Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, #2)(56)

He’s saying his lines a little more stiffly than he did with me, but I cease to notice when he leans in and kisses Rayelle. God, it’s like someone stabbed me in the chest with a broadsword. I have to look away for a few seconds to collect myself and remind my heart that this is all for show. It’s fiction. Make-believe.

I drag my eyes back to the actors. They are separated now, still in character, and when Rogan’s eyes sweep out as he gestures, they stutter, flying back to meet mine before he continues on. His hesitation was barely noticeable, but it was enough to cause Tony, the director, to cut the take and reshoot it.

I see Rogan’s jaw flex, but then his eyes are on mine again, heated and a little possessive. He and Rayelle take their places again for yet another take. I watch, even though I dread what’s to come.

This time, Rogan says his lines much more smoothly, much more convincingly, but he also dives into his kiss with Rayelle much more . . . enthusiastically, too. As hard as it is to wait, I don’t leave until the take is over. I’m not surprised when Tony commends them on it. They certainly had me convinced.

I don’t wait for Rogan’s eyes to find me again before I make my exit. I’m not sure I want to see them darkened with desire. Especially after kissing someone as beautiful as Rayelle.

My feet feel heavy as I make my way back to my little place of peace in the makeup and entertainment world. I’m almost glad when a tech brings in an extra for a retouch on makeup. It’s fairly involved, what with their being blood and some torn tissue written into the scene. It takes up a nice chunk of my afternoon, keeping me from replaying Rogan’s scene over and over in my head.

It’s as I’m cleaning my station, preparing to leave for the day, that one of the set assistants gives a swift knock on the door frame and moves inside just long enough to hand me a folded note. “Mr. Rogan asked me to bring this to you.”

The note is short, simple and to the point.


Don’t leave yet. Wait for me.

—R

It’s written in a slanted, masculine scrawl that somehow suits him. And it makes my stomach clench against a little pinch of hurt. I caution myself not to make too much of what I saw, repeating the mantra, It was contrived, it was contrived, it was contrived. But for some reason, that doesn’t ease the vaguely nauseous feeling swimming in my gut.

The assistant smiles politely and takes off without another word. I fold the note and stick it in my pocket, turning back toward my daily cleanup duties. And I wait.

Time ticks slowly on. Absently, I listen to the sounds of everyone else leaving for the day as I continue cleaning, anything to keep my hands busy. I glance up at the clock, then out into the darkened hallway. I don’t know how much longer I should wait, or if maybe he forgot about me.

Another pang registers in my chest at the thought.

I turn back to my furious scrubbing and I block out sound and thought and feeling as much as I can as I concentrate. That’s why I don’t hear Rogan until the snap of the door shutting startles me.

I turn around to find him approaching me much as I imagine a starving lion might approach his prey—quickly, savagely and with purpose.

One moment he’s striding across the room, the next he’s pushing me up against the counter, driving his hands into my hair. He kisses me with all the abandon of a wild animal. I’m elated and skeptical and overwhelmed by his passion.

I drag my mouth away from his. “Rogan, wait. Please.” I struggle to catch my breath as dark green eyes devour my face.

“I thought thinking about you would help with my scenes. And it did. Right up until I kissed her. She wasn’t you. No one else is you.”

And just like that, all my insecurities, all my pain, all my niggling fears are washed away in the tide of his desire. This is for me. All that was for me, too. Whether or not I can see why, Rogan wants me.

“I thought . . . It looked like . . .” I stammer, feeling silly now.

Rogan cups my face. “When are you going to realize that you’re the one I want, Katie? The only one I want.”

“But . . . it just doesn’t make any sense,” I argue.

“It does to me,” he says, bending his head toward mine, spreading kisses over my face to punctuate his sentences. “The shy way you look away from me when I watch you. The sexy way you lick your lips when you concentrate. The delicious way you pant when you’re gettin’ ready to come.” Rogan’s hands slip around the tops of my thighs and lift until I’m sitting on the counter. My skirt is hiked up and Rogan is standing between my knees. “Your midnight eyes, your lush tits, your perfect ass. You’re all I can think about most days. And now that I’ve been inside you . . . God!” Rogan spreads my legs farther and pulls me toward him until we are pressed intimately together. He grinds against me and I grip the counter, leaning back and holding on. “My body craves you.”

He dives into my mouth like it’s an oasis in a barren land. His tongue swirls around mine in a ravenous rhythm that’s like a drug. And I’m drugged. Out of my mind under his influence. “My hands feel you. Even when you’re not around.” As if to prove his point, Rogan backs away just enough to slide his hands under my skirt and up the outsides of my thighs. He runs his fingers under the edge of my panties, tracing the elastic to the damp material between my legs. Frantic and not thinking, I reach for his zipper. I need to feel his hardness. I need to feel that he wants me. I need to have it in my hands, a tangible thing. When I wind my fingers around it, it jumps against my palm. “And my cock . . . it throbs to be inside you,” he says, moving his fingertips into my crease. He moans loudly as he spreads moisture over my clit and gently massages it.