Wildfire (Hidden Legacy #3)(36)

“Rogan . . .”

“Yes.”

He kissed my neck again. I could barely talk.

“I’m covered in blood.”

He stopped and spun me around. “Are you hurting?”

“No. I’m just dirty.”

He looked down at the dried blood on my stomach. “I can fix that.”

He took my hand and we crossed the floor to the glass screen. A shower waited, three walls of tile bristling with faucets. He turned the knobs, and crisscrossing jets of water erupted from the walls. Steam rose. I slipped my underwear off and walked into the wall of water. It felt like heaven. Instantly I was soaked. The water dragged my hair down, plastering it against my chest and back. It ran dark, then almost immediately clear. I scrubbed my face, banishing the last traces of makeup, and turned around.

He stood in front of the shower, watching me, as if mesmerized.

I stepped through the water toward him, letting the jets spray my breasts and my stomach. Water ran down between my legs, wetting the curls of hair where they met. I was already wet inside.

Rogan swore.

“What?”

“You’re so beautiful.”

He pulled off his shirt and dropped it. He was big and golden, his body all hard muscle, honed to lethal efficiency. His broad shoulders and powerful chest slimmed down to a flat, hard stomach. I wanted to run my fingers across the hard ridges of his abs. His pants followed the shirt, revealing muscular legs. He was erect and ready, the full length of him massive and straining. He stood naked in front of me, towering, all brutal power and strength. His eyes were full of lust.

I opened my arms.

He came through the water for me. We collided. Magic whipped around me, swirling on my skin, a hot velvet pressure that flowed like liquid over my neck, my breasts, into the creases of my butt, gliding between my legs . . . He kissed me, hard and possessive, his arms around me. Our tongues tangled and I tasted him again. It was like being drunk.

I wrapped my arms around him. The cables of muscle on his back were steel-hard under my fingers. His hands roamed my body, stoking the fire. A wet ache hummed between my legs, a heavy pressure that demanded him. I kissed him back, desperate for more, and pushed him against the wall.

He grinned at me, a male smile, not just sexy, but carnal. He was like a dream come to life. I slid my hands over his chest, over his abs, down, over the thick girth of him. He groaned. The ache between my legs was unbearable now. I needed him inside me.

I pumped, squeezing, draped myself against him, my nipples pressing against his wet chest, and slipped down. My mouth closed around him. He barely fit. I sucked. Rogan growled and hauled me upright. His hands gripped my butt and he heaved me up, onto his hips. His hand slipped between my legs, dipped into the wet heat, and stroked the sensitive bud. Pleasure shocked me. His magic spilled over and joined his fingers. It was too much. I arched my back and rode his hand.

He pushed my back against the cool tile. I felt his thick shaft press against me. He thrust all the way, right into the center of the ache, and we were one.

He thrust again and again, in an unrelenting, maddening rhythm. Climax burned through me, wiping out everything. He kept going, as he drove himself into my heat. I opened my eyes and saw him looking at me. I clung to his shoulders, kissing the strong column of his neck, his jaw, his lips. A shudder rocked him and he emptied himself. The tidal wave of his release reverberated through his magic, sending me tumbling into ecstasy again. I draped myself over him, boneless and limp. The pleasure was so intense, I almost cried.

“You’re everything to me,” he said into my ear.

I wanted to tell him that he was everything to me, that I wouldn’t let the darkness have him, that he never had to worry that I would give up and walk away. But the echoes of our shared pleasure stole the words, and so I said it the best I could.

“I love you.”



Something was beeping. I stirred and raised my head. Next to me Rogan swore, gently lifted my arm off his chest, and rolled out of bed. We had collapsed there after the shower, barely bothering to towel off, and I had dozed off on his chest, exhausted, happy, and safe, with his arm around me. Sleeping next to him was like coming home.

I blinked until my vision was no longer blurry. Rogan fished his phone out of the pile of his clothes by the shower and answered it.

“Slow down.” He moved back to the bed and held the phone out a couple of inches from his ear.

Rynda’s high-pitched voice emanated from the phone, punctuated by a child wailing. “. . . can’t calm him down. Please. Please. I need your help. Please, Connor.”

I groaned and collapsed back on the bed.

“I’m busy,” Rogan said.

“If you just talk to him, he’s only four, please . . .”

Rogan looked like he wanted to throw his phone against the wall. “I’ll be right there.”

I slapped a pillow on my face.

The pillow disappeared and he leaned over me. “Wait for me.”

“Let me guess, it’s another crisis only you can solve?”

“Kyle is panicking. I put her and the kids in the building north of us. It will take me thirty seconds to walk over.”

“We just had sex, and now you’re taking off to see your ex-fiancée.”

“I’ll be back. We’re sleeping in the same bed tonight. I mean it.”