Tough Enough(53)

“The old man who owned the studio caught me watching one day. I thought for sure he’d tell me I could never come back, but he surprised me by being cool about it. Not too many people were nice to me for a lot of years, but he was one who was. He offered to teach me how to defend myself.

“He didn’t show me just one style, and none of the pretty stuff that they like to do at exhibitions. He taught me a little of everything—Muay Thai, Taekwondo, Krav Maga. He showed me how to take a man twice my size down to the ground. He didn’t instruct me like he did his students—that violence was a last resort. No, he taught me how to fight so that I could survive. He knew that, for me, to survive was to fight. And so I did. I fought to survive.”

As his story goes on, I feel the surge of satisfaction to come. Like watching a movie, knowing the climax is coming, I find myself anxious for Rogan to get to the part where he stands up to his dad, to get to the part where he finally gains his freedom.

But that’s not how his story goes.

“My time eventually came. I’d been looking forward to it for so long. I was practically swimming in satisfaction the first time I ever hit Dad back. He just looked at me and then turned around and walked off. I felt pretty damn good about it until the next day when he beat the shit out of Kurt with a phone book. My poor brother was bruised from head to toe. Bloody lip, busted nose, black eye, blue splotches all over his chest and stomach and back. Even his legs. Dad came into his room when Kurt was curled up on his bed and I was looking him over. He just stood in the doorway, staring at me. That’s when I knew. I knew I’d caused it. I’d caused him to hurt my little brother. That’s when I realized that I was stuck. That I’d have to suck it up and take it until I could find a way out. Or until Kurt could. And then we’d both be free.”

Behind my hand, I bite my lip. I don’t want to make a sound as the tears slip between my lashes and roll down my cheek to soak the pillowcase. I hurt for Rogan, for the little boy who lost so much, who had to endure so much. Within a few months, his entire life fell apart, yet here he is today—healthy and whole. And charming as the day is long. It’s obvious that his strength is much more than just physical. This man is a survivor. Down to his soul, he’s a survivor. And a winner.

“I’m so sorry, Rogan,” I offer in as steady a voice as I’m capable of, but even to my own ears it sounds watery and weak. I feel him stiffen behind me, so I roll my shoulders back and turn to meet his eyes. They’re dark in the low light and the set of his jaw is like steel. “What is it?”

“I told you I don’t want your pity.” I can hear that his teeth are gritted.

“I know you did. And you’re not getting pity. My heart hurts for the little boy who lost so much, but I feel nothing but admiration for the man, Rogan. The man you’ve become is . . . he’s amazing. I only wish I was as tough as you were. As you are.”

His expression softens and he leans forward to kiss the tip of my nose. When he relaxes behind me again, I melt into him, something I’m finding is surprisingly easy to do.

It’s nearly a full minute later when Rogan rises over me, his lips descending to cover mine. And when they do, I know the sad memories are over. He’s put them back where they need to be, where they can’t hurt him anymore.

Despite the heartbreaking conversation of moments before, a fire is kindled within seconds of his large palm skating down my stomach. He finds me unerringly. His fingers know the way to my core just like his words do. He touches me. Always he touches me, it seems.

I reach behind me to drive my fingers into Rogan’s hair, fisting them when his tongue slides between my lips. Gently, he tugs my top thigh up onto his legs and guides his tip to my entrance from behind. He hovers there, his mouth devouring mine, his fingertip back to tease between my folds. When he stills and lifts his head, I open my eyes to find him staring at me. We stay like this for endless seconds until, with his gaze locked onto mine, he eases into me, slow and deep.

He covers my mouth again, my gasp perfectly timed with the breath he exhales. I breathe him in, take as much of him as I can into my body. And it’s in these sweet, quiet moments that I realize I’ve never felt more myself than when Rogan is inside me.





TWENTY-TWO


Rogan

I don’t know what I expected when I woke up, but to be in bed alone at nearly noon wasn’t it. I can’t believe it’s so late! I haven’t slept that well in years. Maybe ever.

I roll over to face the sun streaming in around the shutters that cover the windows. The other side of the bed is cold. I guess Katie has been up for some time.