Give In To Me (5 page)

She couldn’t explain it to herself, but it was perhaps the most intense sexual moment
she’d ever shared with a man. To be looking so intently into each other’s eyes while
he held her in place in a dark Miami alley, as much with his powerful erection as
with his hands. Both of them knowing she didn’t want to be there. Both of them also
knowing that she secretly did.

It was that second kind of knowing that made it impossible to fight it when he leaned
back in to deliver an achingly slow, hot, steamy tongue kiss that seemed to echo its
way through her entire body.

And despite herself, the self she usually was, she knew it wasn’t really fighting
when she pressed against his chest again in a small attempt to push him back. She
knew she wanted more of that strange push/pull struggle. And as he moved his grip
from her hips to her wrists, his hard-on still bolting her to the wall, then pinned
her arms against the stucco on either side of her head, she knew a delicious near
ecstasy she could never quite have imagined before.

It was . . . surrender.

Chapter 4

M
ore smoldering-hot kisses left her lips tingling and her chest heaving beneath her
silk tank. Between those kisses, he drew back barely at all, their faces staying achingly
close.

Her breath grew even threadier, more audible, when, still holding her wrists in both
hands, he stretched her arms slowly upward, over her head, until he could grip both
in one fist. The other hand he rested on her shoulder before slowly easing it down,
running his palm painstakingly over her breast. She gasped softly, tensing once more
in his grasp, and then—God help her—her teeth clenched lightly as she absorbed the
pleasure.

First one breast, then the other—he made a slow, thorough exploration of them, each
move of his hand sending ribbons of fresh lust unfurling through her. He sensually
squeezed, molded; at one point he stroked toward her nipple, catching it between forefinger
and thumb even through her bra.

There came a time when she struggled again, slightly, without thought. She chose not
to examine why now—she only knew that it happened. And of course he held her in place,
and their eyes reconnected, his having dropped to the mounds of flesh he was so expertly
caressing.

Their gazes stayed locked again for a long moment, in a way that felt positively primal
to her, until he drew his look away to glance up and down between them. “I like the
red.” His voice came out raspy.

She blinked, dumbfounded. “Wh-what?”

“If you have to wear a suit, the red is much hotter than what you had on last time.”

She didn’t bother to respond. But vaguely wondered for the first time what had become
of her jacket. Suits were expensive, after all. Though a glance down of her own allowed
her to see it puddled near her feet where she’d dropped it at some point. It also
allowed her to see her body plastered against a stranger’s. And since she couldn’t
seem to change the part about their bodies being plastered together, she decided it
was high time to change the other part of that equation.

“Who are you?” she asked.

His eyes glimmered on her beneath the dim bulb over their heads. “Who do you want
me to be?”

“I don’t know.” Honest answer. It was all she had.

“Maybe I’m the big bad wolf.”

She suppressed a shiver. “And that makes me who—Little Red Riding Hood?”

The wolf leaned near her ear, his whisper tickling her skin as he said, “You’re not
that innocent here, Ginger, and you know it.”

“What do you mean?” The argument came naturally—anything else was unthinkable.

“You like it.” He was all confidence, arrogance. “As much as I do.”

“You’re not giving me a choice.”

“I don’t think you want one.”

The accusation—true or not—stung and made her struggle against his hold, harder this
time, more committed to breaking free. Her stomach churned when she realized exactly
how strong he was, that even when she was serious about getting loose from him, she
didn’t stand a chance. “Let me go,” she insisted, fighting to free her arms from where
he still held them over her head, the effort jostling her breasts.

“You sound almost like you mean it,” he quipped.

“I do.”

And in response he said nothing, instead casting only a doubting glance her way.

“Look, this isn’t who I am,” she tried to explain, exasperated. “I don’t . . . do
this sort of thing. I . . . I don’t even know your name.”

“Rogan Wolfe,” he told her.

Oh, so he wasn’t lying—he really
was
the big bad wolf.

“And you are?”

“April,” she said, thinking this was surely the most bizarre introduction of her life.
“April Pediston.”

“Hey!” They both looked up then, startled, toward a voice that had come from the end
of the alley.

April could barely make out the person who stood there, catching only a glimpse of
a leanly muscled guy in a white tank before the wolf said, “Shit.” And finally let
go of her wrists, allowing her arms to drop to her sides.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

But Rogan didn’t really have time to answer that right now. He kept his eye on Martinez
as he said, low, “You need to get out of here, Ginger—fast.”

Even in his peripheral vision, he took in her wide-eyed expression as she murmured,
“Wh-what?”

God, she was taking this personally? Like she thought he’d suddenly just tired of
the game and was trying to get rid of her. Did she not see the thug up the alley,
the thug starting toward them now?

Thinking fast, he reached down to the doorknob—heading back into the club, into a
crowd, would be the best way to get out of this situation. But damn it, it was locked.
He hadn’t gone back in the last time he’d been out here with Ginger in the alley,
so he didn’t realize it automatically locked from inside. Which meant there was only
one other move to make.

“Shut up and run,” he told her—and when she still didn’t, he grabbed her hand and
pulled her deeper into the alley, forcing her into a jog, high heels or not.
Now
she didn’t have a choice.

Rogan didn’t know where the alley led, but it was his best chance to continue keeping
Martinez from getting a good look at him, at least at his face. And besides, the dude
clearly thought, correctly, that Rogan was the same guy who’d been listening in on
his phone calls outside the storage room, and he didn’t seem happy. Rogan didn’t want
some back alley confrontation, especially not with Ginger there. God, given what he
knew about her, she might do something crazy like throw herself in between them and
get herself hurt, or worse.

“Where are we going? What’s happening?” she asked again as he tugged her along, her
shoes clicking on the concrete.

“Didn’t you hear the ‘Shut up’ part?” he groused. And when she actually tried to pull
up short and stop their progress, apparently offended, he wanted to throttle her.
But instead he just said, through clenched teeth, “Look, sweetheart, that’s a bad
guy chasing us. We’ll chitchat later, but right now you need to get your ass in gear.”

Martinez’s tennis shoes slapped against the alleyway as he followed, urging Rogan
back into a run, once again dragging his inquisitive kissing partner behind him. He
was pretty worked up from the passion that had been swirling between them, but now
his heart beat harder from adrenaline.

Reaching a cross street in the narrow alley, he paused to assess his options. Going
straight would lead to Collins Avenue, parallel to Ocean, but wanting to get out of
Martinez’s line of sight, he turned right into a wider alley that led past the back
doors of businesses and restaurants. Yanking his companion with him, he started up
the alley, pulling on one of the first lit-up doors he came to.

When it opened, he drew Ginger into the busy kitchen of what looked and smelled like
a pizza place. And despite the expressions of the guys standing around in white aprons,
assembling pizzas, he kept them both moving, weaving his way to the small dining room,
past the cashier, and back out onto Ocean Drive, all in just a minute or two.

“What now?” Ginger asked, her voice all pretty and breathless.

Rogan looked up and down the street. They were still too close to the Café Tropico,
and he was ready to be done with Junior Martinez and the whole business for the night.
No sign of Martinez at the moment, but . . . “For all I know, he saw us go in that
door and is right behind us. Come on,” he said, dragging her in the direction opposite
the Café Tropico.

“Where are we going?” she asked, pulling back, clearly ready to argue with him again.
“My car’s
that
way.” She pointed past the café up Ocean Drive.

“Well, mine’s right here,” he said, and just a few steps later he was reaching for
his keys and clicking to unlock the shiny black Charger at the curb. “Get in.” But
he didn’t wait for her to do what he’d just told her, instead opening the door and
pretty much shoving her inside.

“Hey,” she complained, but he shut her up, thankfully, with a look of warning.

Even so, by the time he jogged around to the driver’s side, got in, and started the
engine, she was talking again. “I could have walked to my car—it’s just up the street.
And I don’t know what this is all about, but I don’t want to get involved. And what
about my jacket? It’s back in the alley, and it wasn’t cheap—I need to go back for
it.”

He let out a sigh as he glanced in his side mirror and eased out into traffic. “You
can’t go back, at least not right now. Tell you what, Ginger. I’ll call the owner
and maybe he can go out and get it for you, let you pick it up later. How’s that?”

She bordered somewhere between belligerent and agreeable now. “Well, fine, I guess.
And thank God I at least still have my purse. But my name’s not Ginger.”

True enough, yet unfortunately he couldn’t quite remember
what
she’d said her name was. Since it had been right about that time that Junior Martinez
had interrupted them. And in actuality he’d been a little more concerned with her
breasts, and her mouth, and the rest of her than he’d been with her name. It wasn’t
that he didn’t care about it—it was that he hadn’t cared about it
at that particular moment
.

“You’ll, uh, have to refresh my memory, sweetheart.”

Her pause, accompanied with a sigh he could hear, told him that irked her. “April
Pediston,” she said.

“Okay, got it.”

“My car’s parked on the next block, so you can let me out at this light,” she said—right
about the time he blew right through the intersection she’d indicated.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. “Why didn’t you stop?”

He didn’t look at her as he spoke, matter-of-factly, keeping his eyes on busy Ocean
Drive, currently teeming with well-moving traffic surrounded by plenty of pedestrians
as well. “Could you eat some pizza? After running through that kitchen, I could go
for some.”

She
, however, stared across the car at
him
in disbelief. He still watched the road, but he could feel the weight of her glare.
“After all this . . . weirdness, you want to take me out for pizza?”

“Something like that,” he told her. He didn’t really have a plan—he was just going
with what felt right at any given moment. “Maybe I’m . . . trying to apologize or
something.”

“Hmph,” she said, managing to sound both irritated and satisfied at the same time.
“Well, that’s definitely the most gentlemanly move you’ve made by far. And I’m glad
you agree that an apology is in order after the way you . . . well, the way you manhandled
me.”

Rogan held back the grin that wanted to sneak out, tossing her only a quick glance
before turning his attention back to the brightly lit street before him. “Except that’s
not what I’m apologizing for.”

He felt her look. “What are you apologizing for?”

“Getting you chased by a thug. And losing your jacket.”

“But not the rest,” she stated, apparently seeking clarification.

“Nope. You liked the rest. And so did I. Nothing to apologize for
there
, Ginger.”

“My name’s not—”

“Ginger. Yeah, I keep forgetting. Sorry.” He quickly searched his memory, just in
case she was getting ready to slug him. “April. So, pizza?”

She took her sweet time answering, and it was just starting to get on his nerves when
she said, “Yeah, sure, okay, I guess. Pizza.”

“All right,” he told her.

“And about that guy who was chasing us—what the hell was that about? I mean, should
I . . . be scared of you, Rogan Wolfe?”

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll explain all that over dinner. And as for whether you
should be scared of me . . . well, not because of the guy chasing us you shouldn’t.
But if you can’t handle what happened between us in that alley before he came along . . .
maybe you
should
be a little afraid, Ginger.”

* * *

I
t was difficult, but April refrained from asking where he was taking her for pizza.
She was, in fact, attempting to keep from asking him anything else at all. She still
had a million questions, and talking made her less nervous than just sitting there
taking in the dark interior of his car and wondering exactly who Rogan Wolfe was,
but when he’d told her he’d explain over dinner, she’d gotten the distinct impression
he was ready for her to be quiet. Not that that would normally be enough to shut her
up. With anyone. But on some strange level, she wanted to please him. Though she had
no idea why.

Of course, maybe his last words a few minutes ago had played a part in shutting her
up, too. What was he saying exactly? That there was going to be more of what happened
in that alley? And did that scare her? Well, what scared her a little was that somehow
she’d found herself in a car with an intimidating man she didn’t know and who might
somehow be involved with crime, or at least violent-seeming thug types. What scared
her was that she was responsible, and capable, and smart—not the sort of woman who
normally found herself in such a weird, uncertain situation. And okay, yes, if he
was telling her there was definitely going to be more steamy heat between them—that
scared her a little, too. Because she was unsure if she
could
handle it, no matter who he turned out to be.

It comforted her a bit, though, to hear him now on his cell phone, talking to someone
at the Café Tropico about her suit jacket. He sounded just as confident and take-charge
as he had all along, but in a more reasonable, normal way. He sounded . . . smart,
and smart was good. She respected and appreciated smart. Whereas stupid was just plain
dangerous.

Pushing the button to disconnect, he said, “Okay. Dennis found your jacket. You can
pick it up anytime. He’s going to lock it in his office in the back.”

“Thank you,” she said. It felt like the first thing that had gone right in a while,
the first thing that had happened that made any sense.