“I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” Rogan says, making Mona giggle delightedly.
“God, you two are too cute.” And then she’s gone, her excited squeal trailing behind her.
Rogan waits for a few seconds and then walks to the door. He closes and leans against it. His eyes meet mine and electricity lights up my stomach. I know perfectly well that if we were any number of other places, he’d start undressing me. And I’d let him.
He holds my gaze as he walks his sexy walk back toward me, not stopping until his hands are gripping the counter on either side of me and his face is about two inches from mine.
“What are you thinking?” he asks in his low, velvety bedroom voice.
I can’t think past honesty. “That you make my stomach feel like the fourth of July.”
He grins and laughs, an evil, satisfied laugh. Moisture rushes into my panties. God, this man!
“What are you thinking?”
“That I didn’t realize how hard this is gonna be,” he admits.
“How hard what’s going to be?” I play dumb, but I know exactly what he means. I just want to hear him say it.
“Seeing you, being so close to you yet not being able to touch you.” As he speaks, he leans in to rub his cheek against mine, his lips brushing my ear and causing chills to spread down my arm.
I clear my throat and swallow so that I can speak through the desert sand that has filled my mouth. “Well, you’ll just have to make do, won’t you?”
“Mmmm,” he responds noncommittally as he presses his lips to the space beneath my ear and then drags them down the side of my throat to nip my collarbone with his blunt teeth. “Or maybe I’ll just have to think of something else.”
“Like what?” My voice is already breathless.
“Like where I can find you alone, for just a few minutes, so I can reach up under your skirt and find out if your panties are wet.”
Before I can think to reply, Rogan reaches up under the knee-length edge of my skirt and slides his hand up between my legs, cupping my damp skin through my underwear.
“Oh shit, that’s hot,” he moans just before he covers my mouth with his own.
His kiss is meant to incinerate. And it does. My limbs burn with the need to wrap themselves around him, to hold him close as he buries his body inside mine. My back arches, an unconscious admission of my inner turmoil.
All of a sudden, Rogan backs away. My eyelids flutter open reluctantly and I focus on his handsome, passion-filled face. He looks flustered.
“Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his short, sandy hair. “Just . . . damn.”
I grin. I can’t help it. This big, gorgeous man wants me. Me. The shy one. The short one. The dark one. The scarred one. In a sea of tall, thin, beautiful people, he wants me. I might never get over that. This is the land of make-believe, though. Within the walls of this studio, the unlikely happens every day. On film. So maybe, just maybe, it can happen for me, too.
Rogan reaches down to smooth my skirt. It’s such a sweet, familiar . . . intimate gesture, my heart gives a great heave of contentedness, like a sigh. “So, I guess you gathered that I’m taking you to lunch today. Do you think you’ll have time to come and watch me film?”
I want to. God, how I want to! “Probably not this morning. Mornings are always busier because everyone has to be in makeup. But maybe this afternoon. If there aren’t a lot of touch-ups and specialties . . .”
He grins, that sexy, lopsided one I love. “Then I’ll look for you.”
“Are you sure you won’t be too . . . distracted?” I ask, running my finger along the placket of my shirt and looking up at him from beneath my lashes. I feel gratified when I hear the air hiss through his gritted teeth. It’s been a long time since I felt the power of my sexuality, my femininity. It’s hard to feel feminine and beautiful and powerful when you’re hiding such ugliness. But somehow, Rogan makes me feel beautiful. Almost like my scars didn’t happen. Almost.
“You’re evil,” he says softly.
I laugh as I straighten, tipping my head toward the makeup chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Rogan. If I don’t hurry up and do you, I’ll be running late all day.”
I hear a low growl coming from behind me as Rogan takes his seat. “You’re really gonna have to watch what you say.”
And so begins the light, teasing, flirtatious tone of the day. And I’ve never been happier.
TWENTY-FOUR
Rogan
It isn’t exactly easy to concentrate, but considering the kinds of scenes I’m taping for the next few days, thinking of Katie keeps me in the right frame of mind for them. I only wish that it was her lips I was kissing, her body I was smashing up against mine.
“Cut!” Tony yells, and I step away from Rayelle. Her eyes are wide and glazed.
“Shit! I’m going to need my vibrator since you won’t rehearse with me,” she says with a pretty yet annoying pout.
To this, I say nothing. Only smile.
“Lunch, you bunch of hacks,” Tony teases as he stretches and makes his way over to me. He claps me on the shoulder. “Good job today, Rogan. I take it you got to run lines over the weekend.”
“I did. It helped.”
Tony grins as he glances between Rayelle and me. “I can see that.”
I don’t disabuse him of the notion that I can plainly see he’s getting. The less I say, the less attention will be drawn to Katie, which is how I know she wants it. Me personally, I don’t give a damn who knows, but . . . this isn’t just about me.
“Later,” I say briefly before I make my exit to go find Katie.
When I reach her little room, she’s wiping off the counter, humming to herself again, hips swaying inside her chaste skirt. I love it when she does that. It’s a soft, soothing sound and, for some reason, I get the impression she only does it when she’s happy. And I hope she’s happy. I sure as hell am.
“Wha’cha hummin’?” I ask, leaning against the doorjamb to watch her. This time, I can’t identify the tune.
She whirls around guiltily at the sound of my voice. “Uhhh . . .” Her cheeks pinken, which intrigues me. Why wouldn’t she want me to know what song is on her mind? “Just a tune that’s stuck in my head,” she hedges.
I just grunt my acceptance, willing to let her off the hook. This time.
She tosses her wipe in the trash and takes her purse out of the drawer she keeps it in. As she walks toward me, I have to ask, “Was it called ‘I Wanna Get Naked with Rogan’?”
She grins, which I’ve seen her do more of in the last two days than I have in the last four weeks. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”
I stuff my hands in the pockets of my black “set” slacks, resisting the urge to wind my arms around her tiny waist and pull her to me. “Maybe I’ll sing it for you tonight.” We haven’t made plans, but I figure this is a good way to test the waters without pressing her.
“You sing?” she asks, scooting past me out into the hall.
“For you, I’d sing like a mockingbird.”
She blushes prettily again, something I could get used to.
I keep my hands in my pockets the whole way to the diner so that I don’t touch her. It seems so natural to want to be in contact with her that I don’t trust myself not to reach for her by accident. It’s like my hands gravitate toward her, my palms itch for her, my fingers burn for her. They have a memory of their own, one that can’t forget the way she responds to me, the way her body comes alive for me.
I focus more closely on what she’s saying when I feel my dick stir in my pants. Shit! Why can’t we be going somewhere private? Or some place where she doesn’t care who sees? Like back in New York, where everyone is anonymous.