He does it again. And again. His rhythm is steady and relentless, his hands are gripping my ass, and I can feel the mask pressing against my shoulder when he buries his face. The combination of all of it, the anonymity of the mask, the intimacy of his voice, and how he’s saying my name between thrusts like it’s the only word he knows, is destroying me.
“Fuck me, Rogue. Fuck me.”
“Yeah, baby.” His eyes above the mask are completely focused on my face. “Look at me when you come. I want to watch.”
That does it. The eye contact and the command and the next thrust all land at the same time. I explode into a million pieces, staring into his eyes and clenching around him. He takes it all in then buries himself deep and groans against my throat, pulsing inside me, his arms tightening. For a while, it feels like neither of us breathes.
Then he laughs.
Not a small laugh. A real one. Full. Joyful. The laugh of a man who just had the time of his life in a derelict shopping mall on aweekday afternoon. He’s still inside me, still holding me against the wall, and he’s laughing.
“You dropped your box of stuff,” he says.
I look down. I’d completely forgotten. “It was worth it.”
“Hope so.” He pulls the mask down around his neck. His face is flushed and his hair is wrecked, and his grin is the biggest I’ve ever seen it.
“Let’s do it again next week,” I say, as we untangle and I try to get one leg of my panties and jeans back on.
“Sounds like an order.”
“Sounds like an order you don’t mind.”
He steadies me as I dress, which is caring and naughty at the same time. Then he kisses my forehead, because the mask covered his mouth the whole time and the first thing he does when it’s off is put his lips on the one place that’s pure affection. Then he picks up my scattered trade goods and puts them back in the box.
“I’ll take care of this,” he says. “You look like you need a minute.”
“I need several minutes,” I laugh.
He winks and walks off with the box, whistling again.
Goddamn, that man is hot.
I stand in the corridor with my back against the wall and my pulse still hammering, and I feel, for the first time in days, like a person who’s alive her body and not drowning in anxiety. Rogue gave me that. Ten minutes in a back corridor. He pulled me out of my own head and he did it laughing, and I love him for it.
Oh shit. Did I just use the L-word?
Whatever. That’s the thing about him. Sting makes me burn. Armen makes me steady. Rogue makes me feel like the world isn’t ending. Like it’s okay to want things and have them and laugh about it afterward.
I needed that. So bad.
44
VI
I’m still buzzingwhen I get back to the room with legs slightly shaky and flushed skin, a post-sex glow that makes you want to lie down and stare at the ceiling and replay every detail.
Mara is sitting cross-legged on the bed, braiding her hair. She takes one look at me and her eyebrows go up. “Well.”
“Shut up.”
“Which one was it?”
“Rogue.”
“I knew it. You’ve got that Rogue look. It’s different from the Sting look.”
“There is not a Sting look.”
