by Regina Kyle
I cross to him, stepping over and around all the crap on the floor. Up close, I notice a bloody scrap of tissue stuck to one cheek. It should send his sex appeal into a nosedive, but instead it somehow increases it tenfold. I try my best to ignore the flash flood of lust coursing through my veins and wave a hand at the mess at his feet. “You call this fine?”
He glares at the contraption on his right arm. “This stupid fucking sling is making everything difficult. Why couldn’t I have landed on my left shoulder?”
“Here.” I bend and start picking stuff up. Toothbrush. Razor. Hair gel.
He snatches a tube of shaving cream from my fingers with his good hand. “I can do that.”
“Can you?” He bristles at the jibe, and I decide to change tack. Like my mother always says, you get more flies with sugar than vinegar. I don’t usually pay much attention to her pearls of so-called wisdom, but in this case, she might be on to something.
I dump the toiletries in the open drawer and lay a palm on Jake’s good shoulder. “I get it. You’re frustrated. You’re used to doing things for yourself. But it’s okay to ask for help once in a while. Especially when you’re hurt.”
He stares at the tube of shaving cream in his hand. “It’s humiliating. I’m a grown-ass man, and I can’t even shave myself.”
I pat the toilet seat. “Sit. I’ll do it.”
His gaze shoots to mine. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” I retrieve the razor from the drawer and hold it aloft like it’s the sword of Gryffindor.
“You look like Sweeney freaking Todd.” He eyes me skeptically but lowers himself gently onto the toilet, peeling the tissue off his cheek and tossing it into the garbage. “I’m not sure I should let you near my face with a sharp object.”
“Sondheim?” My lips curl into a smile. “I’m impressed.”
“You can’t grow up with a theater geek without a little of it rubbing off on you, no matter how much you resist.”
He smiles back, and my heart, which had almost regained its normal rhythm, starts racing like an Indy car again. It’s those damn dimples. They should be illegal.
I hold out my hand for the shaving cream, and his fingers brush mine as he places it in my palm. A zing of awareness buzzes from the point of contact straight to my girly parts.
Great. Now my heart and my hormones are out of control. This is going to be harder than I thought. I’m trembling inside and out, anticipation of what I’m about to do making me shiver. I’m going to wind up either cutting him or kissing him.
Maybe both.
But it’s too late to back out now. I’ll have to take my chances and hope for the best. Whatever that is.
I set the razor down on the vanity and squirt a dollop of shaving cream into my palm, rubbing my hands together to work up a lather. “Sit still.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a smirk.
But the smirk disappears when my hands cup his cheeks. He sucks in a breath that echoes in the cavernous room as I spread the cool, sweet-smelling foam on the lower half of his face. His skin is hot under my hands, his stubble tickles my palms and I don’t know how long I can last without giving in to temptation, climbing into his lap and planting a kiss on those full, firm lips.
After a few seconds of torture, I stand back to admire my handiwork and reach for the razor.
“Are you ready?” I ask shakily.
“Are you?”
His eyes meet mine, and the raw, carnal need I see in their chocolate depths stuns me to the core. I’m almost positive it’s reflected back in my own. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. If you don’t count yesterday in his kitchen.
“Sit still,” I pant. I’m having trouble catching my breath. You’d think I just finished a triathlon.
“You said that already.”
“R-right.” I stammer. “I just don’t want to cut you. You’ve been injured enough for one twenty-four-hour period.”
“You won’t.” He takes my free hand in his and squeezes. I expect him to release it, but he laces his fingers with mine and holds tight, his thumb tracing distracting patterns on the back of my hand.
I lean against the vanity to steady myself and lift the razor to his face, running it slowly, carefully down one cheek. For the next few minutes, the only sounds in the bathroom are the soft scrape of the blade and our increasingly ragged breathing. It’s the most intimate, sensual, erotic thing I’ve ever done. Counting yesterday in his kitchen.
“Turn your head,” I order when the side of his face closest to me is clean-shaven.
He does, but on the way around his gaze snags mine again, piercing me with white-hot shards of desire. “I’m starting to think dislocating my shoulder is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Nightingale.”
“Nightingale?” I’ve been called a lot of things but a bird known for its powerful and beautiful song isn’t one of them. I’m guessing that’s because I’m tone deaf. The only thing you’ll catch me singing is “Love Shack” on the occasional karaoke night with the gals in my darts league, and that’s only after a minimum of two drinks and a whole lot of prodding from my posse.
“As in Florence,” Jake explains, mischief waring with the desire in his dark eyes. “My own personal, private duty nurse.”
“Executive concierge,” I correct, my voice so thick with need I barely recognize it.
Tentatively, I rinse the razor, then silently slide it down his stubbled cheek. The air between us is hot and heavy with sexual tension as I continue the process—rinse, scrape, rinse, scrape—until his skin is smooth.
“There.” I trade the razor for a towel and hand it to him. “All done.”
“Not quite.” He pats his face dry and tosses the towel into the sink.
“Do you need my help with something else?”
“You could say that.”
He stands, and I try but can’t suppress a little gasp at the huge erection tenting the towel still miraculously clinging to his waist.
“So you see the problem.”
I’d have to be blind not to.
He hooks a thumb under the towel, and it slips down a little lower. Seriously, at this point it has to be divine intervention holding that thing up.
“Any idea what to do about it?” he asks, his voice as rough and needy as mine.
Oh, I’ve got a few. All of them delicious and dirty. The question is, will I stick around long enough to do any of them? Or am I going to chicken out and run away?
Again.
He must sense my hesitation, because his expression gets all serious and he takes a step back, putting some space between us. “Look, I don’t want to pressure you. But unless I’m way off base, I’m not the only one who’s horny as hell right now.”
I think about lying. But he’s not blind, either, and my body’s telling a different story. I glance down at my chest. My nipples are practically poking holes through my Keep Calm and Be a Unicorn T-shirt. There’s no way he’s missing that.
“You’re not way off base,” I rasp. “But...”
He closes the gap between us and touches a finger to my lips, silencing me. “If there’s one word I hate almost as much as no, it’s but. We’re two consenting adults who want to jump each other’s bones. What’s wrong with that?”
I shoot a worried glance at his sling. “What about your shoulder?”
“The last time I checked, that’s not the appendage I need for what I have in mind.”
As if to prove his point, he uses his good arm to pull me to him, the evidence of his arousal pressing against my belly. I let myself relax into him, my reasons for resisting becoming dimmer and dimmer by the second.
“Does that mean what I think it means?” he asks, the hand on my back dropping down to cup my ass.
“That depends.” I’m hot e
verywhere, the ache between my legs sharpening into a persistent, almost painful throbbing. “What do you think it means?”
“I think it means you want me to do this.”
But before I can find out what “this” is, the tinny tones of Men at Work’s “Who Can It Be Now” ring out from the bedroom, making me tense in his arms.
Or, more accurately, arm.
“Shit. My cell phone.”
“Ignore it,” he growls, splaying his fingers across my ass cheek and squeezing.
“I can’t. It might be work.” The second the words are out of my mouth, I want to suck them back in. When I left DK&G, I swore I was done letting my job control my life. But I should have walked Roscoe and been back at the office—aka my apartment—for our morning meeting by now. Aaron and Erin are probably camped out in the hallway outside my door, picturing me lying in the gutter somewhere.
Reluctantly—and gently, being careful not to jar his injured shoulder—I worm my way out of Jake’s embrace and make a beeline for my purse, managing to fish out my phone and swipe the screen to answer before it stops ringing.
“Hey, Aaron. Or Erin. Sorry I’m late. I got held up with Roscoe. But I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Held up?” Jake mutters with a smug smile as he breezes by me on his way to the dresser. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
I wave him off with my phone-free hand, using all my Jedi mind powers to brainwash him into keeping his big mouth shut. If my coworkers find out I’ve been playing house with him, I’ll never hear the end of it.
He yanks a pair of boxer briefs from one of the dresser drawers, and I turn my attention back to the phone. Sure, I’m tempted to watch him drop the towel so he can get dressed. What woman with a pulse and half a brain wouldn’t be? But I’m afraid the sight will render me speechless, and then Aaron—or Erin—will definitely think I’ve gone off the deep end.
“Why don’t you guys go to the Starbucks on the corner and get a couple of lattes,” I suggest. “On me. I’ll text you when I get off the subway at 28th Street.”
That ought to keep them happy. I grab my purse from the bed, ready to make yet another quick exit. It’s becoming a pattern with us. At this rate, I should just have little sympathy notes printed up. Sorry for giving you a case of the blue balls, Jake. Better luck next time.
“Thanks for the offer,” the voice on the other end of the phone says. “But seeing as I’m almost three thousand miles away in San Diego, I’ll have to pass.”
“Brie.”
Shit. I was in such a hurry to answer, I didn’t bother to check the screen before I swiped right, just assuming it was one of the Aarons. Or is it Erins? Whatever. The point is, if I had seen it was Jake’s sister, I would have let the call go to voicemail. It’s majorly uncomfortable trying to have a casual conversation with her brother in my peripheral vision, wearing only those damn boxer briefs. The way they hug his tight ass and muscular thighs...
Damn.
Nevertheless, I persist.
“Hey, girl.” My voice sounds unnaturally high, even to my ears. I clear my throat and make a conscious effort to sound less like Minnie Mouse on helium. “How’s things on the West Coast?”
Jake catches my eye and mouths, “My sister?”
I nod.
“Are you okay?” Brie asks, completely bypassing my question. “You sound funny. Like you’re at the bottom of a well or something.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just busy. Lots of errands on the schedule today.”
“Well, I hope you have time to squeeze in one more as a favor to a friend. Have you walked Roscoe yet today?”
“No...” I hedge. “I’m, uh, on my way there now.”
“Good. I’m worried about my brother. Connor told me he got hurt last night.”
“You talked to Connor?” My gaze flicks to Jake, who’s struggling to pull on a pair of sweatpants one-handed.
“Shit,” he mutters.
I hold the phone away from my mouth. “He told Brie about your...accident.”
Jake scrubs a hand over his freshly shaved jaw. “I should have known he couldn’t keep his trap shut. I didn’t want her to worry about me.”
“Are you still there?” Brie asks as I bring the phone back up to my face.
“I’m here,” I assure her. “What do you want me to do?”
I know what I want to do. Jake. But I doubt that’s what his sister has in mind.
“I’ve been trying to reach him, but he’s not answering his phone. Can you check on him for me? Make sure he’s okay on his own? Connor said the doctor recommended someone stay with him for a few days until his shoulder was feeling stronger, but my brother, in typical alpha male fashion, nixed that idea. Connor even offered to get him a home health aide, but he said he didn’t want some stranger in his space.”
I look over at him. He’s sitting on the corner of the bed, fighting to get a T-shirt on over his sling. Stubborn idiot. “Yeah, that sounds like Jake.”
“What sounds like me?” he asks through the shirt that’s now covering his face.
“Tell you what.” I speak into the phone, ignoring him. “I’ll do better than that.”
What I’m about to propose is either the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had or the most dangerous. Or both. I take a deep breath and plunge forward.
“I’m not a stranger. I’ll stay with him.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jake
“ARE YOU SURE this is everything?” I eye the stack of bags by the door. “You don’t have another, say, ten suitcases with the doorman downstairs?”
It’s the day after Ainsley announced that she’s moving in with me, and now I understand why it took her twenty-four hours to get her stuff together. Hell, I’m surprised she was able to do it that fast.
“It’ll do for now.” For now? “If I need to, I can always grab more stuff from my place.”
“You mean there’s more where all this came from?” The bag on top of the pile starts to teeter, and I reach out my lone remaining functional hand to steady it. “I find that hard to believe.”
She cocks her head and shoots a meaningful glance my way. “It’s nice to see being an invalid hasn’t made you lose your sense of humor.”
“I’m not an invalid,” I protest. “I can take care of myself. Even with one hand strapped to my chest.”
“If that’s true, then why did you agree to let me stay?” she asks.
“Because if I didn’t, my sister would have been on a plane to JFK faster than you could say overprotective.”
And because if we’re living under the same roof, maybe there’s a chance we’ll finally finish what we started in the kitchen. And the bathroom.
She gives me a saucy smirk. “Funny, that’s not the way I see it. If it wasn’t for me, you’d have a face full of way-past-five-o’clock-shadow right now instead of that sexy stubble you’re sporting.”
I see her smirk and raise her a cheeky grin. “You think my stubble is sexy?”
If she says yes, I’m keeping it, no matter how goddamn itchy it is.
But she doesn’t say yes. Then again, she doesn’t say no, either. Instead, she snatches up one of the bags and blows past me into my apartment. Roscoe, who’s snoozing on the sofa—even though his dog bed is mere feet away in front of the fireplace—lifts his head to see what all the commotion is about. He looks around briefly, then lets it fall back down onto the cushion with a loud whoosh, apparently not interested enough in what’s going on to stir from his slumber.
Lazy fuck.
“Where do you want me to put my stuff?” Ainsley asks as she descends the three steps that lead from the entryway into the living area.
“I’ll show you your room.” With my good arm, I grab the suitcase on top of the stack and follow her. “Then you can settle in wh
ile I go make sure things are running smoothly at the club.”
I’m expecting a call from my contact in Miami. We’re close to signing on the dotted line for ten thousand square feet of rental space in the heart of South Beach. Then I’ve got to approve the new drink menu, order supplies for our first Big Apple Bollywood Blowout at the end of the month, hire a new bartender to replace the one who quit without notice last week...
Ainsley stops so short I almost plow into her. “Not so fast, Speed Racer. I’m under strict orders not to let you anywhere near Top Shelf.”
“Let me guess,” I drawl, sarcasm dripping from every word. “My sister?”
She shakes her head, whipping her loose ponytail from side to side, and the scent of her shampoo wafts over me. Summery, like coconut and fruit salad and sunshine. And so damn tempting. I want to rip out her hair band and bury my face in her sweet-smelling curls.
Christ. What the hell is wrong with me? This woman is turning me into a hair-sniffing horn dog.
“Nope.” She turns to face me. The smirk is gone, replaced by a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “Connor.”
A shard of white-hot jealousy pierces my midsection. What the hell is my best friend and business partner doing with my dog walk—er, executive concierge? How do they even know each other? Unless they met the other night at the club. I’m almost positive Ainsley stayed with me until the ambulance came. Somewhere in the dim recesses of my mind are fuzzy memories of her squeezing my hand—the one at the end of my uninjured arm, of course—and murmuring faint but firm reassurances in my ear as I lay on the edge of the dance floor. But I don’t remember Connor being there until later, at the hospital.
But who knows? Anything’s possible. I was in too much pain to pay much attention to what was going on around me. And once the EMTs got there, they drugged me up so good I was practically comatose.
My grip on the handle of her suitcase tightens. I know if I look down I’ll see the whites of my knuckles, but my eyes are locked on hers. “Since when are you and Connor having heart-to-heart chats?”
“Since Brie gave him my number. He figured you might try something like this.”