Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
We eat in a weird, companionable silence for a minute, the only sound the clink of silverware and the dull thump of my heart in my ears. I’m about halfway through the best steak of my life before I realize I haven’t actually tasted any of it. My mouth is on autopilot, chewing and swallowing, while every other part of me is busy watching Rogan’s hands. The way they move, careful and precise, slicing through his steak like he’s performing surgery. The veins on the back of his hand stand out just a little, and I can’t stop picturing how those same hands would feel on my bare skin, splayed wide over my hips, or cradling the back of my head while he—
“How is it?” he says, and I jump so hard I nearly drop my fork on the ground.
“It’s amazing.” At least it smells delicious.
We fall into small talk, which is weirdly not awkward at all. Halfway through, we reach for the casserole dish at the same time, and our fingers brush. It’s nothing, just skin on skin, but the contact zaps up my arm like static electricity. I look up, and he’s already looking at me, mouth half-open like he’s about to say something but can’t remember what it was.
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that it’s just the two of us in this big, empty house. The table is wide enough to seat ten, but we’re both huddled at one end, knees almost touching under the wood. Rogan leans back in his chair, watching me with a focus that turns my insides to goo. For a second, he looks like he might come around the table and drag me into his lap. And I’m not going to lie, I want him to.
Instead, he clears his throat and asks, “You ever ride horses?”
It’s such a left-field question, it knocks me out of my own head. “Not really. Closest I ever came was a field trip to a petting zoo. I think the horse’s name was Princess Fluffy.”
He snorts, genuine and unrestrained, and I love the way it transforms his face. “We’ll have to fix that. We have some good ones here. No Princess Fluffy though. I’ll take you on a tour of the ranch.”
I grin. “I’d love a tour.”
For a second, all my tension dissolves, and I’m just here with him. I could sit here and banter all night, but every time he smiles at me, the urge to climb into his lap intensifies by a factor of ten. We lapse into another silence, this one more charged than before.
We linger over the last bites of food, not in any hurry to move on. The sun has set, but the room is warm with low light and the hush of nighttime insects through the open window. I finish the steak but can’t remember a single thing about eating it. I just know that my cheeks hurt from smiling and my heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way through my ribcage.
When the plates are empty, Rogan leans back and regards me with a look that’s all heat and no filter. “Still want to watch a movie?” he asks, but I can tell from the way his jaw flexes that he’s not really thinking about movies.
I open my mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a laugh. “I can think of better ways to end the night.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah?” He stands slowly, and the scrape of his chair on the floor is the only sound in the world. He walks to my side of the table, stops just short of touching me. I tip my chin up to meet his gaze, daring him to make a move.
“You promised me dessert,” I say, and my voice is steady as hell.
He’s still for a second, but then something in his expression shifts, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing.
The moment stretches, electric, neither of us willing to be the first to break. But I don’t move. I just look at him, daring him, wanting him, waiting.
It’s his move.
He reaches for me, and everything in my brain goes blinding, white-hot.
One second, I’m sitting at his large dining room table, and the next, Rogan’s got me flush against him like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
He kisses me like he’s been starving for me. There’s nothing slow or sweet about it. It’s fierce, desperate, a collision that knocks the last of the air out of my lungs. His mouth slants over mine, tongue demanding entry, and I give it without a thought. The stubble on his chin burns my skin in the best possible way. The low, helpless growl that escapes him goes straight to my knees.
He tastes like wine and something darker, something that has me dizzy with need. I lose track of where my hands are. One’s on his neck, fingers digging into the thick muscles at the base of his skull, while the other slips under his shirt, palm hot on his bare skin. He’s so solid, all muscle and power and impossible heat.