by J. Daniels
“Good. Shit’s settled. No more apologizing.”
Her mouth tips up in the corner.
I jerk my chin at the stove. “Now turn around so I can go back to watching your cute little ass making me eggs,” I order.
Riley narrows her eyes while fighting an even bigger smile.
I don’t fight shit. I give her my grin because I want her seeing it.
“Friends don’t do that,” she informs me with some sass before spinning back around.
“Friends don't do what?”
“Look at each other’s asses. That’s not a friendly thing to do.”
“Fuck that,” I grumble. “What’d I say about adding rules to this shit?” I watch Riley shake her head as she takes the eggs off the heat and separates them onto two plates. “Babe, don’t even. The only way I’m not looking at your ass is if you quit having one. And I know you look at Beth’s so don’t play with me. Checking out asses is friendly.”
“Oh, my God,” Riley chuckles. She turns off the burner and carries over our plates, setting mine down in front of me. Our eyes lock over the top of the sink. “You probably think we make out all the time, don’t you? Like at sleepovers? French kissing is friendly too, right? Is that what you're going to tell me next?”
I stare at her with a straight face as she takes a bite of her eggs.
“What?” she asks around her mouthful, shielding her lips with the back of her hand.
I smile.
Her hand lowers and her mouth grows tight. “Really?” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “You’re picturing that, aren’t you? Me and her making out. You’re totally thinking about that.”
I take a bite of my eggs and give her a wink.
Yes, I am totally thinking about that.
Riley shakes her head and lowers her gaze to her plate. She takes another bite.
I do the same, chewing and swallowing before forking some more.
“These eggs are great. Cooked perfect,” I tell her, wanting her to know she fucking nailed breakfast, because she did.
Riley blinks up at me, stops chewing, and smiles. And I can see in her shining eyes and the way her back goes straight and her chest heaves with a relieved breath how much hearing that means to her. And it makes me wonder something.
Aside from all the bitching about shit he didn’t like, did that asshole ever compliment her when he did like something? Did he ever let her know she was appreciated?
My jaw clenches as I stare back, coming to my own conclusion.
He didn’t.
Fuck. Jesus Christ, that pisses me off. And that’s just shit I don’t get. Who the fuck wouldn’t want to see their woman looking like this? Smiling. Looking proud of herself. Who wouldn’t want to see her looking like this?
“What?” Riley asks, jarring my focus.
I blink, relax my jaw, and give her a weak grin. “Nothing,” I say, and Riley accepts that and grins back. I watch her go back to eating.
I do the same, and I do this thinking about all the ways I’m going to give her what she deserves.
I get back home later that night, pay the cab driver and send him on his way, then I make it up the driveway, going between my truck and Riley’s white Chevy Cruze. With the folded piece of paper held between my teeth, I hop up onto the porch, take the two steps to the front door, turn the knob and nudge it open using the foot of my crutch.
Riley turns at the sound of my entrance from where she’s standing at the stove. She flashes me a smile, then immediately rounds the counter and starts moving toward me.
My eyes fall to her tanned legs shifting under the hem of my hoodie she’s still wearing. Looks like she’s claimed that as hers.
I smirk around the paper in my mouth.
“Here. Let me take that,” Riley says, reaching up and taking the paper. She leans around me to push the door shut. “Hey, you got a boot.”
I hear her observation and watch her eyes fall to my foot when she straightens back up, but I got a question of my own that needs answering, and I don’t waste any time asking it.
“How was your test?”
Riley lifts her eyes to my face. She blinks, looking like the fact that I’m asking this means something big to her, which has me wondering about that shithead again, then gives me a proud smile and lifts her chin, stating, “I think I nailed it.”
“Babe.” I steady my crutch, then hold my hand up for her to high five.
She does, giggling.
“When do you find out?” I ask her.
“Couple weeks probably,” she answers, rolling her eyes and sighing heavily. “It takes my teacher forever to grade anything. She likes to torture us.”
“Make sure you share with me when you get the word. We’ll celebrate.”
Riley smiles big, letting me know she likes that plan. Then lifts the paper in the air she took from me. “Where do you want this?” she asks.
I gesture at the kitchen with my head. “Tack it up on the fridge for me, will you? It’s my schedule for PT.”
“Oh,” she says with interest, unfolding it to read as she turns around and heads where I direct her.
I follow behind but cut a right and make for the couch.
“Hey, I can take you to all of these,” she comments. “I don’t have class Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. This is great.”
“Huh,” I mumble, keeping a straight face when Riley peers back at me with suspicion in her eyes. “What? That’s what they had open. I had to take what they gave me.”
She squints, trying to see through my bullshit. Her cheeks lift before she turns back around. “Dinner’s ready. And don’t worry. I didn’t skimp out on the meat,” she informs me. “There's basically an entire cow in there.”
I'm chuckling, halfway to sitting down, but hearing she has dinner ready, I stand tall again.
“No, sit,” Riley orders from the kitchen. “Relax. I’ll bring you a bowl.”
I give her a smile. “Appreciate it, darlin’.” Then I lay my crutches on the floor beside the couch and fall back onto a cushion, propping my foot up on the trunk to keep it elevated. I drop my head back and look up at the ceiling. “Can you grab me a beer too? I’m fucking beat.”
I should sleep good tonight, as long as Riley doesn’t come crying to me again. And she shouldn’t. I think I cleared her conscience.
“Do you want your pain meds?”
“Nah. I’m going to hold off,” I reply. I scrub my hands down my face, ignoring the pain in my calf and ankle and the urge to rip this fucking boot off, then hearing Riley approaching, I lower my hands and drop my head to look over at her.
“Here you go,” she says sweetly, stepping between the trunk and the couch and passing me my bowl. “I’ll get your beer.”
“And a bowl for you. You’re eating with me,” I tell her.
“I already ate.”
“Oh.” I crane my neck to watch her walk back to the kitchen.
Damn. I was wanting her to enjoy this with me.
“Yeah, sorry. I kinda ate while it was simmering. I was starving,” she explains. “The only thing I had for lunch was a soft pretzel at Costco.”
“You get your shopping done?”
“Yep. Got ten boxes of Raisin Bran. I think you’re set through the weekend,” she jokes, rounding the couch again with a beer for me and a glass of something for her.
“Cute,” I tell her, taking the bottle she holds out.
She laughs quietly and takes a seat on the far cushion, left leg bent up off the floor and body angled toward me. “Hey, who’s that guy in that picture with you on the fridge? The one in the uniform.”
“My brother, Jake.”
“Is he in the Army?”
“Marines,” I answer, taking a sip of my beer and then setting it beside the couch. I scoop a heaping bite of chili into my mouth and chew it up, adding, “He’s stationed in South Carolina. You might meet him. He’s coming up in a few weeks.”
“You two look alike,” she shares, gather
ing her hair over one shoulder and then dropping the side of her head on the cushion. “Except,” she looks at my arm, my chest, then lifts her gaze to my face, shyly adding, “I think you might be a little bit bigger.”
“Yeah?” I smile. “Make sure you tell him that. The little punk thinks he can beat me.”
Riley laughs. “Are you close in age?”
“Four years. He’s twenty-six. We've always been tight though.” I point my spoon at the bowl after swallowing the last of my bite. “This is good fucking chili, babe,” I tell her, meaning that. “I hope you made a big batch `cause I’m going to tear this up and will absolutely be going back for seconds.” I take another bite, watching Riley’s pink lips curl up before she takes a sip of her drink. “Here.” I say, scooping out more. I hold the spoon out in front of her face. “Come on. You know you want this.”
She shakes her head, laughing softly as she lowers her glass. “I already ate.”
“Humor a broken man, will you?” I inch the spoon closer. “I want you enjoying this with me, Riley. This is probably the best damn chili I ever ate. Honest to God. Come on.”
Riley looks from the spoon to my face, eyes big and bright and heat burning across her cheeks. And I know I've done it again—given her something she isn't used to getting.
I smile watching her. I hate that Riley hasn’t had this before, but I can’t deny it.
I like being the one giving her this.
Before I hit Riley with a more insistent request, she gives me a sweet look and leans forward, taking the bite I'm offering.
Two bowls (the second of which we end up sharing), two beers, and plenty of easy conversation later, I’m grabbing my crutches and standing from the couch as Riley cleans up dinner.
“I'm going to need your help with something when you get a minute,” I call out, moving toward the hallway.
“Okay!” Riley shuts the fridge door and rushes out of the kitchen with a big grin on her face. She stops in front of me, rubbing her hands together. “That’s why I’m here. What do you need?” she asks. Her voice jumps with excitement.
“I gotta take a bath.”
Her grin fades, her mouth goes slack, and her hands slowly lower and separate, dropping to her sides. “Uh . . . you, gotta take a what?”
“A bath,” I repeat, fighting a grin at her reaction. “It was hot as shit out today. I need a shower, but my doctor said I shouldn’t be attempting that. I can’t really get this wet yet.” I look down at my foot, then back into her face. “I’m going to need you to help me out. They told me sponge baths are ideal.”
Riley blinks. “They did?”
Now I’m fighting a grin hard, since I am completely lying here. Not about the showering thing—I was told that—but I’m sure I can manage washing up on my own.
“Oh yeah.” I nod my head, face serious. “If my nurse was here, she’d be giving it, so . . .”
Another lie. Pretty sure that wouldn’t be a requirement.
Riley straightens up and stands taller after hearing me. “Right. And that’s me. I’m your nurse,” she declares, owning that responsibility and looking prepared for the task. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s get you a bath then. Are you ready? I’m ready.” Her voice is quick. Anxious.
Fuck yeah. I’m ready.
A SPONGE BATH.
I’m supposed to give CJ Tully, gorgeous police officer with a body like Thor, a sponge bath.
Sweet Jesus.
Okayokayokayokay. Don’t panic, Riley. You can do this. Seeing penises is going to be part of your job after you graduate. Plenty of men come into the hospital, and those men might need to disrobe. You’ll see penises. Tons of them. All of the dicks. It’s bound to happen.
Of course, I doubt these will be penises I’ve had hours of fun with. But still. This is part of the job. CJ needs me. He needs my help. He wouldn’t need any help if it wasn’t for me, so, yeah, I can do this.
I can totally do this.
Be professional. And try not to stare.
Exhaling a deep breath, I walk past the hallway bathroom, knowing that one doesn’t have a tub, and head for the master bath instead.
It’s an impressive bathroom, with a large glass door shower that has one of those built in seats for . . . resting, I guess. A double vanity sink with all chrome fixtures, and a private room for the toilet.
And then there’s the tub.
Tiled and big enough for two people, maybe more, unless one of those people is CJ.
He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to takes baths though. He’s big muscles and rough touches and doesn’t shave for days. He’s a shower after a hard day’s work kind of guy. I bet this will be his first time using it.
“Do you take a lot of baths?” I ask when curiosity gets to me, turning to look back at him.
He stops just inside the bathroom and gives me a lopsided smile. “Wouldn’t say a lot,” he answers. “I’ve used it before. Two, three times, maybe.”
“Really?” I laugh a little. “Did you light candles and set the mood for your alone time?”
I picture that in my mind—CJ with the lights dimmed and Enya playing from a nearby speaker.
He has to be the biggest guy I know. Manly to the extreme. He takes baths?
“I didn’t say I was alone,” he shares, his smile fading out.
I blink. A strange tightening forms in my stomach. “Oh . . . right. Of course,” I mutter, gripping the strings of his hoodie and tugging them as my eyes fall to the tile floor.
God. Why did I even ask that question? Now I’m picturing CJ having an orgy in his bathtub, with the lights dimmed and candles lit and Enya playing in the background.
I was better off not knowing.
“Um, let me just,” I spin around and move to the tub, “Get everything ready. Give me a minute.” I push my sleeves up, turn the water on and test the temperature. “Do you like it hot? Warm?”
“On the hot side.”
I twist the knob, getting the temperature warmer, and pull up the stopper to plug the tub. Then, hearing a knocking sound, I stay leaning over with my one hand flat on the tiled edge and peer over my shoulder.
I watch CJ prop his second crutch against the wall, brace his back against the sink and tug his shirt over his head. The faded grey cotton falls to the floor. My gaze lifts to his bare chest and moves lower, over the outline of his abs and the sharp, slanted indent of muscle narrowing underneath his waistband.
I’ve had my hands there. My lips there—tongue and breath when I kissed down his body to pull him into my—
“Babe.”
Sucking in air through my nose, I blink up at CJ.
You’re staring, Riley. And he totally caught you.
“Bubbles,” I mumble.
His brows raise. “Say what?”
“Bubbles. We need bubbles.”
Bubbles camouflage things hiding under the water. They inhibit staring. We need lots of bubbles.
“We need bubbles,” CJ repeats, brows still raised, sounding like he doesn’t understand this necessity.
I straighten up and spin around, hands on my hips as I look at him. “They promote relaxation,” I explain, keeping my real reasoning to myself. “It’ll loosen you up, and help with the healing process. You’ll get better faster. Trust me.”
CJ’s stares at me, mouth ticking in the corner.
Please buy what I’m saying and just go with this, I think. I can’t imagine playing this out with clear, unobstructed viewing water. I need muscles and large organs concealed.
“Whatever you say, darlin’,” he finally gives me, and I feel my shoulders dip with relief.
Thank you, Jesus.
I look around the bathroom for what I need. Turning my head, my eyes fall to the collection of body washes on the seat in the shower.
I brought plenty. I like having a variety.
“Shower gel. That’ll work,” I say, mostly to myself as I move quickly to the glass door. I tug it open, grab the bottle of Mango Mandarin and
carry it over to the tub, then I squeeze a copious amount into the running bath water—about half of the bottle—watching as the bubbles foam and spread across the surface.
They provide excellent coverage. I'm feeling good about this.
Sponge bath? No problem.
The tapping sound of CJ’s crutches alerts me of his nearing proximity. I feel the heat of him at my back.
“I'm going to need to sit down to get these shorts off and get them over my boot,” he shares. “Do you mind?”
I feel my eyes take up the majority of my face. Warmth blooms across my cheeks.
Okay . . . right. Right. He needs my help. CJ needs my help taking off his shorts.
Not a problem.
Straightening up and spinning around all in the same hurrying motion, as if I can’t wait to get to this task, I knock into CJ with my elbow and jar his balance. He stumbles back with a grunt and I reach out, gasping, gripping his slim hips with my hands as he hops on his good leg and plants his crutches again to regain his posture.
“Sorry!” I exclaim with panic in my voice. Shit! I am such an idiot! “Oh, my God. I am so sorry. Are you okay?” I look up into his face and watch the corner of his mouth twitch.
“Yeah,” he says with low laughter, brows lifting when he asks, “You? You seem a little . . .”
Flustered.
Horny.
Eager to disrobe.
“I'm great,” I rush out before he has the chance to throw out any of those suggestions. “Just, you know, ready to help any way I can.” I slide my hands to his warm abs and press my fingertips there, pausing for a pounding beat of my heart before finding the tied string on the front of his waistband. I watch his brows stay lifted as I tug and loosen. “What?” I ask, voice shaking with nerves.
Why is he looking at me like this?
He’s staring, his eyes softening and the amusement on his lips pulling away before he glances down at my hands. “I just needed you to slide over a bit so I can grab a seat,” CJ states, meeting my gaze again and offering me a kind smile. “I can get my shorts off, darlin'.”
My fingers tense around worn fibers. As if they’re scalding my skin, I hastily release the strings, pull my hands against my stomach and step back. “Cool,” I blurt out. “Yeah, okay. Good for you. You do that. I’ll . . . get you some towels.” Spinning around, I wince as I move quickly to the linen closet because oh, my God, he didn’t need any help taking off his shorts . . .