypad and my phone vibrates with a new text.
And accurate.
I smile, and he looks at me, wearing that super-sexy almost smile.
And suddenly I cannot explain—and am not sure have ever felt—the kind of happiness I feel right now.
He drives me home in my own car, and when we reach my building, he rides the elevator up with me, walks me to my door, and brushes a kiss on my forehead as he rubs the pad of his thumbs over the corners of my eyes and whispers, “I’ll be in touch soon.”
When I slide my shaking, deliciously f*cked body into my bed with about an hour to go to dawn, I can’t sleep. I play with names for his profile on my phone. Sex fiend. Sex machine. Sex god. Playboy god. I settle on Greyson and whisper, “Greyson,” the name rolling off my tongue like velvet.
I squeeze my eyes shut and feel like convulsing all over my bed. I text Brooke, Pandora, and Kyle, in a group.
Me: I just met someone. Guys I just met SOMEONE. Not a douche! He actually brought me home and all the way up to my door. AAAAA!!! Fuck you, guys, if anyone ruins my day tomorrow, I’m having your heads!
Kyle: You’ll be too busy giving head to your new man to think about mine.
Pandora: Dude. Are you on ecstasy?
Brooke: WHAT? Tell me everything!!!
THREE
* * *
HER
Greyson