7. Sierra
CHAPTER SEVEN
SIERRA
I should be anticipating the delicious meal Rogan prepared, but my mind is consumed with him. And with the way he’s looking at me.
I make a big show of tucking my napkin in my lap, but my hands are shaking, so I have a hard time laying it flat. Smooth. My pre-dinner wine did very little to settle my ping-ponging nerves.
Rogan slides into the chair at the head of the table. He doesn’t say a word at first, just lifts his wine glass in my direction. The blue-gray of his eyes catches the overhead light, sharp and weirdly gentle. “To new beginnings,” he says, voice low.
I raise my glass to meet his, and blurt out the one phrase echoing around my mind. “To dessert,” I return. His mouth quirks into a smile that could melt steel. Is it possible to spontaneously combust from across a table? Because that’s where I’m at right now.
We eat in a weird, companionable silence for a minute, the only sound the clink of silverware and the dull thump of my heart in my ears.
I’m about halfway through the best steak of my life before I realize I haven’t actually tasted any of it.
My mouth is on autopilot, chewing and swallowing, while every other part of me is busy watching Rogan’s hands.
The way they move, careful and precise, slicing through his steak like he’s performing surgery.
The veins on the back of his hand stand out just a little, and I can’t stop picturing how those same hands would feel on my bare skin, splayed wide over my hips, or cradling the back of my head while he—
“How is it?” he says, and I jump so hard I nearly drop my fork on the ground.
“It’s amazing.” At least it smells delicious.
We fall into small talk, which is weirdly not awkward at all.
Halfway through, we reach for the casserole dish at the same time, and our fingers brush.
It’s nothing, just skin on skin, but the contact zaps up my arm like static electricity.
I look up, and he’s already looking at me, mouth half-open like he’s about to say something but can’t remember what it was.
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that it’s just the two of us in this big, empty house.
The table is wide enough to seat ten, but we’re both huddled at one end, knees almost touching under the wood.
Rogan leans back in his chair, watching me with a focus that turns my insides to goo.
For a second, he looks like he might come around the table and drag me into his lap.
And I’m not going to lie, I want him to.
Instead, he clears his throat and asks, “You ever ride horses?”
It’s such a left-field question, it knocks me out of my own head. “Not really. Closest I ever came was a field trip to a petting zoo. I think the horse’s name was Princess Fluffy.”
He snorts, genuine and unrestrained, and I love the way it transforms his face. “We’ll have to fix that. We have some good ones here. No Princess Fluffy though. I’ll take you on a tour of the ranch.”
I grin. “I’d love a tour.”
For a second, all my tension dissolves, and I’m just here with him. I could sit here and banter all night, but every time he smiles at me, the urge to climb into his lap intensifies by a factor of ten. We lapse into another silence, this one more charged than before.
We linger over the last bites of food, not in any hurry to move on.
The sun has set, but the room is warm with low light and the hush of nighttime insects through the open window.
I finish the steak but can’t remember a single thing about eating it.
I just know that my cheeks hurt from smiling and my heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way through my ribcage.
When the plates are empty, Rogan leans back and regards me with a look that’s all heat and no filter. “Still want to watch a movie?” he asks, but I can tell from the way his jaw flexes that he’s not really thinking about movies.
I open my mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a laugh. “I can think of better ways to end the night.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah?” He stands slowly, and the scrape of his chair on the floor is the only sound in the world. He walks to my side of the table, stops just short of touching me. I tip my chin up to meet his gaze, daring him to make a move.
“You promised me dessert,” I say, and my voice is steady as hell.
He’s still for a second, but then something in his expression shifts, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing.
The moment stretches, electric, neither of us willing to be the first to break. But I don’t move. I just look at him, daring him, wanting him, waiting.
It’s his move.
He reaches for me, and everything in my brain goes blinding, white-hot.
One second, I’m sitting at his large dining room table, and the next, Rogan’s got me flush against him like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
He kisses me like he’s been starving for me.
There’s nothing slow or sweet about it. It’s fierce, desperate, a collision that knocks the last of the air out of my lungs.
His mouth slants over mine, tongue demanding entry, and I give it without a thought.
The stubble on his chin burns my skin in the best possible way.
The low, helpless growl that escapes him goes straight to my knees.
He tastes like wine and something darker, something that has me dizzy with need.
I lose track of where my hands are. One’s on his neck, fingers digging into the thick muscles at the base of his skull, while the other slips under his shirt, palm hot on his bare skin.
He’s so solid, all muscle and power and impossible heat.
He tears his mouth away from mine, breathing so hard his chest heaves. His eyes are wild, pupils blown black, and he stares at me like he’s trying to memorize every detail.
“Are you sure?” His voice is rough as gravel, but there’s something soft in it, too. A thread of care. “After I make you mine, I’m fucking keeping you.”
That sounds like heaven. There’s nothing in the universe I want more than him. “I want you,” I say, and my voice comes out thick and shaky. “I’ve never wanted anything so bad in my life.”
His jaw flexes, like he’s fighting for control. “Say it again.”
I stare right back, daring him. “I want you. Here. Now.”
He grins, wolfish and sharp, then scoops me up like I weigh nothing. I yelp, wrapping my arms around his neck as he carries me out of the dining room, through the silent, shadowed house, and up the stairs two at a time. My heart is hammering so hard it drowns out everything else.
We reach his bedroom, and he kicks the door open, sets me down just inside the threshold, and lets it click closed behind us. The soft lamplight makes everything glow, golden and honey, and for a second, he just looks at me, taking it all in.
I’m breathing hard, flushed and trembling, but I’ve never felt more alive.
He doesn’t give me time to be nervous. He closes the last inch between us and kisses me again, slower this time, like he wants to savor every damn second. His hands are gentler, too. One cups my cheek, and his thumb traces my jaw, while the other draws lazy circles up and down my spine.
He pulls back just enough to whisper, “I’ve been dying for a taste of you.”
I slide my hands up his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my fingers. “Then hurry up and get to it,” I whisper as my patience evaporates.
He kisses me, deep and thorough, and the last of my doubts melts away.
We’re in this together now.
He’s so gentle with me, which is ridiculous considering the size and strength of him.
He lays me down on the bed like I’m precious cargo, then stretches out beside me, propped on one elbow.
The mattress dips beneath us, just enough to tip me toward his heat, and the whole room smells like him—soap, cologne, and something sharp and dark that settles into my bones.
For a moment, he just watches me. No words, no pressure, just that intense stare, as if he wants to memorize every detail. I feel bare, even fully clothed, but it’s not a bad feeling. Not even a little. For the first time in years, I want someone to see me exactly as I am.
He reaches out, brushes his fingers across my jaw. His touch is feather-light, as if he’s not sure I’ll let him get away with it. I grab his wrist and press his palm to my cheek, firm. I want more, not less.
He takes the cue, leans down, and kisses me again, but now it’s slow, deliberate.
He takes his time, exploring my mouth, teasing out little sounds I didn’t even know I could make.
His hands map the slope of my neck, the curve of my shoulder, sliding up into my hair to tilt my head the way he wants.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing hard, like we’ve run a marathon without moving.
I reach for his shirt and try to pull it off, but the buttons are stubborn, and my fingers are clumsy.
He laughs, low and rough, and bats my hands away so he can do it himself.
The sound makes me bold, so I grab the hem and tug until he lifts his arms and lets me peel it off.
His body steals my breath. Broad shoulders.
Chest dusted with dark hair. Scars old and new mapped across his skin.
A tiny, pale line right over his ribs that I want to kiss, so I do.
He hisses in a breath, eyes going glassy for a second. “You keep doing that, and I’m going to lose it,” he warns.
I grin up at him. “Maybe I want you to.”
He shakes his head, grinning back, then leans down so his nose nuzzles my throat.
His hands work my shirt over my head, tangling a little in my hair, but I don’t care.
I’ve never been more aware of my own skin than in this moment.
His touch is reverent and greedy at the same time.
He traces every inch like he’s committing it to memory.
He kisses down my neck, over my collarbone, nipping lightly at my shoulder. I arch into him, desperate for more, and he chuckles, hot breath ghosting over my chest. He slides his hands under my bra and cups me, thumbs brushing over the fabric until my nipples go tight and aching.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, and the rawness in his voice makes my heart stutter. “You’re perfect.”
He kisses me again, softer this time, then pops the clasp with practiced ease. My bra goes somewhere off the side of the bed, and suddenly, there’s nothing between us but air and the heat of his gaze.
He stares down at me, and I feel electricity zip down my spine.
It’s crazy, but I don’t feel self-conscious. Not at all. I want him to see everything.