Rogue (3 page)

“Put the top on!” I force myself to yell through the pounding rain, suddenly as determined as he is to save my car.

“Princess, I got this!” He leaps into the front seat, turns on the car, and the top starts coming up until it . . . doesn’t.

It gets stuck.

After a squeal of protest, the fucker starts coming back down.

“ARGH, SHIT!” I hurry into the street and suddenly the drops of rain bombard me like little cannon balls, soaking me in a second. I swear I want to yell
Fuck you!
at them. My car, the one thing in my life that hasn’t been shit on, is being ruined and I want to scream.

“Are you kidding me? Get under the roof!” The guy leaps out and then pulls off his sweater in one quick jerk. He spreads the material over my head, using it to shield me from the rain while he herds me back to the small awning over the building entry.

“No! I’ll help you. My precious car!” I cry and push at his chest, trying to get him to back off, but he’s a head taller and built of steel.

“I’ve
got
your car,” he promises. He hands me his soaked turtleneck and adds, “Hold this,” before he runs back out.

He’s wearing a white crewneck undershirt, and it clings to his sculpted torso as he tries to manually override and pull the top of my car back in place.

Raindrops sluice down his bare arms, the soaked cotton of his shirt plastered down on his chest, revealing every muscle in existence.
Fuck.
He’s off-the-charts gorgeous; he just broke my Man Hotness Radar. I can’t take my eyes off every inch of his body or the way it moves.

Thunder shakes the city again when he finally latches the top of my car on and signals for me to come over. He opens my car door from the inside, and I hurry into the passenger seat and shut it behind me.

My cold, slick clothes cling against my skin while he sits behind the wheel, looking big and manly, and suddenly we’re
ensconced in the small, almost cramped interior of my car. The seats are flooded with water, and when I shift to face him a little, I hear a
squish
that makes my cheeks burn in embarrassment.

“I can’t believe this,” I whisper. “My best friend tells me I’m the only idiot with a convertible in Seattle.”

His eyes are openly amused. “I dig your car.” He reaches out to the dashboard, and the hand he runs over it is covered in an elegant lambskin glove that makes my skin prick with goose bumps. He shifts his big torso in my direction with an irresistibly devastating grin. “Everything wet gets dry; don’t worry, princess.”

I can hardly take the way he says
wet
.

Or the way a raindrop clings to his dark eyelashes. Water sluices down his tanned, corded arms. His hair is slicked back, enhancing the beautiful face he has. I have seen works of art and beautiful men, beautiful buildings and beautiful rooms, but at this moment as he looks at me, I can’t remember ever seeing anything besides him.

He’s a ten. I’ve never, ever been with a ten. And the way that he looks at me . . . I’ve seen that look before. The look that Remington Tate gives Brooke. That look. He’s giving it to me and I’m dying inside. Can I die from one look? And if one look can kill me, then what would one touch do?

“So,” he says softly, his voice textured. He waits a little before speaking again, and it surprises me that he still only looks at my face, not my wet chest, not my bare legs—he’s looking at nothing but my eyes while absently stroking the circle of my steering wheel.

“Want to go somewhere with me?” he asks, then reaches out with his free wet black glove to brush my hair back behind my ear.

What I feel is so far beyond lust, I can hardly answer him.

I tremble. “Yes,” I say, dizzied with want.

He gives me a smile that sends my pulse racing, his hand lingering on my face for a second longer, then he shifts my car into
gear and pulls us into the rainy streets. The air between us crackles in the silence.

The only audible sound outside is the rain and thunder. The inside of the car is dominated by his breathing. His breaths are deep and slow, but mine are fast and nervous.

He smells . . . like a wet forest. With a touch of leather. His eyes are on the road, but I’m only aware of him. The way his chest expands his wet T-shirt. His shadowed profile and how the city lights flicker across his face as we pass. His wet jeans clinging to his hard thighs. I think we both know we’re going to do it.

We’re going to have our hands all over each other in minutes, and the knowledge is causing havoc in my brain. I feel like some little sex gremlin in me has just emerged. I have a thing about man nipples and his man nipples are poking deliciously into his white T-shirt and his jeans are . . . god, his jeans are straining to the breaking point. He
wants
me. He wants to
do
me. This amazingly beautiful man who makes me cross-eyed with wanting.

“You always this quiet?” he asks me in a strangely thick voice, and I jerk my eyes to his face; that smile on his face really gets to me.

“I’m s-su-suppper-super c-ccold.”

He signals to a tall hotel that I know is expensive even to dine at, but he doesn’t seem to mind pulling into its driveway. “Seems the closest place where we can get dry.”

“Yes, it’s perfect,” I say, too eagerly.

I’m into perfect things, beautiful things, things that are lively and fun. My parents as a couple? Perfect. I’m usually picture perfect myself. But tonight? I slide a hand down my hair as we cross the lobby and I can’t imagine what I look like. Wet rat seems like a good bet. Why why why do I look like shit right now?

While he asks for room keys at the front desk, I examine his butt in his jeans, the fit of his clothes, and I can’t seem to quell the flutters.

As I squish my way into the elevator along with a bunch of other people, I rub my arms and try to stop my teeth from chattering. He smiles at me across a couple, and his smile lights a spark of mischief in me and I smile back.

I follow him into the room and then into the huge marble bathroom. He takes his turtleneck from my cramped hand and hangs it aside, then, without warning, he reaches one hand to his T-shirt and pulls it off with one yank that makes all his muscles ripple. “Take off your shoes,” he murmurs. I unclasp them and kick them aside.

When I straighten, my breath almost chokes me when I see his bare chest. Corded arms, every possible muscle in existence marked. There’s a thin line of hair traveling down his navel into the waistband of his jeans. Ripped abs, thick throat, and those lips, kissable and beautiful lips. God. He has a scar—a big one on the left side of his ribs—and a wave of sympathy washes over me, then I notice he’s
undressing
me.

My pulse jumps in excitement and my nipples peak. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like that?” he asks with his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes, and I start trembling as he peels off my shirt.

On impulse I reach out and touch the scar on his chest with one finger. “What happened to you?”

He unzips my skirt and as he pulls it down, he leans over and catches my earlobe between his teeth and tugs playfully. “You know curiosity killed the cat, don’t you, little kitten?” he murmurs in my ear, urging my arms up so he can pull my shirt off.

I smile drunkenly and open my mouth to answer, and he kisses me. He takes me by surprise and I grab his shoulders to brace myself, shocked by my own responsiveness to his hot, silken, wild mouth. My own hunger unleashes in a torrent. His lips push mine open, hungry. I moan and bury my hands in his wet hair so he doesn’t stop
kissing me, and I rock my hips as his tongue pushes inside. Shivers of desire race through me as he leans over me, eating me with his mouth as my head falls back and a noise of pleasure purls out of my throat.

I shudder as I beg him to please touch my nipples.

“You’re drunk,” he whispers as he looks down at me in only my underwear, his eyes wild with heat as my nipples almost poke into the air.

“Only tipsy,” I whisper, almost a moan. “Please don’t stop, I ache all over.”

With a notable clamp to his jaw, he reaches up and I feel his gloved hand sifting through my hair—then he looks at me, his eyes flashing as he seems to actually remember he’s wearing gloves.

He peels them off, one by one. “Are you certain?” he says.

A frisson runs through me when I see his hands. Strong, big, tanned.
Oh god.
Suddenly I feel those hands on my waist and he lifts me up to set me down on the marble slab, easing his body between my legs. “You certain?” he insists.

He looks intently at me as he begins tweaking my nipples, and I can almost see the rigidness of his self-control there, that if I say no, he will stop, but I nod, then he groans and pinches my nipples in the most delicious way as he bends over, fitting his lips to mine, hard this time. Superhard. His tongue plunging, twisting, hard and hungry around mine, bolts of pleasure shooting from my nipples to my toes, my mouth to my sex. The marble slab beneath me, the room, the hotel, everything falls away until it’s only hot, powerful, wet lips moving mine. Tasting me. Hands fondling my breasts, running down my sides. My thoughts spin, his kiss and touch rousing my passion like nothing ever has. My hands smooth up his damp chest and when I touch the metal of a piercing on his left nipple, I almost die.

“Oh god,” I gasp, the intensity overwhelming as my bum aches from the cold of the marble. “Take me to bed.”

He carries me to the room, throwing me to the bed like he means business. He flexes his hands at his sides as he jerks off his jeans and pulls out a condom packet. Oh god. His hands are huge, and tanned, with long fingers. A scar in his palm. I really want them on me. In me. He pulls down my panties, unhooks my bra.

“My name is Melanie,” I breathe, edging back on the bed as he strips me.

Naked. He’s moving with a predatory grace that sends my heart crashing into my rib cage and a flood of need between my legs. He whispers, “My name is Greyson, Melanie.” He puts my hand on his and starts kissing me as we work a condom on him, and I can feel his heartbeat throbbing under my hand.

I love the way he keeps kissing me, our hands touching his hardness, huge, thick, pulsing, as we get the condom on him, a pool of need gathering between my thighs.

He slips a finger into my pussy and watches my eyes roll back. “I fucking want in you,” he murmurs, kissing my throat. He turns his head to muffle my gasp and takes my mouth. “I’m going to give you the fucking of your life, princess.” His wet tongue slowly drags along the shell of my ear. “I’ll suck on you until my jaw hurts.” His low voice drives me so crazy I can feel pebbles rise up on my nape as he cups the back of my head and starts kissing me again. “Make you come as hard as you can come.”

He makes me so wet, my body starts bucking as he keeps sucking my breasts, making me pant.

I slide my arm up the coiled muscles of his chest. I rear upward and move my head to the source of his breath and whimper in the only way I know how to make him think about kissing me. He does. He gyrates his hips and presses against my hip bone as though he needs the contact, and makes a soft growling noise as he slips his hand between my legs.

I want him so much, I hurt.

I spread my legs wider apart and moan as he takes me. I squirm as my body begins tightening.

“I’m going to come,” I moan softly. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t . . . you feel too . . . good . . . I can’t . . .”

“Come,” he rasps, “it’s all right, we’ll do it again in a bit . . .
come
 . . .”

Pure red-hot ecstasy radiates through my body, my knees falling open, my emotions whirling and skidding, my body clenching and clasping and unclasping his, his thrusts shooting currents through me until I do what his sinful body is making me do, and I come like a rocket.

I gasp from the force of my orgasm, twisting and arching beneath him. He pushes in as deep as he can go, and I shudder uncontrollably and whimper in gratitude every time he’s seated fully inside me, making me feel . . . the opposite of lonely. The opposite of sad or empty. And when my climax subsides and he’s still there—every thick, hot, hard inch of him snugly in my grip—my eyes flutter open, and I see him looking at me, with that look, wild, hungry, almost proprietary, but also strangely reverent and gentle as he starts to move in me again with expert precision, our eyes clinging, the way he fucks me gently now making little stars dance across my vision as another delicious climax builds and builds.

I don’t expect to but I come again. Hard. If possible, even harder, because the walls of my sex are sore and sensitive, and my clit throbs every time his hips ram up against mine—and the pleasure grows exponentially until it’s slicing me open in a pure burst of pleasure. My nails rake into his skin. I scream his name, almost scared from the intensity. He muffles my cries with his mouth, and this time he snakes his tongue around mine and cuts off his name to
Grey
. He groans as if he likes to taste his name in
my mouth, his muscles are flexing against me as he goes off, his chest brushing against my breasts as he comes with me.

When his shudders subside after mine, he rolls to his back and, because he’s still inside me and has both arms around me, I end up coming with him. We lie in breathless silence for a moment, tangled and not even caring about whose arm is where, or whose leg is hooked between the other’s. I am so absolutely dazed, fucked, and blown the fuck away, I almost expect to see pieces of me scattered across the floor.

After a couple of minutes, I let out a noise of protest, wanting to get up. He releases me, allowing me to tiptoe to the bathroom to clean up. He follows, knotting up the condom, and as I wash my hands he comes up behind me to take the soap and wash his hands along with mine while our gazes meet in the mirror. I see my reflection and . . . no, I don’t look like a wet rat. My cheeks are flushed pink, my hair is bed mussed, and when he smiles at me and cups my breast from behind, I’m done for. “Come back to bed so I can make you pant a little more,” he whispers, into my skin.

“I don’t pant,” I say, taking his hand, the one on my breast, and pulling him out to the bedroom with me.