by Cari Quinn
He cocked a brow. “That couch is made out of leather. It’s a dream to sleep on. Before I bought my bed, I slept on it like a baby for a week.”
“Good to know. The question stands. Typical protocol for guests is to allow them to sleep in a bed, with a comforter and pillows.” She shivered and gripped her shoulders. “Especially when it’s like ten degrees in this icebox.”
“Twenty,” he replied with a twist of his lips that disappeared when he pushed past her.
“I’m serious, Chase. I want a real bed,” she muttered, gazing hard at his retreating back.
He didn’t give two craps what she wanted. That had been clear when he’d made his proclamation about it being too late to drive upstate to Yardley, their hometown—well, her home, since obviously Chase had become a city dweller. Kyle, her ride, had left hours ago—he wouldn’t risk being out late and missing church—and Chase wasn’t in the mood to do the honors himself.
Not that she blamed him. He’d been at the cop shop for over two hours, and he’d been questioned and requestioned until he’d been reduced to one-word answers. Eventually she’d given in and turned on the charm at stun level to get them out of there, and the officer had finally relented. He’d snagged a few other supposed perps from the club anyway, so he wouldn’t end the night empty-handed.
Maybe she should stop fighting with Chase and let him go to bed. She’d gotten him in trouble at his job and almost arrested in one night, so she probably deserved the sofa.
And it had looked buttery soft.
Sighing, she trudged back into the living room and gasped aloud at the sight of Chase carefully making up her couch. Somewhere he’d unearthed a white comforter with big geometric circles on it and even from a few feet away, she could smell the comforting scent of detergent. Something lemony and airy that made her want to purr.
Oh jeez, a guy good at laundry was dangerous. If he whipped out dryer sheets, she’d be toast.
“It’s still warm,” he said gruffly, jerking a hand at the comforter. She’d never expected to find a happy homemaker in the guise of a sex god with hands big enough to turn cars into scrap metal. “I washed and dried it earlier to throw on one of the guest beds and I never got it out before I went to the club. So it’s all yours.”
After one more fluff of her brand new pillow, he turned to leave.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” And she so would, the minute he left. Well, after she took a blisteringly hot shower first. “Chase, wait.”
He stopped on the threshold, not moving. Not facing her either.
“Can I use your shower?”
“Sure.” The word sounded strangled. “The bathroom’s at the end of the hall, opposite the master bedroom. Fresh towels are in the cabinet above the toilet.”
Yeah, she could feel her bikini panties already untying themselves at her hips. In her experience, most single males were stinky and lazy, practically incapable of throwing dirty things in a machine made for that purpose. A man this tidy and capable might as well put a “take me now” sign on his very impressive groin.
The groin that, yes, she might’ve gotten a quickie handful of on the night they’d kissed. Until she’d released him for the one thing that mattered even more than getting a look at his probably amazing package.
A chance to seize her dreams.
Dreams that were now dashed on the rocks, at least temporarily. She was down. Not out. There were other clubs. Other fans. Other nights that wouldn’t end with cuffs and awkward silences and sexual tension thick enough she could choke on it.
The last part wasn’t so bad, she supposed.
“Uh, thanks,” she managed through the lump in her throat. He’d gotten halfway down the hall when she spoke again. “Chase?”
Again he stopped. Waited.
“I’m sorry about tonight.” She took a step forward. Her peach-polished nails looked ragged and flaky, partly because she’d bitten them to the quick at the police station. Nail biting was such a disgusting habit, and she’d kicked it a long time ago.
Lo and behold, being sent to the neon-fronted pokey in Manhattan—leave it to her to be apprehended by a city cop rather than one from the boroughs—had brought the habit out of dormancy. Who’d’ve thunk it?
“It’s all right.” He started to say more, then shook his head. “Let’s get some sleep, okay? We’ll figure stuff out in the morning.”
She wanted to say more. Of course she did. She wasn’t a known motor mouth for nothing. But he turned into his bedroom and shut the door with a sense of finality she didn’t miss.
Blowing out a breath, she tugged down the zipper of her jacket. Seeing her torn blouse brought stinging tears to her eyes. She’d pulled too hard, and now she’d ruined it. She couldn’t bear to throw it away. She’d stolen the shirt from her mom’s closet years ago, and if she closed her eyes and pressed her face into the fabric, she swore she could still smell her mom’s comforting rosewater scent. She only saw her mom a few times a year now. In tatters or not, she refused to toss her blouse out like a piece of trash.
She shed her jacket then peeled off her shirt, confident that she could strip down to nothing and not be disturbed. Unless she was mistaken, a bomb could go off in that living room and Chase wouldn’t stalk out of his man cave.
Once she was naked and clutching her pile of clothes, she snuck a glance down the hall. All clear. She bit her lip and dumped her clothes on the glass-and-chrome coffee table between the couch and the pair of leather armchairs across from it. After another furtive look in the direction of the hallway, she grabbed her enormous bag and rooted through it for the surefire stage fright cure she carried with her to shows. The silver flask felt cool to the touch, and she knew it was blissfully full since she hadn’t even taken her customary three sips before going on stage. She’d been feeling it, all smiles and full of energy.
Obviously her good vibes meant squat since tonight had sucked.
Perching on the edge of the sofa, she drew the comforter around her and lifted the flask. Glanced at the doorway again. No Chase. She sipped slowly, letting the brandy slide down her throat and warm her from the inside out. Three sips were enough, as always. She set the flask on the coffee table, leaving it open just in case. She didn’t drink much. Actually, she’d never even officially gotten drunk. She liked being in control of her faculties too much to go beyond a little pleasant fuzziness at the edges of her consciousness.
She started to stand then giggled and sat back down. Wow, she really had no tolerance at all. The lack of any food since lunch didn’t help either. She dug into her bag again and emerged with a semi-crushed pack of Ho-Hos, which she consumed with a relish she normally reserved for bacon cheeseburgers.
Then she remembered she didn’t have her toothbrush and wondered if Chase kept spares for guests. Probably. Along with complimentary toilet seat covers and little fingertip towels.
“Happy homemaker,” she mumbled, giving in to the urge to tuck her cheek against the altogether too soft-looking pillow. She’d rest her eyes for a minute before she searched out that toothbrush and took a shower.
She was asleep an instant later.
Chase tossed and turned for a couple of hours before he decided he wasn’t tired enough. Hard to believe with the evening he’d had, but he also had a sexy as fuck brunette in his living room, separated from his bed by a mere length of hallway. He’d made sure she slept in the living room to increase his chances of steering clear of her, but so far the meager distance wasn’t helping. Especially since Summer probably slept in something closer to underwear than actual pajamas, so a bra and panties in lieu of sleepwear would likely do the job just fine.
The question was what kind of bra and panties. He’d only seen a glimpse of black material when she pulled down her top earlier. Her bra even had a chaste little bow between the cups that teased more effectively than a leather bustier.
He groaned and threw his arms over his head. Jesus, he so didn’t need to be thinking thoughts like that.
Not about Summer, who wasn’t only his baby sister’s closest friend, but the sweetest, most innocent woman he knew. Try as she might to act like a wild woman, he knew better.
The one summer he’d lived next door to her before he’d gone off to college, he’d seen the tight leash her mom kept her on. He’d felt a little bad for her, though Summer hadn’t had the easiest childhood and her mom had only wanted to keep her safe.
Now her mom had gone off to “find herself” and Summer was on her own, not counting Cass. Cass took care of everyone else without compunction, and he knew Summer’s sudden motherlessness after a lifetime of being overprotected had tweaked every one of Cass’s worry bones, especially since Cass and Chase had faced their own fickle parental behavior.
Their dad used rehab as a vacation home and their mom lived on the opposite side of the country with her husband and young-ish children, who might as well have been strangers to Chase and Cass. His sister understood parents screwing over their kids and probably coddled Summer.
Okay, forget probably. She tried to be the girl’s whole family.
If someone unsuitable veered toward Summer—let’s say one of the bad boys of the major league, currently an unrestricted free agent in all possible ways—Cass would snap and bite. Luckily that was never going to happen.
Even though she was twenty-four and perfectly capable of making up her own mind, Summer wasn’t in his field of vision. The kiss they’d shared had been the beginning and end of any flirtation between them, and even that wouldn’t have happened if he’d been fully sober.
And not so damn fascinated by her glossy lips.
That was the past. Nothing else had happened between them, and he’d see to it that they remained strictly business associates. Because, by God, she would have a bodyguard at her shows. Until he found someone suitable, he’d take care of her himself. Platonically. As for other forms of “taking care” of Summer, he wasn’t going there.
He groaned and banged his head against his pillow. He needed to get out of this bed and do something productive. Like jerking off until he couldn’t feel anything below the waist.
Or sit-ups. Sit-ups would work.
Two hundred of them later, he needed a shower and he still wasn’t tired. He used the en suite bathroom and took a quick cold one, hoping that would help with the insistent semi that had sprung up around the time he’d first heard Summer’s sultry voice. It had shrunk entirely during his police questioning ordeal but like the sun coming up in the east, the damn thing kept rising again. Imagining her wet and soapy—something he’d been doing since she’d sent his thoughts there earlier—didn’t help either.
Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t heard her in the bathroom. Had he zoned out without realizing it?
Naked and still dripping from his own shower, he dropped on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. An odd urge to check that she was okay made him fist his hands at his sides. So she hadn’t taken a shower. She hadn’t been carted off by thugs nor had she disarmed the alarm system. She was probably sleeping, safe and sound.
And Christ, he’d been a teetotaler a bit too long if he was getting hung up on the safety of a chick he barely knew. Too much restraint was twisting his shorts.
Painfully.
Living next door to someone for a couple of months and hearing her name at family events didn’t impart any level of caring. So he’d seen Summer get a little roughed up at the club. If she didn’t get some security in place, worse would happen.
He wasn’t going to let it.
Luckily he’d already been relieved from his position at the club due to his tendency to attract notice, according to Chris. Funny how attracting notice had been great before, back when he’d believed Chase’s notoriety might help his club’s PR. Not so anymore. He hadn’t fired Chase, per se, just suggested that perhaps another line of work would be best for him. Chase couldn’t deny the guy was right.
Plus, that meant he’d have plenty of free time to start up the bodyguard agency he’d been mulling over since the situation with his arm had taken a turn for the worse. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he did better being his own boss. The Daggers’ club manager and team owner would attest to that readily.
He didn’t know much about being a bodyguard, but he did know how to get little punks to reconsider touching people they shouldn’t. He couldn’t make use of his skills on the baseball diamond at the moment, but he sure as hell could get up close and personal with any fool who tried to lay a finger on Summer.
For now the agency would consist of him. If and when he started getting more clients, he’d take another step he’d been considering for a while. One that involved picking up the phone and calling a person he’d thought he would never speak to voluntarily again.
He wasn’t going there yet.
First he had to convince Summer she needed help. If she disagreed, she’d get herself a shadow with her permission or not. Sparring with Summer would ensure his mind stayed off other crap he didn’t want to dwell on.
Like his possibly terminated real career and looming elbow surgery, followed by months and months of rehabilitation with no certainty of a cure for his condition. And his father, about to be let out of rehab and set loose on the world. And the fact that he could really fucking use a drink or, barring that, to lose himself in some sexy female who wouldn’t care if he didn’t call after. Because he wouldn’t, and pretending otherwise was a waste of both their time.
To quiet his mind, he did the one thing sure to distract him—he grabbed his dick. His own cool, wet fingers stretching around the swollen girth made him hiss out a curse. It had been too long since he’d even given himself this much. He’d been on some prolonged denial shit, trying to get himself clean and sober and away from anything that could derail his focus. Tonight he needed some relief, and anything was better than availing himself of the pretty young thing in the living room. If she even could be availed, which he had no intention of finding out.
He ran his hand down his length and up again, moving in short, swift strokes. All he wanted was release, and hopefully the exhaustion that would follow. Touching himself harder than a woman would, he slipped his other hand between his legs to palm his warm, sensitive sac. Pleasure came wrapped in barbs of pain, and he welcomed both.
His breath wheezed out the faster he worked his cock, and he squeezed his eyes tight to block out the gauzy pink light of dawn that filtered through his window. He still saw more than he intended.
Big blue eyes. A fringe of brown lashes, as soft as butterfly wings. He’d never noticed a woman’s eyelashes before, but then he’d never seen them starred with snow before tonight either. He’d also never had a woman flash him, giving him a brief, illicit glimpse of glistening black fabric cupping perfect breasts he had no business even thinking about. She was a kid, one who used to sing in the church choir if memory served. Sweet. Pure.
Unattainable.
And that, more than anything else, shoved him closer to the edge. He couldn’t have her, even if he was dumb enough to make a play. She was the kind of girl who asked you for forever with her eyes even while her mouth spoke of tonight. He didn’t have forever to give.
He dragged his palm up and down, panting through the storm of sensations that warned of his impending orgasm. Squeezing his flesh, releasing it. Tugging on the hot globes of flesh underneath his shaft without mercy. Everything in him building. Swelling. Throbbing.
The cry from the living room shot him straight up in bed. He swore under his breath and swung his legs over the side of the mattress, only remembering at the last second that he didn’t have anything on. He whipped his towel around his hips before he yanked open his door and barreled down the hall.
Scanning the room in the low light, he noted the pile of clothes on the coffee table. The bare leg dangling over the edge of the couch, the spill of dark hair over the white pillow.
The firm breasts and dusky nipples visible above the shoved-down comforter.
He f
orced his gaze upward, his breath stuttering at her face. Tears glimmered on her cheeks, silvery from the early morning glow pouring through the window. Bad dream? Hell, nightmare. He’d had enough himself to recognize the signs.
Cursing softly, he walked over and shut off the light. He checked the alarm reflexively and then came over to sit on the coffee table beside her clothes. All her clothes, obviously. Little exhibitionist. He kept his attention on her feet as he yanked the cover up near her neck, trying to be gentle enough that she didn’t wake. She was still whimpering occasionally, her curvy body shivering and jerking while she fought off whatever attacker had chased her into sleep.
He didn’t know which was worse—not being able to sleep at all or meeting his demons in the dark.
Once she’d stilled, he brushed a hand over her hair and swallowed hard when she turned her cheek into his palm. Seeking comfort even in sleep. Then his gaze landed on the silver flask he’d somehow missed on the coffee table and he let out another string of curses.
This time she woke, eyes wide and so blue that he stared into them for a full minute, lost in their depths. Blurry with sleep, edged with need. For comfort or more, he couldn’t tell.
“Chase?”
That was his name, right? She called him Chase, always had, even when everyone else referred to him by the nickname that had followed him into baseball. He drew back the hand that had mysteriously chosen to cleave to her petal-soft skin and cleared his throat. “Yes. It’s me.” He sounded gruff again, something he regretted until her pupils sharpened with that cat-killing inquisitiveness that both amused and annoyed the hell out of him. “You were having a bad dream. That’s why I’m sitting here.” In a gaping towel.
She appeared to notice that fact at the same time he did. “You’re…wet.”
And still hard, he noted in disgust, dragging the bath sheet farther down his legs. He bought them in mammoth size, but with the pole he was currently sporting, he’d practically turned the terrycloth into a damn deck umbrella. “I took a shower.”