Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #2)(62)

His eyes flicker to mine and dart away, flicker to mine and dart away.

I swallow hard, not knowing what to make of this association. It’s plain who the beast is in our situation, but I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. I just want our last time together to be perfect, not . . . something less.

I could kick myself for being so nosey.

“Is . . . is this what you think of me?” I try to sound unconcerned, I try to be unconcerned.

Too late. My heart is already breaking.

He looks stricken. “No! God, no! I just thought it was appropriate because we’ve both struggled with our scars. We’ve both felt like the beast. Still do, sometimes. But that doesn’t mean that other people see us that way or that we can’t fall in love or be loved in return because of it. I guess this movie was just, like, proof of that or something.” He shrugs to add an air of nonchalance to his statement. Meanwhile, I’m dumbstruck, my brain circling his reference to love like bees circling a honeycomb.

I don’t know what to say, how to respond. I want to ask questions, but then again I’m afraid that the answers won’t be anywhere near the ones that are making my pulse race and my heart soar right now. Instead, I go with, “Let’s watch this one,” and I hand him Beastly.

One side of Rogan’s mouth pulls up, putting his single dimple on display. “Seriously?” His eyes are a light, happy green, a few shades darker than grass.

“Seriously,” I confirm, forcing the words past the lump of emotion clogging my throat.

I watch as Rogan walks to the front of the cabin and fiddles with some electronics in a well-concealed cabinet and then comes back to sit next to me. A flat screen descends from the ceiling just as the movie begins to play.

We recline our chairs and Rogan leans toward me. I rest my head on his shoulder and we watch Beastly together.

He plays with my fingers the whole time, stopping occasionally to kiss my palm or my wrist, but then he resumes, always touching me. It’s like he realizes how limited our time is and he wants the contact just as much as I do.

So we touch and glance and kiss and enjoy, all in an unspoken agreement to make the most out of what’s left of the “us” that was born in Enchantment and will soon die in New York City. There’s nowhere for it to go. Rogan’s life is in Texas or New York or . . . wherever his fights or his acting gigs might be. And mine is in a tiny town called Enchantment. Our paths crossed for a few magical weeks, but now our trajectories go in opposite directions. His out toward a world that adores him, mine inward, toward the only place I feel comfortable.

Just over two hours later, when we land, I have to fight back tears as Rogan leads me off the plane. I want to turn around and climb back on, to suspend time indefinitely. But I can’t. The end is coming whether I want it to or not.





TWENTY-EIGHT


Rogan

I had my agent put Kurt in a different room so that Katie and I would have the entire suite to ourselves. And I’m glad I did, because by the time we walk through the doors, all I can think about is getting her naked.

As soon as the bellhop sets our bags in the closet, I tip him and practically shove him out the door. When he’s gone, we are surrounded only by absolute quiet and the insatiable chemistry that fills the space between us.

I take her hand and softly invite, “Come look at the view.”

We walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows and I push open the sheer curtains. Spread out before us like a galaxy of twinkling stars is the city that never sleeps. Standing in front of me like a siren of unmatched beauty is the woman who never lets my mind sleep.

“It looks exactly the same, like time stood still.”

“I think it’s never looked more beautiful,” I tell her, burying my nose in the exposed side of her neck. She still insists on keeping that one thick wave of hair swept around to cover the other side where her scars are located. “Then again, I’ve never seen it with you standing in front of it.”

She looks up and back at me, her eyes all wide and sparkly. “You know just what to say.”

“I only speak the truth.”

“Your truth makes me . . .” She trails off in a wistful sigh.

“Makes you what?” I ask, circling her tiny waist with my hands before I run them up under her shirt to cup her breasts.

“Makes me . . .” She trails off again, this time on a breathless note, her eyes drifting closed as I rub her hard nipples between my fingers.

I release them to unbutton her top, stepping away from her only long enough to pull it from her shoulders and slip off her bra.

I knead the firm mounds as I move her forward a few inches. I lean into her, watching her nipples pucker as they near the cool glass of the window and then flatten against it.

“Can I share you with New York?” I ask, rhythmically pressing into her back so that the glass stimulates her nipples. It frees my hands to slide down her stomach.

“What do you mean?” Her voice is already raspy and shallow.

“I want to tease them with what I get to touch, what I get to taste. What they can never have.”

I ease one hand beyond the loose waistband of her jeans and into the front edge of her panties. I find her slit with my index finger and I slip inside. She’s slippery wet and hot.

“God, you’re so wet. Is this all for me?” I ask, rubbing my finger in her moisture before leisurely stroking the firm little ridge of her clit.