Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #2)(63)

“All for you,” she breathes, letting her head fall back against my chest.

With my other hand, I unbutton and unzip her pants and push them down her legs along with her panties. She steps out of them and leaves her thighs spread for me.

My cock is straining against my own jeans. I unfasten them to free it, guiding the tip to the crack of her lush ass as I press her chest tighter against the glass.

“Aren’t you supposed to start your period soon?” I ask, feeling a drop of precome ooze out to coat the smooth skin of her cheek. I grind my teeth together, my erection nearly painful as I think of all sorts of wicked things I’d like to do to this girl.

“Yes,” she says, swiveling her hips against me as she reaches back and grips my thighs, digging in with her fingers as my pace on her clit increases. “Why?”

“Would it be safe to have sex without a condom this close to it? I want to feel you with nothing between us. Just this once.”

I run my finger down to her entrance, teasing her by popping it in and out in shallow thrusts as my palm massages the rest of her sex. She grunts and my cock jumps. God, she’s amazing. Hungry. Like me.

“Y-you don’t have to worry,” she explains. “I went after work the night you had to shoot late and got an IUD.”

My balls contract in anticipation. “Are you serious?”

She nods, pressing her cheek to the window, her eyes still closed. “I was going to tell you, but I . . . I . . .”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. There will be plenty of time for talk later. Now, all I want to do is shoot come so far up into her that she can taste it in the back of her throat. “What do you think the people down on the street would think of this * if they could see it?” I bring my hand around to her hip and push her pelvis up against the window, too. “Every one of those bastards would kill to be me, just to have this beautiful body underneath them one time.”

I slip my hand between her legs from behind, finding her slick core and thrusting two fingers as deep as they’ll go. She rises up on her tiptoes and her mouth rounds out into a silent O.

“Just thinking about someone seeing us, someone watching me put my fingers in you, put my cock in you, watching your come drip off my balls is just . . .”

It’s all too much—the thoughts, the words, the anticipation. The urgency of being inside her while I still can.

I spin Katie toward me, covering her mouth with mine as I lift her by her legs and press her back to the glass. I enter her in one smooth motion, stopping when I’m buried to the hilt in her tight little body and her gasp in my ear is the only sound I can hear.

“Fuuuc . . .” I groan, forcing myself to concentrate so that I won’t come. “Holy shit, Katie!”

I pull out, leaning away just enough to tongue a nipple into my mouth and suck hard. When I’ve regained control, I slam up into her again, going even deeper. Katie loses it. I feel the tremble of her muscles right before they contract, squeezing me until it almost hurts it feels so good. Her sweetness pours over the head of my cock and down to my balls, and it’s more than I can take. I’m done. Finished. Spewing into her in record time.

Finding her mouth again, I drive my body into hers over and over and over again until I can’t tell whose come is whose. And I don’t give a shit either. The only thing that matters right now is the woman in my arms and how I don’t want to be anywhere but inside her.

And that I love her. Damn it, I love her.

Shit.





TWENTY-NINE


Katie



Friday

I don’t know what I expected that we’d do two days before the fight, but Rogan has been much busier than I anticipated. Evidently, because he hasn’t been training like he should, he has to go through a series of challenges to prove to his trainer, Johns, that he won’t go into the ring and get himself killed. Johns says that his acting, or “playing” as he calls it, just makes him weak. And according to him, Rogan needs to be at his best for this particular opponent.

“This ain’t some * from outta nowhere, some random jackhole who fights like a girl. This kid’s got something. I wanna see you eatin’ him for breakfast, not the other way around,” the crusty, graying fifty-some-year-old explains in his smoker’s growl.

I listen to Johns taunt Rogan with barbs as he pushes him through the most grueling workout I’ve ever seen. Not once does Rogan falter. Even as he grunts with strain, even as he grimaces in pain, he doesn’t slack off. In fact, Johns seems to have a way of driving him to work even harder, so maybe this is just their dynamic.

From my perspective (once I got used to Johns’s way of needling Rogan) it has been fascinating. Not just their relationship and the whole “gym” scene, but Rogan himself. Watching his muscles flex beneath his shimmering skin, seeing him press beyond the point of most human endurance, listening to his breath heave with his exertion—good Lord! My knees are weak and my panties are a wet mess.

This man is delicious in any setting, whether dressed in jeans and a tee with his cute grin and wicked wink, or dressed in a pair of shorts and dripping with sweat. He takes my breath away.

This makes me respect his physical conditioning and fighterly prowess, too. Rogan is a deadly machine. It seems he’s perfect. Top to bottom, head to toe, inside and out.