“That’s right. I forgot about that. That’s the year we got into cage fighting. How’d you get stuck making us sandwiches?”
“Dad made me. He said that you two needed calories for the amount of hours you were working out, and he didn’t want you guys passing out. He was at work, and so were your folks, and I wasn’t doing much that summer, so I was tasked with the honors. I always tried to change things up, but you’d get grumpy when it wasn’t the usual ham, cheese, and butter. Slade was always peanut butter and jelly.”
“Well, the ham, cheese, and butter are in the fridge and the bread is in the pantry. Get to work, woman.” He winked at her and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered.
“Oh, sorry. Force of habit, I guess. I always dump my shirt in the basket in the laundry room.” He pointed behind Chrissy. “There’s a lady that comes once a week to iron them for me.”
Unsure where to look, although really she wanted to stare at his bare chest, she made herself busy in the kitchen while Jack placed his gun and holster on the kitchen counter, tossed his shirt into a large basket, and headed upstairs. While she made the sandwiches she carefully placed a few bits of ham and cheese by her feet for Drogo, who cautiously made his way closer and closer to her until he finally reached the scraps, sniffed them, and then walked pompously away, not bothering to taste them. Chrissy laughed. She knew animals, and food always got them on your side. She was going to figure out what the pup liked to eat, and win him over. If all she accomplished while in town was winning Drogo’s affection, so be it.
After she finished making Jack’s sandwich, she placed it on a plate with some potato chips she found in the pantry and grabbed a beer for him. Then she slumped down on his couch. It had been a long day.
That morning, after almost a year of dating, Gary had broken up with her via text. Yes, text! She had been upset about the breakup but not devastated. What had stung the most was the casual send-off. She had seen potential in Gary. He was a good guy. Like Chrissy, he was a doctor. But unlike Chrissy, he was a filthy-rich plastic surgeon who didn’t understand why she had to be “traipsing around godforsaken countries.” He wanted a wife who’d stay home, have his babies, and have dinner ready for him when he arrived. What did he think this was, the 1920s? He’d hoped she would tire of all the traveling and settle down with him in Miami. What she hadn’t told him before the insensitive text was that she hadn’t renewed her contract with the nonprofit that organized her trips overseas and was planning on taking a job offer at Miami West Hospital. Not twenty minutes into her pity party, complete with anger and vindictiveness as the guests of honor, she had received a call from Slade telling her he’d been arrested on charges of assault and battery and needed bail money. Within an hour of the call, she was on the road heading north to Tarpon Springs.
As soon as she arrived in town, she’d gone straight to the jail, where she spoke with Officer Ramos, who was handling the case. He let her know what time Slade’s arraignment would be the next morning, and suggested she hire a bail bondsman. She asked if she could please see Slade. Officer Ramos agreed to a five-minute visit. Of course, Slade looked like his normal nonchalant self. As if the five-hour drive she’d made and the fact that she would need to cough up money to get him out of jail were no big deal. As if it were her duty to help him. Not a “Thank you, sis, for dropping everything and bailing my ass out of jail.” Not even a “How are you doing, sis? It’s been years since I’ve seen you.” Nothing. But she owed it to him and their dad to help him. He was her brother, after all. He’d do it for her.
Maybe.
Probably not.
Irritated, she had walked out of the jail after her very brief visit with her brother and stumbled on a crack on the sidewalk. A crack that was now the proud owner of one beautiful red four-inch heel. She’d tried to pry it out, but the heel was jammed in too tightly. So she left the heel in the middle of the sidewalk, stood up, gathered her dignity from the ground, and straightened her black dress. Head held high, she wobbled, like a pirate with one wooden leg, all the way to her piece-of-shit car and started for her old house. But the tire went flat, which was the reason for the call to AAA. After waiting an hour for AAA, she’d thought that nothing else could possibly happen. But of course the fates had been out to get her, and she had been stopped by Officer Domineering.
Now, about twelve hours after being dumped, she was sitting in her childhood neighbor’s house with a five-pound beast growling at her and refusing to eat the ham and cheese she had offered. Plus she’d probably have to spend an hour searching through a box of keys. She’d definitely fallen down the wrong rabbit hole. She should have just broken into the house, skipped the bath, and gone straight to the nearest bed. Exhaustion overtook her body. She tucked her legs under her on the couch, trying not to think about the hellish day she’d just had.
“I hope I didn’t take too lo—” Jack strode into the living room to see a tiny sleeping ball on his couch. She looked so small on his big white sofa. It was quite the contrast: her long straight pitch-black hair and black dress against the white of the couch. Her alabaster legs were tucked under her, her head rested on the arm of the couch, and her dress had unceremoniously inched up her thighs. Drogo was sitting on the floor, inches from Chrissy’s face, staring. It was odd, because he normally went in for the kill—okay, maybe not a kill, since his teeth were tiny, but he definitely tended to bite. Instead, he was just sitting there staring at her. Not exactly a friendly stare-down, but not menacing either. People never believed Jack about the pit bull blood that ran through Drogo’s veins, but it was true. What kind of man would have a girly little Chihuahua? Not a real man, and Jack was a real man. His dog had spirit, even if that spirit didn’t match its size. And when the dog bit, his jaw locked and didn’t let go. Pit bull for sure. Real men had pit bulls.
He looked over at his dining table to see that she had set the sandwich and a beer on a place mat she’d found in one of the drawers. It felt nice to have someone at his home, taking care of him. Not wanting to wake her, he grabbed a small blanket he kept by the television and went to drape it over her, but Drogo ran toward the blanket, bit down, and pulled on the corner. Jack pulled harder, but the feisty dog wasn’t letting go. He yanked the blanket up, but the dog held on, dangling a foot off the floor. Damn dog! A year later and the dog still hated people—Jack included.
After a somewhat long tug-of-war, Drogo finally admitted defeat and released his death grip on the blanket, scampering back to his corner—most likely to plot revenge. The pup kept his eyes on Jack, showing off all of his little razor-sharp teeth in a move that clearly was meant to intimidate. If the dog could speak, he’d say: You win this battle, Daniels. But it’s on now! Jack softly draped the cover over Chrissy. He then went to the table and tried not to think about the woman who was sleeping on his couch. When he was finished, he put the plate in the dishwasher, grabbed the box of keys, and headed out toward her house. And of course, the last key he tried, after trying all three zillion keys, was the one that unlocked her door. “Yes!” he said out loud, to no one.
Jack crossed the lawn back to his house, where he was greeted by a squeaky growl from Drogo. Jack rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to disturb Chrissy, but he felt bad leaving her to sleep on the couch all night. He crouched down with the intention of waking her, but just as he was about to gently tap her shoulder, he found himself pausing to admire her for a few moments. Asleep, she displayed no signs of the feisty attitude he’d witnessed earlier. She looked like an angel, even with her black-rimmed glasses partially crooked. He reached under her with both arms and lifted her effortlessly. Drogo eyed him cautiously but didn’t bother moving. As if by instinct, she snuggled closer to him, and he could smell her soapy scent. He started walking toward the door, but apparently the movement startled her and she jerked, causing her to fall right out of his arms.
Hastily, Jack reached down and pulled her up to her feet, their bodies b
rushing against each other on the way up, her hand lingering on his forearm. “Shit. You okay?” he asked.
“Y-yeah.” She pulled her hand away as if she’d been electrocuted, straightened her skirt, and leaned back against the wall to put some distance between them. She looked at him as if she were prey and Jack were the big bad lion. There was a sudden electrical spark between them, and it took him about a year to move his attention from her legs all the way up to her big blue eyes.
“What were you doing?” Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted. Her chest moved in and out, causing his eyes to want to dart down to the swells of her breasts, but he kept it controlled and arduously maintained eye contact.
“Sorry, Chrissy. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you. I was going to carry you home. I found the key and was able to unlock the door while you were sleeping. God, you smell good.” He hovered inches from her face, both his palms flat against the wall on either side of her head. She was caged in. His head moved down to her neck and she felt him breathing in her scent.
“Oh. I guess I was tired. I must have dozed off. Did you eat?” She was talking a mile a minute.
“Yeah. Thanks, it was delicious.” His thumbs, having a mind of their own, reached toward her face and caressed her cheeks. Drogo growled, and Jack hushed him. He noticed her eyes glassing over, though they never left his, and her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. The sight of her pink tongue sent him over the edge.
“And wh-what are you doing now?”
“I’m getting ready to kiss you.” His voice was husky and low.
“Oh.” She licked her bottom lip and whispered, “Is that a good idea, Ja—”
He placed his index finger on her mouth to quiet her. “I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”
Chapter 3
Chrissy felt the butterflies in her stomach kick into high gear. Jack moved his head lower and oh so slowly brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth. Automatically her lips parted and a little gasp escaped. Traitorous lips! That was all the permission he needed; his mouth crushed down on hers and his forearms gave way, his body melding into hers as he pressed her against the wall. His hand slid down the contour of her body as her right leg hitched around his hip. Traitorous leg!
Her body parts were on cruise control; she didn’t seem to be in charge of them anymore, and they were up to no good! His knee nudged between her thighs, and as the kiss deepened so did her gyrations against him, their hips rocking together. Chrissy’s arms wrapped around his neck as she took the lead and deepened the kiss. It was a tug-of-war between their tongues. She nipped his lower lip and he groaned. He licked her upper lip and she moaned. Everything that made her inherently female was on high alert, and his very prominent hard-on rubbed against her.
She sighed in pleasure. “Jack …”
“I got you, babe.” He released her for a second, took half a step back, and peeled off his shirt. It took Chrissy a minute to stop gawking. She had been right: there were muscles on top of muscles. All she wanted to do was lap him up. She responded by grabbing the hem of her dress and pulling it over her head.
He took a step back to look at her. “Fuck,” he gasped when he saw her in just her itty-bitty black panties and a matching bra. In a split second he was on her again. His tongue plunged into her mouth, and her mouth happily accepted it. This time, instead of wrapping her arms around him, she reached between them and started undoing the button on his jeans.
“Jack! Hurry, help me take these off.”
Trying not to break contact with her mouth, he took his jeans off with one hand while swatting Drogo, who was jumping on his hind legs and snarling, with the other. “Go away, Drogo!” Jack commanded.
From the corner of her eye Chrissy noticed something red. She pushed him away, still panting, and pointed to his hipbone. “What’s this?” She reached toward the waistband of his boxer shorts, where a big square Band-Aid stuck out. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Just got hurt, is all. Don’t worry.” His jeans hit the floor and he again looked ready to pounce, but she kept him at arm’s length.
“Wait, it’s bleeding. Look, it started to seep through. Let me take a look at it. It must hurt.”
“Not as much as my dick is going to hurt if we stop now.”
She pointed to the couch. “Oh, don’t be a baby. Sit.”
Jack groaned, picked up the incessantly snarling dog and set him on his pillow, and then sat down as instructed. Chrissy kneeled between his thighs. God, is she trying to kill me? Did I verbalize the nurse fantasy? Still mostly naked, she slowly began to take off the Band-Aid and gauze, and he winced. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess it does. But only a little. It’s no big deal.”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to pretend with me.” Once she lowered the waistband of his boxers a little and carefully removed all the bandages, she shook her head. “Shit, Jack. It looks pretty deep. Who taped you up? They did a terrible job. You should have gotten stitches on this. Did they even clean it out? It looks ripe for infection. How’d this happen?” She was inspecting the wound, but it didn’t go unnoticed that she was crouched down by his hip and directly in front of his hard-on, which was mere inches from her face.
“I taped it up myself. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He jumped when she touched along the edges of the cut. “Son of a bitch!” Jack hissed.
“Go to my car and bring me the black backpack from the trunk. Luckily, I have some medical supplies in there from my recent trip.”
“Chrissy, can we—”
“Just go.” She pointed toward the door. “This is not good, Jack. You may need stitches and antibiotics. I need to boil some water to sterilize my supplies.”
Clad just in white boxer briefs, Jack went outside, crossed his lawn, and strode to her car with the biggest hard-on he’d ever had in his entire life. Disconcerted yet wound up, he prayed that none of his neighbors would see him. But really, he didn’t care. His mind was elsewhere, specifically on the half-naked vixen inside his house playing nurse. Actually, his mind and all the blood in his body were elsewhere—south.
He walked back in, startled to see her in his black T-shirt boiling water in his kitchen. She had to have been a late bloomer, because eleven years ago her breasts hadn’t been as full as they were now. She was small in stature but voluptuous where it counted—breasts and ass. “I think that should be the official uniform for doctors. In fact, you aren’t welcome back in my house unless you’re wearing one of my T-shirts and nothing else.” She giggled as she continued working in the kitchen. There’s that giggle again. That giggle is going to be the death of me.
“Okay, go sit down.” She pointed toward a dining room chair, and he obligingly sat down. Drogo followed. The dog looked at his owner, and it almost seemed as if he was concerned for Jack, because his tiny head tilted to the side and he let out a little whimper. Either that or the mutt was hungry. Probably the latter, Jack decided. Chrissy smiled at the pup and said, “Excuse me,” and Drogo actually moved. The dog didn’t bark, didn’t bite, didn’t disobey. He simply gave Chrissy room to work. Jack couldn’t believe what had just happened between Drogo the devil dog and Chrissy the dog whisperer. He knew she probably didn’t even realize she had just had a conversation with Drogo.
When Chrissy began to work on Jack’s wound, she was assertive and in control, all business. Any sign of the wanton vixen had been wiped away, despite her stimulating attire. She pulled out another chair and sat down, taking out tape, scissors, more gauze, a needle, and little bottles filled with different liquids from her bag. He couldn’t help himself—she was just so close. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her. She squealed, and he placed her down on her knees between his parted thighs. “You want to work on me? Fine. But you do it right here. Between my legs.” He reached for her bag and slid it across the table so that it would be closer to her. She looked at him with those big sapphire eyes and smiled. The wanting
in her eyes returned. At some point she had put her hair up into a tight bun, which made her look like a librarian. One of those fantasy librarians. As she prepared her supplies, he reached under the hem of the shirt and rubbed her thighs, working his way up to her ass. She looked up at him as she straightened her glasses.
“Never take those off. You’re a fantasy, you know that? This right here is a fantasy,” he said, pointing at her.
“Oh, you’re into the whole doctor thing, aren’t you?” That made his imagination soar. Scratch the whole naughty-librarian thing. She was a naughty doctor. He could certainly work with that. In the span of an hour, he had managed to conjure up all sorts of role-play scenarios: nurse, librarian, doctor. What the hell had gotten into him?
“No, baby, I’m into the whole sexy-Chrissy thing.” He wrapped an arm around her small waist, pulled her close to him, and began to plant openmouthed kisses along her neck.
“I need to concentrate and you need to sit up. You’re being a very bad patient. I can’t get to your hip if you’re bent forward.” She pouted and moved back a little, but with a mischievous little wink. Oh, she was playing his game, and he was going to enjoy every second of it.
“Sorry, Doc. It just hurts so much. Maybe you can kiss it and make it better,” Jack whined.
Even though she was going along with the game, she continued to work diligently on his wound. “Oh, poor baby. Where does it hurt?”
He waggled his eyebrows up and down and slowly dropped his gaze to between his legs. She laughed out loud.
“Well, as soon as I’m done fixing this”—she pointed to his hip—“maybe I’ll kiss that.” And she pointed to his throbbing erection.
Suddenly she was all business again. She pushed him back against the chair and started rubbing alcohol on his open wound. “Fuck. That shit really stings,” he protested.
Against the Cage (Worth the Fight #1) Page 3
