Authors: Lacey Alexander
And yet as she drove the streets near her condo in Coral Gables, she soon found herself
heading north on roads that ran parallel to the expressway. And even as her car crossed
the A1A bridge onto Miami Beach, she continued telling herself she wasn’t headed anyplace
Or . . . maybe she was going to the beach. For a nice night walk. To calm all the
upheaval inside her. That sounded peaceful, relaxing. She didn’t get to the beach
often enough for someone who lived in such close proximity.
Yet she had to give up even
fantasy when her car approached Rogan’s building a few blocks inland from the shore
and she made the decision to pull into the adjacent lot, parking her Camry in the
vacant spot next to his black Charger.
Putting the car in park, she sat staring dazedly at the hip, modern South Beach building.
What am I doing here? Why on earth would I do this to myself?
It was late, almost eleven. A time actually considered early a few blocks away in
the teeming bar district, but at her place, if she were still there, it would be nearly
bedtime. How late did Rogan Wolfe stay up? Probably ’til the wee hours. Maybe he’d
found something better to do by now. Perhaps he’d found some other woman to harass—or
Despite all the doubts and admonitions running through her mind, she found herself
moving almost as if on autopilot, exiting the car, clicking the lock button on her
key fob, turning toward the white stucco structure that made her heart beat faster
now just looking at it and knowing who—what—waited inside.
Numb legs led her up the walk and through the security door that another resident
held open for her, having arrived at the same time and clearly assuming she lived
there as well. It seemed like kismet. Or her doom. But something kept her moving closer,
closer, to the apartment where she’d let him fuck her more than a week ago. Fucking.
That was totally what it had been.
As she approached his door, her arms felt strange—numb as well. She suffered the odd
sensation of her entire body feeling both heavier than usual yet unaccountably light
at the same time. It was like walking in a dream.
She heard herself knock on the door more than felt it. The sound was jarring, in fact.
God, why did I come here? What on earth do I want?
But . . . maybe she just wanted to talk. To feel like she knew him better.
Maybe she wanted things to quit feeling so . . . intense between them, so sexually
charged every single second.
Maybe getting to know him would make what they’d done seem . . . well, at least a
Yet when he opened the door, looking sexy as hell, regret instantly flooded her.
He appeared scruffy, unshaven, wearing faded jeans and a white tee, his thick hair
messy. He was eating an apple. And his eyes widened in instant lust at the sight of
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said too softly, following the impulse to lower her gaze.
She often found it difficult to meet his intense looks.
And in reply, he simply chucked what remained of his apple into the wastebasket next
to the door, grabbed her by the arm to pull her inside, pressed her to the nearest
wall, and kissed her senseless.
hen Rogan had seen it was her at his door, pure lust had taken over. In one way, even
as he kissed her, he couldn’t believe she’d really shown up here, but in another . . .
well, maybe when that knock had come he’d somehow known—felt—her on the other side.
And either way, it hardly mattered. Either way he knew only the consuming need to
Because the truth was, he’d thought about her ever since they’d parted ways this afternoon.
He’d stayed frustrated, just wanting her to come to her senses, see that she should
give in to her desires and not make this so hard for both of them. There was nothing
wrong with giving your body what it needed, and God knew the powerful urges that rushed
through them when they came together were definitely telling them
what their bodies needed.
Lifting one sock-covered foot to kick the door shut, he drank in the scent of her,
the feel of her, as their mouths hotly collided. Thank God he’d let go of the idea
of wanting his next relationship to matter. And it wasn’t that April Pediston didn’t
matter—it was simply that he knew himself pretty well and he didn’t find her hard
to figure out, either, and it was clear they had nothing in common other than the
raging passion between them. But it also wasn’t the sort of chemistry that came ringing
his doorbell just every day, and he couldn’t see the value of letting it pass by.
In fact, he wanted to explore it, fully. And it looked like he might just finally
be getting his chance.
For a few long, luxurious minutes, she kissed him back with all the lush intensity
he felt as well. This was suddenly easier than before, the kind of hot kissing you
could sink into and get lost in. Her lips were pliable and soft beneath his, and she
didn’t shrink back from him as his hands roamed the curve of her waist, her hips.
Her arms twined around his neck and her fingers flirted with the hair at the nape
of his neck, the feather-light sensation rippling through him and ending up in his
rapidly stiffening cock. She was in this all the way, finally, just like him.
When at last the kissing ceased for a few seconds, he leaned his forehead against
hers as they both caught their breath. “Um, hi,” he said low and deep.
“Hi,” she murmured, arms still looped around his shoulders.
“You came,” he said.
“I . . . I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have. I—”
He pressed two fingers to her mouth to quiet her. “What does it matter? Don’t think
At which point he decided it seemed like a good idea to resume kissing her—before
she could ruin this somehow. So he wasted no time before lowering his mouth back on
to hers, at the same moment anchoring an arm around her waist and pulling her body
more firmly against his. And damn, he liked the way that felt. Her full, lush tits,
warm against his chest, hardened his dick further, even as it became lodged against
her belly, just below her navel. She gasped softly and he knew it was from coming
into close contact with his erection. Only he wanted it lower. And it made him kiss
God, the energy between them crackled like electricity—and
quit thinking now, too. He merely continued to follow his body’s inclinations—to
press his tongue more fully between her lips than he had so far, to drop his hand
to her ass and cement their torsos even more tightly together. A few seconds later,
he followed another urge—to ease his free hand up her side, stopping at the plump
outer curve of her breast.
He could hear her breathing, panting now as they kissed, her excitement growing along
He brushed his thumb over the tip of her breast to find her nipple jutting prominently
through her bra and top. His cock throbbed in response to the feel of the hard little
bead, and a low, soft moan echoed from his throat. Deepening the kiss, he didn’t fight
the impulse to slide his palm more fully onto her luscious tit, wanting more, so much
more, and ready to take it.
But that was when she balked, her body stiffening in his grasp. And the next thing
he knew, she was using one hand to yank his touch from her breast, then shoving both
palms against his chest, trying to push him away.
Except . . . he ignored it.
That wasn’t his usual response if a woman tried to separate from him, but . . . hell,
he knew her too well on this score already. He knew this was just more of the same—her
fighting with herself even as she wanted it; her fighting to make him . . . take it.
And he knew it was truly that simple. She wanted him to take it. She wanted him to
be the one who made it happen, made her do it.
And he knew damn good and well that if some guy was telling him this story, telling
him the woman wanted it even though she was pushing him away, he’d advise the jerk
to get his head screwed on straight, and he’d probably even go so far as to remind
him that even if he didn’t care on a moral level or a reciprocal-pleasure level, there
were laws against that sort of thing. But he and Ginger—they were already way past
any confusion this behavior would normally cause. He knew to the marrow of his bones,
without one shred of doubt, that this was more of the game that turned her on so much.
And which, at the same time, he supposed, made it so she could tell herself afterward
that she was innocent and hadn’t really given in to her lust.
And so he kept right on kissing her. And even as she made a weak attempt at backing
her head away, he felt the heat of amplified desire—woven through with that little
thread of kinkiness—practically dripping from her just before it came over him as
Soon her head was against the wall as he moved his mouth over hers. She turned her
face away, but when he persisted in resuming the kiss, she couldn’t quite stop herself
from responding even while she struggled to break free of the grip he had on both
her wrists now.
And in one way he was annoyed as hell that she had to take what had felt good and
right and easy and mutual and fuck it up like this—but in another, just like her,
he was more excited now. And it blipped through his brain that maybe it should bother
him a little to be aroused by having to
her give in—but he let the thought go and just rolled with it. It didn’t turn him
on to force her—it turned him on to know that she
him to; it turned him on to embark on the hot, kinky, dirty game it created.
The time finally came when Rogan stopped kissing her—they’d kissed each other so vehemently,
almost violently, for so long now that he knew their mouths would be sore afterward
and they were just getting started. But even as she continued to struggle against
his grasp on her, against the way his hips—and intensified erection—now held her against
the wall, she never uttered a word, never said no. It only amped up what he already
knew. She could fight all she liked, but she wanted him to fuck her so bad she could
hardly stand it.
When he let go of her wrists, planted his hands on her ass, and picked her up, the
struggle continued—her pushing at his chest again, her legs flailing lightly as he
awkwardly hefted her into his arms and turned away from the door. As they neared the
couch, she finally spoke, even though it came out weak. “Put me down.”
He obliged, dropping her onto her back on the sofa. “There ya go. You’re down,” he
said, but he didn’t give her a chance to respond or react before he firmly straddled
her hips, his knees pressing into the couch cushion at either side.
There was something gut-wrenching about being back in the same spot where they’d fucked
last time. He hadn’t planned that or thought about it when he’d carried her here,
but now that he towered over her, it just increased his hunger that much more. He
didn’t hesitate to bend over her, let her feel his weight, the largeness of him compared
to her. He didn’t hesitate to close his hands over her breasts through that thin,
summery top she wore.
She flinched at the bold touches, then writhed back and forth as if the motions would
somehow force his hands away—when in fact he was pretty sure it only made her feel
them more. Giving that up after a few seconds, she went still, panting, now closing
wrists for a change. She attempted to pull them away, but the weak effort almost
amused him. Not enough to make him smile at her, though—simply enough to tighten his
cock that much more.
Even as she held his wrists, he began to caress and massage her scrumptious tits,
two perfect mounds of flesh in his possession. Their eyes met and she tried to look
horrified, offended. Her lower lip trembled.
He suffered the urge to lean down and kiss the quiver away, but resisted because he
didn’t want to break the gaze. Because in it he began to see . . . exactly what he
wanted to. She couldn’t hide it. How good it felt. How overcome with desire she was.
With his wrists still in her grip, he caught both her nipples between his thumbs and
forefingers through her clothes. She let out a short, desperate cry, bit her lip.
Her eyes fell shut and he could sense the pleasure and need expanding through her,
spreading out from her breasts like a puddle that stretched all the way from her head
to her toes. He pinched and lightly squeezed the hardened peaks, watching her reactions,
which she tried to hold in, but hot little gasps and moans snuck out as she clearly
tried her hardest not to feel it.
“St-stop,” she murmured. Then again, stronger. “Stop.”
At this, Rogan leaned down over her, his face close to hers, his hands still covering
her full breasts. His voice came out raspy. “You know you can’t say that if you don’t
mean it. Tell me you mean it, April,” he dared her.
Her eyes widened so intensely that he drew back from her, sitting up some.
“You called me April,” she said, feather-soft.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“I . . . wasn’t sure you knew,” she admitted, sounding a little embarrassed.
He bent back down, then whispered in her ear. “I know, honey. I know exactly who you
To his surprise, her grip on his wrists had suddenly loosened, so he took the opportunity
to smoothly move his hands to hers, locking fingers and stretching her arms up over
her head. For the moment, she’d quit fighting and let him do it. Maybe he should call
her April more often—he hadn’t given it any thought and he’d had no idea she’d be
“Be a good girl and leave your arms where they are,” he told her as he skimmed his
fingertips down them, then lightly over her breasts and to the hem of her top.
Who knew how long she’d be this docile, so it seemed like a good time to take her
top off. Same as if she were a child, he gathered the fabric in his hands as he pulled
it off over her head and uplifted arms. Underneath she wore a lacy pink bra the color
of cotton candy against—as he’d noticed once before—skin too pale for a south Florida
Even so, there was something pure and lovely about it—pale on pale, soft on soft.
And in that moment he knew her a little better, understood a little more why giving
in to what she wanted was so difficult. She was the softest sort of woman in a way.
Hard lawyer shell in those crisp, harsh suits, but underneath . . . pink lace and
skin untouched by the sun. Maybe he hadn’t quite grasped that up to now. He’d seen
her struggle, but he hadn’t thought much about why. Maybe he hadn’t
much about why. He’d only wanted what he wanted.
But fortunately, what
wanted was what they
wanted. Even if she needed him to take it by force.
Her tits looked downright creamy, their inner curves swelling from the lace cups.
He took the quiet, still moment to run the tips of both his index fingers down the
round edges of her breasts, inward, making a V as they met in the middle. She sucked
in her breath audibly, which drew his gaze from those two vanilla scoops up to her
And that was when she apparently remembered she was supposed to be combating this,
. Her arms came down from over her head, her hands in fists that began thrashing lightly
at him, some blows reaching his chest or arms, some connecting with nothing but air.
Dangerous or not, though, this wouldn’t do. Not only because her constantly changing
attitude was hard to keep up with, but because . . . damn it, if she wanted to play
games like this, well, maybe it was time to really play. So even as she struck out
at him over and over, he did his best to ignore it and worked at unknotting the silky
bright blue sash she wore as a belt, threaded through the loops and tied at her hips.
Once he’d pulled it free, he stretched a length of it taut between his hands, testing
the strength, and that was when she seemed to notice what he was doing—and got a little
worried. She went still—no more hitting or flailing. “What are you—?”
He didn’t let her finish—instead he lifted off her just enough to physically flip
her over on the couch so that he could secure her arms back behind her and begin tying
her wrists with the sash. It was easy for him—a lot like cuffing a belligerent drunk
driver on the road.
Only once he started, he found himself rather taking his time, even as she tried to
pull free. He watched his hands work—he watched the way the silky blue fabric circled
her wrists. He took care to make it tight but not too tight—just snug enough to hold
her. Snug enough for her to feel the friction when she pulled at it in hopes of getting
free. He already understood instinctively that friction was part of it, part of what
made the struggle hot—it provided yet more sensation for her to soak up.
And the act of tying her . . . maybe he’d known it would excite him, maybe that was
why he’d chosen this particular way of subduing her—but still it surprised him how
much dark pleasure he took in binding her wrists that way. And he couldn’t help thinking
of Mira—of that weekend he’d spent with her and Ethan in an upper Michigan cabin.
He’d rediscovered her there, and he’d lost her again just as fast—but what he was
remembering just now was how he’d dominated the sex more and more as the weekend had
passed, and how he hadn’t really planned it that way, but the more he’d done it, the
more power and control he’d taken, the more aroused he’d become.