—R
It’s written in a slanted, masculine scrawl that somehow suits him. And it makes my stomach clench against a little pinch of hurt. I caution myself not to make too much of what I saw, repeating the mantra, It was contrived, it was contrived, it was contrived. But for some reason, that doesn’t ease the vaguely nauseous feeling swimming in my gut.
The assistant smiles politely and takes off without another word. I fold the note and stick it in my pocket, turning back toward my daily cleanup duties. And I wait.
Time ticks slowly on. Absently, I listen to the sounds of everyone else leaving for the day as I continue cleaning, anything to keep my hands busy. I glance up at the clock, then out into the darkened hallway. I don’t know how much longer I should wait, or if maybe he forgot about me.
Another pang registers in my chest at the thought.
I turn back to my furious scrubbing and I block out sound and thought and feeling as much as I can as I concentrate. That’s why I don’t hear Rogan until the snap of the door shutting startles me.
I turn around to find him approaching me much as I imagine a starving lion might approach his prey—quickly, savagely and with purpose.
One moment he’s striding across the room, the next he’s pushing me up against the counter, driving his hands into my hair. He kisses me with all the abandon of a wild animal. I’m elated and skeptical and overwhelmed by his passion.
I drag my mouth away from his. “Rogan, wait. Please.” I struggle to catch my breath as dark green eyes devour my face.
“I thought thinking about you would help with my scenes. And it did. Right up until I kissed her. She wasn’t you. No one else is you.”
And just like that, all my insecurities, all my pain, all my niggling fears are washed away in the tide of his desire. This is for me. All that was for me, too. Whether or not I can see why, Rogan wants me.
“I thought . . . It looked like . . .” I stammer, feeling silly now.
Rogan cups my face. “When are you going to realize that you’re the one I want, Katie? The only one I want.”
“But . . . it just doesn’t make any sense,” I argue.
“It does to me,” he says, bending his head toward mine, spreading kisses over my face to punctuate his sentences. “The shy way you look away from me when I watch you. The sexy way you lick your lips when you concentrate. The delicious way you pant when you’re gettin’ ready to come.” Rogan’s hands slip around the tops of my thighs and lift until I’m sitting on the counter. My skirt is hiked up and Rogan is standing between my knees. “Your midnight eyes, your lush tits, your perfect ass. You’re all I can think about most days. And now that I’ve been inside you . . . God!” Rogan spreads my legs farther and pulls me toward him until we are pressed intimately together. He grinds against me and I grip the counter, leaning back and holding on. “My body craves you.”