by C. L. Riley
No more killing. No more random playthings.
I will find and make Trina Templeton my permanent plaything.
The woman who should have become plaything 27, but instead became my worst mistake, is well known in Seattle. She escaped after I misjudged the drug dosage.
I’ll never use the number 27 again. It is a reminder of how I screwed up.
In spite of the issues almost-27 caused, she was a fighter, which I enjoy, but her flailing and scratching was over the top, and I was tired. To make things smoother for us both, I administered enough of my special chemical recipe to partially sedate her. She should not have been able to walk or talk for at least two hours.
When I returned from the bathroom, she was gone from the seedy motel I’d rented near Tacoma. She’d only been out of my site for a few minutes, so I left immediately, expecting to locate her without difficulty.
I didn’t learn until later she’d spent the rest of the night, sleeping off the drugs in a deserted shed nearby. She waved down a passing car the next morning.
The whole thing was sloppy on my part. I should have trusted my gut and gone home without hunting, but my pride had once again been running the show.
The good news is the drug worked well enough to erase her memories. She has no clue who grabbed her, and she believes she was taken for a lengthy drive and then dropped on the highway, close to the spot where she regained consciousness.
Even better, the no-tell motel manager doesn’t know my true identity, and every night the place is overflowing with cheating husbands and wives, johns and prostitutes, and an assortment of drug dealers and users.
Keeping track of everything and everyone is a job for more than one old man. He’s not only old and by all accounts senile, but he discovered years ago that keeping his mouth shut around law enforcement ensures his wallet is fat with cash, and he lives to see another day.
In spite of that good news, there is a lingering problem.
Number Almost-27 has a large family, and her father is a lawyer with considerable clout. We’ve crossed paths several times at various fundraising events. I disliked him the minute he shook my hand. He isn’t one to give up, and he’s made it his mission to harass Seattle PD until the predator that kidnapped his daughter is apprehended.
I think it may be time to take a long, overdue vacation and wait for everything to cool down while searching for the one woman who can put a stop to my overindulgent behavior once and for all.
I’ve decided not to kill Trina Templeton, at least not right away.
Instead she will become my private plaything.
Just like King Saul from the Bible needed David to play the harp and soothe his savage soul, I need Trina Templeton to come home with me so I can play with her anytime my inner beast needs calming.
I have some business acquaintances in organized crime that have helped me out before. This time they are providing builders, at a steep price, to remodel my secondary, off-the-record residence, developing a soundproof room with all the necessities, including specialty equipment that will ensure our playtimes never become dull or monotonous.
My mob relationships started when I attended medical school with one of their family members. We formed a bond, and after testing the water for months, I spilled my secret over one too many, after-exam-day drinks. I understood by the gleam in my classmate’s eyes, I had found a likeminded individual.
He confirmed my belief one night when we shared a plaything.
I didn’t approve of his unprovoked violence, which made me look like a tame kitten next to a ferocious tiger, but the event sealed our strange friendship, and he invited me to contact him should I ever need assistance—with anything—legal or not.
I’ve only reached out to him twice since college. Both times he was able to solve my problems with efficiency and a high level of discretion, always for a lofty price, of course. I trust he will do the same for a third time with my new playroom slash living quarters for Ms. Templeton.
“Dr. Martin? Are you available?” My second favorite nurse, Cindy, inquires politely. She waits outside my office door as I’ve instructed my employees.
Putting on a professional smile, I slide the letter back inside my briefcase and invite her in. From the look on her face, it’s apparent she’s upset, and she launches into her complaint without any prompting on my part.
“The temp isn’t fitting in, but I’m guessing you’re already aware of the problems. Do you have any idea when Trina is coming back?”
I sigh. “I wish I did. I’m expecting to know more soon. In the meantime, I’ll be taking some time away from the office, starting next week. I need to outline my next book.” The book part is true. I am under contract for another volume, and I’ve been too occupied to work on it. “As for Trina, let’s hope she returns soon. Until then, please take the new nurse under your wing. I know with your experience and patience the situation will be tolerable for the time being.”
As predicted, her face glows as she basks in my well-chosen words of praise.
She gives me a polite nod and exits swiftly, making sure to swing her hips for my viewing pleasure.
I’ve already played with Nurse Cindy, Number 19. She doesn’t remember our special time and continues to flirt shamelessly. What can I say?
I’m a sexy son of bitch.
Trina
Why does he have to be so damn sexy? I ask myself for what feels like the millionth time in ten minutes.
After my unusually enlightening coffee break with Olympia Olsen, I am once more left alone with Rowdy who, out of the blue, insisted he needed a shower to wash away the left over grime from his fever.
When I signalled for another nurse to bathe him, he got downright hostile, demanding I assist with his shower, no one else.
He didn’t stop there either, plowing on with his tirade and making sure to point out how much he is paying me. Even after broadcasting my salary, to an empty room, he wasn’t satisfied, adamant that “bathing support” is a fucking service included in the price.
So...I’m bathing him.
I have no clue what Boone said to rile him up or if his behavior is a side effect from having such a high fever and nasty infection.
Knowing what I do about HAI’s (Hospital-Acquired Infections), it wouldn’t surprise me one bit to find out he is still reeling from the effects, but I for one am keeping my mouth shut, unwilling to endure anymore of his wrath, regardless of what’s causing it.
Before I left his room with Olympia, we were connecting on a deeper level, or so I thought. He even looked grateful when he woke up to find me at his side.
For heaven sake, I didn’t leave the hospital all week, except to feed the freaking cats, if that alone doesn’t demonstrate my dedication, I’m not sure what will.
Oh wait! Apparently a shower where I do the scrubbing is the one gesture of my commitment he finds commendable.
Taking a deep breath, I give a mental shove to the multitude of emotions Rowdy triggers and focus on the fact he is my patient not my lover, not my friend, not an abuser, not anything but a paying client who I happen to be providing bathing services for, just like I have a ton of times before with other patients, some far more rude than Rowdy at his worst.
I am qualified enough to look past Rowdy’s current, assholery attitude (and hot naked body) to see the sick and hurting man seated on the shower bench, a man who was starting to improve considerably under my care, before being held hostage by a debilitating strain of butt-kicking bacteria.
Keeping his illness and subsequent fever in mind, I squeeze a quarter-sized dollop of body wash on a new loofah I brought from the beach house. With great care, I run the spongy alternative to a washcloth over his shoulder and down his bicep, admiring his tattoos in lieu of gawking at the sizable distraction that protrudes proudly between his muscular thighs.
He releases a strangled groan of appreciation that sends a shockwave of something akin to electricity, firing through me.
The sensation is so unexpected and overpowering, I can almost forgive his tantrum.
“Are you feeling any better?” I ask shakily, in a feeble attempt to overcome my unprofessional reaction.
Just because he exhibited bad bath-time behavior doesn’t give me a license to be lustful.
“More washing, less talking.” He glances up through sinfully thick lashes any woman would envy and grants me an up close and personal view of his eyes.
They’re a rare shade of brown with a trace of amber, and I find myself lost in their dark pools.
He holds my gaze a second longer, before dropping his head and giving me better access to his upper back and shoulders.
Making use of the handheld showerhead, I do my best to get him cleaned up while he’s seated, but having him on his feet would make my task easier. I’m grateful for the hospital’s bathroom layout that also subs as a supersized shower stall, allowing me to stay mostly dry while I work.
“Rowdy? Are you able to stand? If you hold the bar and balance yourself, I can get your lower body finished up. You’ve got goosebumps,” I point out before shivering myself.
In my case, the shivers have nothing to do with being chilled, quite the opposite, but we won’t talk about the source. No way. I’m not doing or saying anything that affirms my attraction. What I am doing is waiting for him to answer my “standing” question.
He doesn’t reply, but after a lengthy pause, he grabs the bar with his bad hand, flinches, and then manages to unfold to his full height. He sways momentarily before regaining his foothold. He’s not nearly as tall as Demon, but he’s still well over six-feet.
Compared to me, he’s a giant.
As I work my way down his hard body with the loofah, I try to ignore the magnificent ‘V’ that serves as a spotlight, guiding my mutinous gaze to his cock, which is showing off a very admirable salute.
Is that a bead of pre-cum under the soap suds?
I have the absurd and obscene notion I should take his massive erection in my mouth and—
“Can’t stay upright much longer. Better rinse me off.”
“Oh crap, sorry. I was just trying to make sure you were ultra clean.” Did I just say “ultra clean?”
I did.
And he has the nerve to chuckle. “You have nothing to worry about, Nurse Trina. You got my cock...or should I say penis, so clean it shines. My accurate anatomy terminology deserves an award, don’t you think?”
I cringe and rinse away the remaining suds before handing over a towel, all while trying not to stare and resisting the urge to suggest a very inappropriate award.
“Let me help you...” I start, but don’t finish my sentence. There’s no need.
By the way he strides back to bed, dripping water along the way, it is evident he doesn’t need my assistance, and he sure as hell isn’t as weak as he led me to believe, even his limp seems less pronounced.
I’m relieved to see staff changed his linens while he was showering.
Not bothering with the clean hospital gown, he buries his naked body under the blankets and flashes a crooked grin. “Sorry I grumped at you. Boone’s news pissed me off.”
I don’t bother with a reply. I’m too appalled by the way I mishandled a simple patient-shower. So instead, I bustle around the room, searching for things to organize. I’m not able to face him yet and want to stay distracted.
It seems he isn’t having the same issue, because I swear I can feel his eyes, following my every movement, and I suspect he’s enjoying my discomfort. The discomfort he initiated.
How can a man be at death’s door one minute and finding ways to torment me the next? Only Rowdy has the ability and gall to pull off something like that.
“Why don’t you take a breather and sit. We need to come up with a plan, all things considered.” He pats the mattress, indicating he’s serious about his request. “Shut the door first, and grab me the mouthwash.” He nods towards the shelf over the sink where several, mini-sized bathroom products are displayed.
“Please...?” I say sweetly with an edge of sarcasm.
“How un-gentlemanly of me. Please, Nurse Templeton, would you mind closing the door all the way. What I have to say is better said in privacy, and I think you will enjoy our conversation more if I extinguish the fire breathing dragon with some minty Scope.”
His words work their way under my skin, making me buzz with excitement. Maybe he’s as attracted to me as I am to him, and maybe he’s preparing to admit his mutual feelings and then kiss me.
Eager to find out, which frustrates me even more after his bossy behavior, I follow his instructions and grab the mouthwash, managing a quick peek in the mirror on the way back to his bedside.
My curls have gone completely rogue, thanks to the steamy bathroom, and I have a very visible coffee stain on my t-Shirt. I wish I wouldn’t have looked. I’m a complete mess.
I had painstakingly organized and lugged my personal bathing supplies to the hospital, not expecting Rowdy to rouse and want a shower. I had planned to clean up here in order to stay close to him and look halfway decent doing so.
Now that he’s awake and showing such improvement, I intend to head home for the night. I’ll cart my products back and wash up there, away from his watchful gaze.
Collapsing into a chair, I toss Rowdy the Scope and school my expression, pushing the ridiculous ideas of him professing his undying affection aside. There is no way we would ever be compatible, and I’m not the one-night-stand type.
By the time he spits his mouthwash into the kidney-shaped, barf receptacle, I’ve almost convinced my traitorous-self to stand down, but an uninvited vision of him in the shower interferes, making me question my stay-professional commitment all over again, something I do a handful of times each day, some days every hour, or in today’s case, every five minutes...or less.
Perhaps one night of unrestrained passion would be enough to get him out of my system?
Plus, now that we’ve both seen each other, showering and naked, we have nothing about our bodies to hide.
It’s all the other secrets I’m worried about.
There is no denying Rowdy has secrets, and I sure as hell have mine. Oh, and I can’t forget my opportunity to earn a million dollars.
Not even a night of mind-blowing sex with Rowdy is worth risking my future financial security, and as long as Dr. Martin is prowling for playthings, I need assets that allow me to flee at any given moment.
No matter how hard I try, there is just no justifying me seducing Rowdy or vice versa. Either way it would be an epic failure, sure to add more craziness to our already insane lives.
Celibacy is safe. Sex is dangerous.
Rowdy is definitely dangerous too, but somehow, everything about him makes me feel safe.
Confused much? The inner-me taunts.
Always confused, when it comes to my private patient—that’s one thing I know for certain.
Rowdy
Considering the way Trina shifts in her chair and keeps looking away from me, I have no doubt she’s just as confused as I am.
The way she bathed me, with such passion and precision, has my cock still twitching. For a second there I thought she might drop to her knees and suck me off.
Ah, fucking hell. An image of her full lips parting, before she slides her wet mouth down my shaft, sends a jolt of anticipation coursing through me.
With haste, I rearrange my blankets to camouflage my elevating arousal...and to think I’d been worried about never getting hard again. All I needed was the right woman to wake things up.
Damn, I want to fuck my nurse right here, right now.
If not for the possibility of someone interrupting us, I’d rip the covers off and demand she join me on the too-small twin bed.
I’ve never been into prissy bitches, but Trina Templeton is like a syringe of heroin to a junkie, a bottle of cheap wine to a drunk, or a pocket full of money to a gambler.
She’s temptation wrapped up in bulky cloth
es and wearing a pair of oversized glasses that do nothing to hide her beauty. And when she turns those sky-colored eyes my direction, it takes every ounce of my dwindling self-control not to pull her into my arms and kiss her until she’s panting and squirming, arching against me and begging for more.
After plundering her mouth, I would move downward, there I’d use my talented tongue to make her scream my name between her gasps and moans.
Whoa! Rein it in, buddy.
For once I listen to my saner side and grab the water tumbler. I take several long gulps, hoping to cool the fire raging inside me, a fire I can no longer blame on a fever.
Another slow drink and the flames are reduced to embers, for the moment, anyway.
I’m also reminded, whatever it is I want from Trina is more than sex. I want to know everything about her. I’m curious about her hopes and dreams for the future and about her past failures and successes. And I continue to marvel over her unique heritage and am impatient to learn about her legacy.
If I were to guess, I’d say she’s at least half Native American. Her blue eyes are a striking contrast to her darker skin, adding to her allure and leading to more speculation over her ancestry. Her hair is an untamed mess of black curls that spiral down her back.
Most days she keeps it up in a ponytail or braids it, but right now it’s loose and wild the way I like and exactly how I remember it from the first day she showed up on my porch.
It’s hard to believe I still know so little about a woman who shares my home. We’ve been doing our patient nurse dance for close to a month now, yet she’s a stranger living in the room next to mine.
That needs to change.
Demon’s family should have their latest report back to me anytime now. I’m hoping the information arrived while I was out cold in my infection-induced coma. I’ve paid a substantial finders fee to learn everything there is to know about my caregiver turned secret obsession.
“Rowdy, maybe we should talk later. I can leave so you can get some rest. I’m sure you’re exhausted. An infection like that takes a lot out of a person.” She finally meets my gaze, holding it for a second before glancing down at her hands. She twists the simple silver ring she wears on her right pinkie, something she does often.
