Page 71 of The Rogue

Then I’d lick you until you were begging me to stop.

No, no. No.

Only then would I give you what you really wanted.

He had said all that to her. In that low, husky voice.

She stood there as the water began to warm up, stood there and let it sluice over her body. Until she felt herself beginning to unravel.

Lick her until she begged him to stop...

She had propositioned Justice. And she hadpushedhim. She had pushed him to the limit and then he had said that and she had...

She had thrown up all over his boots.

She put her head in her hands and let the water roll over her. What the hell had she done?

What the hell?

How could she have done that to him? And to her?

The bigger question is, do you really want him?

Well. He was the most beautiful man she knew. There really was no competition. He was gorgeous, and he was sexy. And... she had gone out last night to let go of that, but instead it had thrown her closer to it. Whether or not he would admit it, he was acting jealous. That behavior that he’d exhibited at the bar was more like a possessive lover than a friend. Either that or he really did think that she was emotionally ten years old and needed to be protected from herself at all costs. She was a grown woman. She had a feeling that if it had been one of his brothers out there making a bad decision, he would’ve let them go off. So did that mean that he wanted her too?

It doesn’t mean anything to you...

That had been a really shitty thing to say. She didn’t know whether she was more embarrassed by propositioning him, or guilty over having said that. It was very hard to say.

Add in that monologue of his, which was the dirtiest thing anyone had ever said to her—and had come right out of her best friend’s mouth—and she didn’t know what the hell to do with it. Didn’t know what the hell to make of it.

“You have to fix it,” she said out loud, her words reverberating off the shower walls.

Yes. She did have to fix it.

But she had to figure out what the biggest offense was first. And she really wasn’t sure.

She dried herself, and then brushed her teeth twice, before making her way back out to choose some clothes. She opted for something that covered her head to toe. A black sweatshirt that didn’t show off any of her body and a pair of matching sweatpants. Maybe he would pity her. Because she looked soft and vulnerable, and like a sphere. A sad little sphere.

She swallowed hard. There was no use putting it off; he was her best friend. She needed to find him and talk to him and try to smooth it over. It was just right now she wasn’t sure what direction she needed to smooth it. Or what way would make it...

She opened up the door and padded slowly out toward the kitchen.

And there he was, up and out there making her breakfast. Bacon. And very strong coffee.

“I figured you’d be hungover,” he said.

She wanted to cry. Because of course he would know that. Because he’d had his share of hangovers and she hadn’t. Because what he’d said about guiding her suddenly seemed a lot more relevant, and made her feel a lot more like a jerk than she even had a few minutes ago.

Because she had been so determined to be insulted by his behavior, and not to be realistic about the fact this was new to her, and she was acting out. From a place of vulnerability and rage and hurt feelings. He was in full control of his faculties when he went out, and suddenly that part of the argument last night madesense. He went out; he got drunk on purpose. He met up with other people who were out there drunk on purpose. Who knew what they were doing. Had decided what they wanted beforehand. While she had just been windmilling her way through the bar, through the night, acting out of character because she felt so hard done by.

“I owe you an apology,” she said.

“Oh. Youdoremember last night.”

He cleared his throat and turned back to the pan of bacon. Dished several strips onto a plate, along with a pile of scrambled eggs. “Why don’t you get some grease in you first? Then we can address that.”

She walked over to him and took the plate, careful not to let their fingers touch. “I can talk while I eat,” she said. She turned and went to the small table in the nook in his kitchen. “I acted like a brat. And I’m sorry.”

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