Page 57 of The Rogue

Too late. It’s already raw and swollen.

She smells like grass and vanilla. Like we’ve mixed our scents into one. Except today, she was inmyworld. Covered in nature, she’s as dirty as I get most days and I’m a caveman, hungry for his woman.

The mist in her eyes from just a moment ago is replaced with that familiar defiance. A fire.

“Does it bother you?”

“You have no idea,” I rasp, the hard-on growing hazardously. A hazard to my self-control.

Because I’m having a hard time peeling away from her. And unless she asks, I don’t see myself doing that.

“Indie.” My nickname comes out in a lust-full breath. Her fingers graze my chest, but just barely. Like she’s testing a metal knob in a building on fire.

I move one hand into her hair, twisting a lock around my finger. “Whiskey.”

She frowns in question.

“Your eyes.”

She holds my gaze in that heady way that tells me she’s not only okay with this...

She’swaiting.

My eyes drop to her full, tempting red lips.

“Better hurry, I’m on the clock.”

With a grin I can’t help, I crush her mouth with mine. Her soft, full, sweet mouth.

Tessa grips my shirt as she opens for me. A moan I didn’t know I craved rips from her throat. It makes me slide my fingers behind her neck and flush my body against hers.

Damn the hard-on she’ll feel.

Damn the scruff of my chin scraping against her delicate skin. Our kiss is so desperate and hungry, if it doesn’t leave marks, it wasn’t enough.

Her hands snake up to my neck, grazing my jaw. Our tongues dance like we’re competing for a gold medal.

It’s too good. She’s too fucking good.

I pull back with a sharp suck for breath and put distance between us.

I’ve done it too many times. Put distance between myself and anyone else who could hurt me. Who could hurt Jackson.

He doesn’t need another free spirit walking away.

I don’t need it.

Tessa shouldn’t be any different. Tessa should be on the top of the list of women to stay away from.

But she’s somehow snuck her way onto a different list.

A list of people I’d protect with my life.

“Please tell me what you’re thinking,” she asks in a desperate, breathy rasp I’m newly obsessed with.

That I’m two steps away from flipping you over and spanking you for the wreck you’ve made of me.

“You’re on the clock.”

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