Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #2)(64)

“Told you I was keeping up better than you thought,” Rogan tells Johns as he guzzles from a liter of vitamin water.

“Like I’d take your word for it, pup,” Johns replies, slapping Rogan’s shoulder. He calls him that a lot—pup. Seems like their affection for each other runs deep, far beyond this man’s gruff exterior.

“Get some rest. I’ll pick you up at eight.” Before he disappears around the corner, the brusque old man calls back to Rogan, nodding to me, “And explain to her what needs to happen on fight day. And what doesn’t need to happen on fight day.”

With a wry grin, Rogan salutes his trainer and then turns to me, slinging his still-dry towel over my head to collar me and pull me toward him for a kiss. “I don’t want to touch you and get you all sweaty,” he says, keeping every body part except his lips at bay.

“I’ve been watching this sweaty body for the last four hours,” I tell him, running my hands down his granite stomach and leaning into his chest. “I want it touching me.”

The black of his pupils swells within the green forest of his eyes and I barely hear him breathe, “Damn you, woman.”

Looking left and right to make sure no one has inadvertently stumbled into the private gym that his trainer rented, I give a startled yip when Rogan suddenly bends and throws me over his shoulder, trotting off toward . . . somewhere.

The next thing I see from my perch atop his shoulder, facing the floor, is the carpet turn to tile. When Rogan puts me down, we are in the bathroom. That’s the last thought that registers before his hands are all over me, his lips are all over me, and I find out firsthand what happens when you get a fighter all worked up.

It’s amazing.

? ? ?

An hour and a half later, we are in the back of the limo, retracing the streets to our hotel. I’m lying, boneless, against Rogan’s side, my head on his shoulder and his arm draped loosely around me. He seems distracted. Happy and satisfied, but still distracted.

“What did Johns mean about what to expect on fight day?”

I hear Rogan’s huff of laughter rumble through his chest and vibrate into my ear. “He has always insisted that a very specific ritual should be observed on fight day and he never deviates from it. Ever.”

“And just what does this ritual entail?” I ask, picturing everything from the blood of a live chicken to wearing a jockstrap that hasn’t been washed since 2009.

“Sleeping until seven. A big breakfast at eight. Stretching at ten, followed by a massage and lunch. He has pretty much the whole day planned out. What he forbids, no questions asked, is sex. Thinks it makes a fighter weak, distracted.”

Bummer.

“And what do you think?”

I feel his lips brush the top of my head. “I think my mind is always on you, so I’m not sure abstaining will make any difference.”

Now I feel guilty. Deliriously happy, of course, but also guilty. “Well, this is important. Maybe we shouldn’t mess with what works.”

“Well, this isn’t a title fight, so . . .”

“But still. If you lost because of me . . .” I sit up and look at Rogan. His eyes are lazy yet hooded. I want to ask what’s going on behind them, but I don’t dare. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. And maybe I don’t really want to know.

“I won’t lose,” he assures me with a quiet confidence. He kisses my forehead and the tip of my nose. “I’ll win for you. Because you’ll be there watching me.”

“That’s something I wanted to ask you about,” I begin, toying with the neckline of his V-neck tee. “Will I have to sit in a certain place? I mean, I’d rather not . . . I don’t want people to . . .”

Sexy lips quirk into a knowing grin as Rogan hooks a finger under my chin to raise my eyes to his. “Why do you think I wanted you to bring the umbrella?”

I frown. “I don’t know. Why did you?”

He brings his smiling mouth to mine and teases my lips with a short kiss. “You’ll see. But don’t worry about anything. I’ve got it all taken care of.” When his tongue flicks out to trace my bottom lip, I find it hard to worry about much of anything. “Until then, we’ve got a lot of hours before fight day. I hope you don’t have plans.”

I think to myself, while I can still think at all, that I don’t have any plans other than to be devoured by this gorgeous man. There are no better plans than those.



Sunday, Fight Day

As I’m chauffeured from the hotel to the arena, limo-style, I reflect back on the day. When Rogan said he had it all taken care of, he wasn’t kidding. Maybe it was because he knew I was nervous to be back. Maybe it was because he knew he would hardly see me. Or maybe it was just because he’s thoughtful and kind and wonderful. I don’t know, but he had the entire day planned out, right down to the minute.

We didn’t leave our room at all yesterday. I lost count of how many times we made love. We both fell into an exhausted sleep sometime in the wee hours, but when I woke this morning, he was gone.

Room service was delivered to my room, promptly at eight. It consisted of eggs, bacon, hash browns and the most delicious pancakes in the history of the world. But the best part was what rested beside the tiny, swan-shaped cake of butter—The Walking Dead: Season One and a one-word note that read Enjoy.