“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.