Chapter 2: Behind Closed Doors
The champagne flutes sat forgotten on the kitchen counter, their bubbles long dead. The only light came from the city beyond the windows and the muted, pulsing track still playing from the sound system. Rogan’s hand was still over hers, pressing her palm against the thunder of his heart.
She flexed her fingers, feeling the hard ridge of his pectoral muscle. “So this is where you live,” she said, her voice lower than usual.
“Barely,” he breathed, his own voice thick. “Mostly it’s just a place to crash between gigs. Shower. Change.” He leaned his forehead against hers again. “Bring the occasional breathtaking woman.”
His other hand came up to trace the line of the gold body chain where it curved over her shoulder. The touch was feather-light, a whisper against her skin. “This is a crime, you know.”
“What is?”
“Wearing this out in public. It should be a private viewing. A felony of distraction.” His fingers followed the chain down, skimming the side of her breast, making her breath hitch. “You have no idea what you do to a room.”
“I have some idea,” she countered, finding her playful footing again. “You have no idea what you do taking your shirt off in one.”
He laughed, a soft puff of air against her lips. “Fair.” His smile faded as his gaze searched her face. “But that’s the act. The spectacle.” He moved her hand from his chest, lacing his fingers through hers instead. The gesture was unexpectedly tender. “This isn’t.”
He led her away from the windows, through the living area and down a short hallway. The bedroom door was open. Inside, the space was dominated by a massive bed, low and draped in sheer, rumpled linen. The wall opposite was floor-to-ceiling glass, revealing a narrower but more intimate slice of the night sea.
It was spartan. A closed laptop on a simple desk. A few hardcover books stacked on the floor. A single framed photograph of him and Marco, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, laughing in what looked like a pub. It felt temporary, like a very stylish hotel room.
Rogan paused on the threshold. The performer’s swagger was gone, replaced by a quiet focus. He turned to face her, his back to the dark room.
“Last chance to back out,” he said, his tone serious. “The music’s off. The crowd’s gone. It’s just me.”
Casey reached up, her fingers finding the delicate clasp of the body chain at the nape of her neck. It was a complicated little mechanism. She fumbled with it.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Need a hand?”
“Apparently.”
He stepped close, his large hands impossibly gentle as they brushed her hair aside. His focus was absolute, his brow slightly furrowed. The metal clicked open. The chain lost its tension, slithering down her torso like liquid gold before pooling with a soft chime at their feet.
He didn’t move to touch her further. He just looked, his eyes traveling over her with a reverence that felt nothing like the hungry stares of the rooftop. This was appreciation, pure and simple.
“Jesus,” he whispered, almost to himself.
Then his hands were on her waist, pulling her against him. The kiss wasn’t like the teasing, public one from the lounge. This was all hunger and heat, a claiming and an offering all at once. His mouth was insistent, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him. He tasted like champagne and salt and man.
He walked her backward into the room, their mouths never parting. The back of her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she sank down, pulling him with her. He followed, his weight a welcome press.
What happened next was a blur of sensation, a dismantling of composure. His hands were everywhere, mapping her with a startling thoroughness. He wasn’t hurried. He explored the heavy weight of her breasts, the dramatic dip of her waist, the sweeping curve of her hip as if committing her to memory.
His own body was a landscape of taut skin and corded muscle. She ran her hands over the mountains of his shoulders, the valleys between his abdominals, the powerful columns of his thighs. It was anatomy, but it was art. It was physics—leverage and tension.
He paused, bracing himself above her, his arms trembling slightly. “You’re staring,” he said, a grin tugging at his kiss-swollen lips.
“I’m a model,” she breathed, her own hands sliding down his back. “I appreciate form.”
He laughed, but it caught in his throat as she arched beneath him. The dynamic shifted. His practiced control began to fray. A sharp gasp escaped him when she nipped at his earlobe. A shudder rolled through him when she raked her nails lightly down his spine.
“Casey,” he warned, his voice ragged.
“What?” she teased, shifting her hips. “Not used to someone who knows how to look back?”
His answer was a deep, claiming kiss. The rest of their clothes were discarded in a haphazard trail from bed to floor. The world narrowed to the feel of his skin against hers, the slide of sweat, the shocking intimacy of being fully known by a stranger.
There was no performance now. The stripper’s precise, theatrical movements were gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded. His confidence remained, but it was no longer a shield. It was an offering. He watched her face constantly, his eyes dark and intent, learning what made her gasp, what made her nails dig into his arms, what made her whisper his name like a plea.
For her, it was liberation. In her work, her body was a still object, a thing to be framed and lit. Here, it was a catalyst, alive and powerful. She could move, she could take, she could demand. And she did.
Later, they lay tangled in the wreckage of the sheets. The moon had risen, casting a silver path across the water and onto the foot of the bed. Rogan was on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest rising and falling steadily. Casey was curled on her side, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns through the crisp dark hair on his chest.
The silence was comfortable, dense with the memory of what they’d just shared.
“Marco owes me another fifty,” Rogan said, his voice sleep-rough and smug.
Casey lifted her head. “What for?”
“I bet him you wouldn’t stay the night.”
She pinched his side, making him flinch and chuckle. “Arrogant bastard.”
“Realist,” he corrected, moving his arm to look at her. His face was softer in the dim light, the sharp angles blurred. “Most people, after that… they want to go. It gets too real. Or they just wanted the story. ‘I fucked the stripper from Dreamboyz.’”
She propped herself up on an elbow. “And you don’t mind being a story?”
He shrugged, the muscles moving under her touch. “It’s part of the gig. But here? Now?” He turned his head to look at her fully. “I’m not a story right now. I’m just a guy who brought a beautiful woman home and got his mind thoroughly blown.”
She smiled, laying her head back down. “Good answer.”
They lapsed back into silence. The hum of the distant city was a lullaby. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart under her cheek.
“What about you?” he asked after a while. “The model. Do you get tired of being looked at?”
She considered it. “Sometimes. But not like this. This wasn’t being looked at.” She glanced up at him. “This was being seen.”
He didn’t reply with words. He just tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer. His lips brushed her forehead.
Sleep was pulling at them, warm and heavy. Just before she slipped under, Rogan’s voice came again, quiet and clear in the dark.
“Tomorrow’s my day off. The tourists are doing some stupid yacht poker run. The beach will be empty.” He paused. “Come with me.”
It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a confident proposition. It was a question, hanging in the salt-scented air.
Casey didn’t open her eyes. She just nestled closer, her leg sliding over his.
“Yeah,” she murmured into his skin. “Okay.”