Renegade Riders; Forbidden Desire

I quietly let myself into the apartment, not wanting to wake Rouger if he’d pulled another all-nighter. I’d been out with my girls, hitting the bars, and I knew if he had, he’d be passed out on the couch. Continuing my quiet actions, I set my purse down on the table beside the door. Then, slipping off my heels, I let out a silent sigh of relief; I loved the damn things, but s**t, they made my feet hurt. Moving toward the living room on silent feet, I came to a sudden stop and froze. Oh my God! Is he… My thoughts trailed off as my mouth fell open. Though all I could see was the back of his head and the upper portion of his shoulders, there was no mistaking what Rouger was doing—he was jerking off. The motherfucker was m**********g on my couch, and I didn’t know whether to be livid or aroused. As I stepped the rest of the way through the doorway, the moans of a woman came from the laptop facing him on the coffee table. As a particularly loud cry erupted from the laptop, I snarled, “What the f**k are you doing, Rouger?” “s**t, Mel, if you can’t figure that out, how the hell have you made it this far in life,” he chuckled, not missing a beat in his rhythmic stroking. He had the audacity to look over his shoulder with a smug grin, his piercing green eyes gleaming with amusement at my flustered state. “You’re such a piece of work,” I shot back, trying to keep my cool. “You’re here to help me remodel this place, not to jerk off on my freaking couch! I’m not paying you for that!” I’d purchased the old victorian on my twenty-second birthday; it needed a hell of a lot of work, but I’d fallen in love with it the moment I’d laid eyes on it. And now this jerk…this jerk was… My thoughts cut off as Rouger’s grin grew wider, and he drawled, “Just enjoying the scenery, darlin’. Didn’t expect company yet.” He leaned back into the couch, his bulging biceps flexing with every movement of his hand. The sight was too much; I felt my cheeks flush, my heart stutter in my chest. Dammit, what he was doing shouldn’t be so f*****g interesting. With a low growl I couldn’t suppress, I quipped, “Well, keep your d**k in your pants from now on, Rouger. And for the love of all that’s holy, if you’ve already…just clean up after yourself, okay?” He chuckled again, a low rumble that made my stomach flip. “You know, Mel,” he drawled, “you’ve got a mouth on you.” His smirk curved into a full-blown grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’ve got other things that can fill that mouth of yours, if you’re interested,” he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive growl that made my knees wobble. I rolled my eyes, trying to play it cool, though inside my thoughts raced. “You wish,” I said, my voice a little breathier than I intended. “Besides, you’re, like, ancient. My dad’s age. It’s weird.” Damn this man. He raised an eyebrow, still stroking himself with a slow, easy rhythm. “Age is just a number, darlin’. And I can still ride better than most of these young bucks.” The tension in the room amped up about a hundred degrees. He was baiting me, and I knew it; balling his best friend’s daughter was not a move Rouger would ever make. “Whatever, Roug,” I said nonchalantly, snorting as I crossed my arms over my chest. “But keep your ancient d**k to yourself. I’m going to bed.” “Mel,” he called after me, his voice like gravel coated in whiskey. “You sure you don’t need a goodnight kiss?” I spun on my heel, throwing him a look that could’ve set fire to his beard. “I’ve got my vibrator. I don’t need your mouth.” But Lord have mercy, if my imagination didn’t run wild with what his full lips and tongue could do to me. As I stomped off toward my room, his laughter followed me down the hallway. It was infectious, and despite my annoyance, I couldn’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. The man was insufferable, but he had a way of getting under my skin that no one else did. ~~ The smell of bacon and eggs filled the apartment as I stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen, my stomach growling at the aroma. Hair sleep-tousled and eyes squinting in the harsh light, I gazed at the bare contours of Rouger’s back. The man was out of his ever-loving mind. Only someone insane would cook bacon shirtless. With a shake of my head, I blinked several times to make sure I was actually seeing what I thought I was. No mistake. All that tanned flesh paraded itself in front of the stove. The dimwit deserved whatever he got. But f**k me if it wasn’t niiiice flesh. “Mornin’, Sunshine,” he greeted without turning, his voice a deep, dangerous-on-the-hormones purr. Blowing out a silent breath, I pushed the temptation he was presenting away, grousing instead, “Seriously? You’re making breakfast at four in the morning?” Even as the words left my lips, my eyes devoured the way his jeans hung low on his hips, showing the twin dimples proudly positioned above his…oh my God, that ass. That beautiful, perfectly sculpted…ass! Lost in staring at how deliciously his butt filled his jeans, I was snapped out of my thoughts when, with a practiced flick of the spatula, he answered my forgotten question. “Any time's a good time for breakfast, darlin’.” As if on cue, my stomach growled. Placing my hand on the betrayer as it continued to grumble, I reminded him, “You’re not staying here to play house, Rouger.” Rouger chuckled, the sound sending its usual shiver down my spine. “Relax, darlin’. Just don’t want you thinkin’ all I’m good for is lookin’ hot as hell, carpentry, and ridin’ bikes.” “Jesus, Rouger, you’re so full of yourself,” I laughed, unable to help myself. Going over to the table, I pulled out a chair and plopped down, still watching Rouger play Betty Crocker in front of my stove. Minutes later, he set a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me before placing a cup of coffee on the table. He pulled out a chair and sat. Glancing from my plate to his cup of coffee, I asked, “You not eating?” He shook his head. “Done did,” he answered simply. Okaaay, I thought as I picked up my fork and poked at my food, trying not to stare at the tattoos dancing across Rouger’s arms like a story I hadn’t been told. After sipping his coffee, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “So, Mel,” he started, his voice low and gravelly, “you got any plans for the day?” Dragging my eyes away from the little hairs dotting the top of his bare toes, I muttered, a little too high-pitched, “Just work. Why? You got somethin’ in mind?” He grinned, that damnable smirk that made my knees want to buckle. “Not sure. Maybe hang out with you?” “Well, my day’s going to be pretty lame. I wouldn’t want you to get bored,” I shot back, trying to keep my emotions in check. As a teenager, if I wasn’t hanging around the garage inhaling motor oil and exhaust fumes, or at the bar with Dad, I was holed up in my room, writing stories I hoped one day to publish. I never dreamed that fantasy would come true. Yet here I was, a published author of erotic literature—many of my stories fueled by the very man sitting across from me. Rouger took another sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. “Bored? Not with you, darlin’,” he teased with a wink. The way he said it, so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, made my heart stumble. “You’re just saying that,” I laughed lightly. But inside, things were warming. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Am I now?”