Page 40 of Rogue

He grunts.

I crab-crawl backward. But he’s too fast, and launches himself onto me, taking me down flat onto the carpet.

Balling a fist, I punch him in the face, nailing him in the cheekbone.

He slaps me in return. Although he could have done worse damage by returning my punch, my temper nevertheless explodes.

I try weaving my fingers through his blond hair but he’s cropped it shorter then I’m used to, styling it in a military crew cut that further accentuates his high, bruising, cheekbones.

Damn. I pause a second too long to consider this and now he’s worked his fingers intomynewly sheared locks. With a jerk, he tugs my head back.

I clap my fists hard, boxing both his ears.

He yanks my hair so aggressively it feels like he’s tearing it from my scalp.

“Asshole,” I spit out.

“Be still,” he orders. “Or I’ll rip your hair from your scalp.”

I wiggle with renewed vigor.

“Fuck,” he grounds out, yanking my hair so damn hard, tears spring into my eyes. “Still a stubborn ballbuster.”

“And you’ve begun fighting like a girl,” I hiss.

“I warned you long ago to get a grip on your temper.”

I attempt to knee him in the groin, unsuccessfully. “Get. Off. Me.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?”

Damn him. I tear up for the second time in thirty seconds and stare up at his handsome face. So familiar; I’d spent an entire morning covering it with butterfly kisses. Before he took over, as usual, and took my playfulness to an entirely different level.

How I dreamed of him.

Kissing those lips.

Loving him.

He’s alive. Alive.

One. Two. Three seconds. Where time seems suspended between the past and present. Where I want nothing more than to open my heart and my legs to him. Draw him out of himself and whatever this is, and deep into me. Touching him. Feeling him. Loving him. Forever and always.

He must have read something in my face because for a fraction of a second, his hold on me slackens. Then the air is sucked bone-dry from the room as he glares down at me in such an ugly, unfamiliar way.

Jaxson hates me.

I stiffen, aching deep within my heart and soul—it hurts, God, does it hurt—but I manage to move my palms flat against his chest. Hoping to dislodge him and distance myself. His muscles flex beneath my fingers. Jesus, he’s a wall of solid muscle, harder, stronger than I remember. More dangerous than ever on so many levels. I swallow back my resistance as my will goes a bit wild. And instead of pushing him away, I’m touching him. Tracing the pads of my fingers over the muscled hill of his pecs, stopping short of his nipples.

His chest flexes beneath my palm and he sucks in a breath.

A breathe of life. He’s alive. Sweet heaven, alive. Just like that, I make up my mind. He might hate me now but by the time I’m done with him . . .

Thisthingis going to happen, I repeat the promise he gave me so long ago.

He takes me by the wrists and pins my arms overhead, clearly wanting nothing more to do with my touch. But I’ve learned from the best. A master seducer. A man-whore tried and true.

I shift beneath him, and feel the towel catch, then unravel. Now if he’d only raise his chest, even a fraction of an inch . . .