“I was just saying that I think it’s weird that they’d put makeup on my body just to show me working out, ya know?”
“Yeah,” I say dazedly.
“Where do you want me?” he asks, one brown brow shooting up suggestively.
My stomach churns hotly. Why, oh why does he have to be the one guy on the planet who can break through my thick layer of ice and scar tissue? Why, why, why?
I bend to gather my notes from the floor, and I study them closely as I straighten. Not because I need to see what they say, of course, but because I need a reason to look at something else for a minute.
“Looks like the closest shots will be of your back and shoulders as you’re doing some pull-ups. They want the tattoos left intact, but any other imperfections covered, so I’ll do your face and then let you lie down for the rest.”
My heart is thumping so hard, I worry that Rogan will hear it when he sits down in the chair. I set about applying the same products I’ve used on him most other days, going a little heavier on blush to give him a slightly flushed look. That’s all my role entails. They’ll spritz him to make him look sweaty right before the filming starts.
I try not to think of Rogan sweaty. Smooth skin glistening, muscular chest huffing, flat stomach gleaming. No, I need not go there. It’s just . . . it’s just not a good idea.
He’s uncharacteristically quiet as I brush and swirl and dab, but not once do his eyes leave my face. Even if, in my peripheral vision, I couldn’t see them following my movements, I’d still know he was watching me. I can feel it all the way down to my nerves. His gaze, his scrutiny strums them like strings on a harp.
When I’m finished with what little I can do to make his face even more gorgeous, I lean back, giving him a tight, nervous smile. “Okay, you can go lie down on your stomach. I’ll do your back first and then when you sit up, I’ll work on your chest a little.”
Rogan nods, rising to head over to the long, padded table that’s used for bodywork and more extensive specialty applications. I grab a few pods of makeup that match his skin tone, some cream and a few different-sized brushes, taking my time and inhaling huge, calming gulps of air as I gather. When I turn to face Rogan, he’s lying on his stomach with his arms folded under his head, his face turned toward me. His emerald eyes, trained on me, glint in the light, but his expression is unusually serious. I want to ask if something’s wrong, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what he’ll say, what I’ll learn about him. I don’t dare let him get under my skin any more than he already has.
I clear my throat and pull a small rolling table closer to me, setting my supplies on it. Applying the makeup is something I could do in my sleep. That’s not what I feel I must ready myself for. Putting my hands on Rogan’s skin, touching him all over his body this way . . . That’s what I need to prepare for.
I notice that my hand is shaking when I squirt a dollop of cream into my palm. I rub my hands together to warm it before I lean forward to smooth the lightly shimmering lotion onto his back. I feel the muscles twitch and flex under my fingertips, and I try to ignore the way my belly reacts. “Th-this is just to give your skin a bit of a glisten, like you’ve been exercising. You have enough color that I don’t need to add any tint to it,” I explain in a voice that sounds breathless even to my ears. Oh God!
Rogan says nothing, makes no comment, which is something else I find odd. Normally, he doesn’t miss a chance to tease or taunt me.
Touching him feels good. It feels too good. Right, even. At least touching him this way means I don’t have to worry about him touching me in return. I don’t have to concern myself with keeping hidden things that I don’t want him to see. With that in mind, I let myself go, just enough that I can really enjoy having my hands on him.
His skin is so smooth and warm. Supple. I can feel the reaction in every muscle I touch. It incites a corresponding squeeze in my stomach.
I’m so caught up in these sensations, in this moment, that I find myself asking about his tattoo in order to prolong the pleasure of the skin-against-skin contact.
“What does it mean?” I ask, tracing the angry-looking letters that span the top of his back from shoulder to shoulder. At first glance, I thought it was just some sort of tribal tattoo. It looked a little like a twist of teeth or claws. But on closer inspection, I can see that there are letters intricately woven into the wicked-looking spikes.
“It’s Latin. Pugnare superesse. Vivere pugna. Fight to survive. Fight to live.”
Makes sense for a fighter, I suppose. It doesn’t register that the words might have a deeper meaning until I more closely examine his skin.