Burn for Me

His lips curved. A light, amused spark flashed in his eyes, and Mad Rogan laughed at me.

I threw my hands up and got to my feet. “I’m done talking to you.”

He got up, chuckling. “We could’ve gotten more out of her if you had let me choke her a little longer.”

“I think we got about as much as we were going to. You humiliated her. I’m guessing you were making out somehow and then you nearly killed her. She’ll be scarred for life.”

“And if she tried to choke me?”

“I would’ve shot her. I might have warned her first. I don’t know.” I frowned. “So, we know she is involved. She doesn’t know what’s in the deposit box.”

“They probably told her just enough to get her on board,” Mad Rogan said. “Still, we could’ve gotten more.”

I shook my head.

“What?” he asked.

“Rogan, I am not an idiot. By now you probably bugged her car and her house, cloned her phone, and slipped spyware into her computer. You terrified her, and you know she will snitch on you to whoever handles her and your people will be in on the conversation.”

He laughed again.

I pulled out my phone and texted Bern to ask him to search the net for some mention of the Change. Then I paused. She’d said Adam was just a glorified O’Reilly cow. I wondered if she’d meant O’Leary. Did someone call Adam that and she misheard, maybe?

We moved toward the nearest exit. The crowd had thinned out. It was just me and him.

“What’s a tactile?” I really shouldn’t have been asking him that.

His face blank, he didn’t answer.

I must’ve made him uncomfortable. “Never mind. I understand it’s probably personal. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I’m just thinking of the best way to explain,” Mad Rogan said. “My father survived nine assassination attempts. House Rogan always had its share of enemies. If we can see a threat, we can deal with it, but one can’t always see a sniper hiding in the dark. My father was obsessed with compensating for what he perceived as weakness. He wanted a child with telepathic magic in addition to his own telekinetic powers, so after careful consideration, he found my mother. She had a minor telekinetic talent and she was also a very powerful empath. My father had to go all the way to Europe to find the right combination of genes.”

“Where was your mother from?”

“Spain. She was Basque. My father wanted me to have a secondary talent and be a telekinetic sensate, someone who senses when they are being watched or targeted. But my telekinetic magic proved to be too strong, so instead I’m a tactile. I can make you feel touched.” He paused. “It would be easier if I showed you. Do I have permission?”

Yes. “No.” Being touched by Mad Rogan wasn’t a good idea.

We kept walking. What would it be like?

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

How would it feel?

Would it feel . . . oh hell.

“Okay.” I stopped. We were in front of a small alcove. Nobody was around. If I made an idiot out of myself, nobody would notice. “Just once.”

A soft burst of heat touched the back of my neck. I’d never felt anything like it before. It was as if someone had touched me with a heated mink glove, but the touch wasn’t soft, it was firm. It felt . . . it felt . . .

The heat slid down my neck, fast, over my spine, setting every single nerve on fire before melting in the small of my back, its echoes pulsing through me. My body sang. He’d strummed me like I was a guitar. I wanted him and I wanted him now.

“That was . . .” I saw his eyes. Words died.

All the hardness had vanished from his eyes. They were alive and heated from within. “You want me.”

“What?”

The magic warmth slid over my shoulders, melting into pure pleasure.

“I feel the feedback.” He took a step toward me, grinning. “Nevada, you’re a liar.”

Uh-oh. I backed up. “What feedback?”

“When I do this . . .” The heated pressure zinged from my back up my ribs. I gasped. Oh dear God. “. . . what you feel loops back to me. I’m partially empathic.”

“You didn’t mention that.” My heart was doing its best to break through my chest, and I couldn’t tell if it was alarm, lust, or some weird mix of both.

He grinned, coming closer. “The hotter you are, the hotter I am. And you’re on fire.”

My back hit the wall. He closed in with an almost terrifying intensity. His muscular body boxed me in.

“Rogan,” I warned. In my head, a song played over and over, singing to me in a seductive voice, Rogan, Rogan, Rogan, sex . . . want . . .

“Remember that dream you had?” His voice was low, commanding.

“Rogan!”

The delicious warmth danced around my neck.

“Where I had no clothes?”

The warmth split and slid over me, over the sensitive nerves in the back of my neck, over my collarbone, around my breasts, cupping them and sliding fast to the tips, tightening my nipples, then sliding down, over my stomach, over my sides and butt, down between my legs. It was everywhere at once, and it flowed over me like a cascade of sensual ecstasy, overloading my senses, overriding my reason, and rendering me speechless. I hurtled through it, trying to sort through the sensations and failing. My head spun.

He was right there, masculine, hot, sexy, so incredibly sexy, and I wanted to taste him. I wanted his hands on me. I wanted him to press himself against the aching spot between my legs.

His arms closed around me. His face was too close, his eyes enticing, compelling, excited. “Let’s talk about that dream, Nevada.”

I was trapped. I had nowhere to go. If he kissed me, I would melt right here. I would moan and beg him, and I would have sex with him right here, in the Galleria, in public.

A spark of pain drained down my arm, driven by pure instinct. I grabbed his shoulder. Feathery lightning shot out and singed him.

Agony exploded in me, cleansing like an ice-cold shower.

Rogan’s body jerked, as if struck by an electric current. It lasted only a second, and I didn’t push as hard as I could have. I was learning to control it.

Rogan whipped back to me, his eyes feral. His voice was a ragged growl. “Was that supposed to hurt?”

“It was supposed to get your attention.” I pushed him back with my hand. “You were getting really excited.”

“‘No’ would’ve been sufficient.”