Shacking Up

by Helena Hunting

  “So why did you decide on a ferret instead of getting your own dog?”

  “It was accidental. Someone snuck a ferret into one of my father’s New York hotels a while ago. They’re uh . . . illegal to have as pets in some states, and she was at risk of being exterminated, so I brought her home instead.” He looks nervous as he waits for my reaction.

  “Really? It’s illegal in some states?” I had no idea.

  “Just a few.”

  “But not New York, right?”

  He purses his lips but stays silent.

  I lean around him and smooth my hand across his back, between his shoulder blades. The muscles flex and he draws in a sharp breath.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Checking for your angel wings.”

  He laughs and then motions to Francesca whose head is peeking out from under the couch. She bounds across the living room and skids into the kitchen. “Look at her. How could I let them do that?”

  “Exactly. That’s really great that you decided to keep her. And your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone you’re harboring a fugitive ferret.”

  “I appreciate your discretion. I didn’t realize quite how involved the whole process would be, but she’s proved to be worth it. I also wasn’t expecting to do a lot of traveling, so I thought it wouldn’t be an issue. I’m hoping that part will only last a short while.”

  Francesca finds a ball with a bell in it, the same kind you’d give a cat, and rolls it across the floor. I snatch it up before she can get to it. “Wanna play, little lady?” I toss it across the room and she races after it.

  Once she catches it, she brings it right back to me. I look over my shoulder at Bancroft who’s watching me with an amused expression.

  “She plays fetch!”

  “It’s her favorite. She also loves snuggles while we watch TV.”

  “I’m in love with her already.”

  He mutters something I don’t catch. “If you’re all right with her, do you mind if I have a quick shower? Or I can put her back in her cage and you can have one, too.”

  For half a second I take that completely the wrong way. Probably because the second he said shower I started picturing him naked and wet. “Why don’t you go now and I’ll have one when you’re finished.”

  “Sure. Great. Then I’ll order dinner?”

  “Um, you don’t have to order in. I’ll eat pretty much anything.” Except for everything Armstrong ordered the other day. And I can’t really afford to splurge on expensive takeout.

  “My fridge isn’t well stocked. It’ll be my treat.”

  I feel some guilt over accepting more handouts from him, but I’m hungry enough to agree. “Okay. Sure.”

  “Excellent. I won’t be long.” I smile and turn back to Francesca when she nudges my hand, the ball already at my feet.

  I toss it and watch her bounce across the floor. She really is the cutest little thing. The next time she comes back she has a new toy. It’s a mouse, so I dangle it and she jumps for it. When Bancroft returns from the shower I’m lying on my back on the floor with one mouse dangling from the tail between my toes, and jingling the bell ball in my hand.

  His feet show up in my field of vision first. His socked feet. What the fuck? Maybe he’s got a thing about bare feet. Maybe he hates feet. Maybe he really loves socks. At least these are ankle socks and not the ones that cover up his amazing calves. I look up, past his knees to the cargo shorts, the black belt that cinches at his waist, and the half-unzipped fly. I get a very brief glimpse of red as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. Too bad he’s not commando. Not that I’d be able to do anything about it if he was, but I’d have five weeks of self-pleasure fodder.

  I remember, rather vividly, what it felt like when what he’s hiding behind his fly was pressed up against my stomach during our accidental kiss. I keep going, up, up, up that very mountainous body. He’s wearing a red T-shirt. That’s rather disappointing. No shirt would be greatly appreciated. Maybe I should make a sign while he’s away, one that says No Socks, No Shirts Required or something. He seems like the kind of guy who might find that funny. And who might accommodate me by taking it seriously.

  “Want to take a break from entertaining Francesca?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I toss him the ball, which he catches underhand with a quick step to the side thanks to my poor aim.

  Francesca scampers over to him and tries to scale his leg. Instead of throwing the ball, he scoops her up. “I can order dinner while you’re getting cleaned up, then we can go over the house rules.”

  “House rules?” I raise a brow. “You mean like no boys in my room after nine?”

  Bancroft frowns. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Not at the moment.” But I’d sure like to be friends with whatever’s hiding behind the fly of those cargo shorts he’s wearing. I do a half bridge and roll up to a stand. “Does this mean I have to cancel the kegger I was planning for tomorrow night?”

  Bancroft’s eyebrow lifts.

  “I’ll just remove that post I put up a couple hours ago. I think only, like, two hundred people responded.”

  He cracks a grin. “Only two hundred?”

  “Tomorrow I was planning to take an ad out in the Times, pass out a few thousand fliers, that kind of thing, but I guess I’ll just cancel those. I was thinking to charge like twenty dollars a person, but now I’ll just have to settle for cable TV and chilling with Franny and Tiny.” I brush past Bancroft on my way to my temporary room, enjoying his wide-eyed uncertainty.

  “You are kidding, right?” he calls after me.

  I just laugh and close the door, leaving him to wonder.

  Once I’m in my room I survey the boxes, glad I had Amie’s help packing, otherwise I’d have no idea where anything is. Thankfully the box labeled bathroom is close to the top of the stack, so it’s easy enough to get to. I carry it into the bathroom and then realize I have no idea how the shower works. There are seven-hundred buttons and levers and I don’t know what belongs to what.

  I make a guess and press one of the buttons in the middle. Cold water shoots out of a jet in the wall at face level. I scream and try to hit it again, but I manage to hit the wrong one, activating yet another jet. So of course, I scream again. The water goes from freezing to scalding in a matter of seconds. I back away from the jets, into the corner, instead of out the open shower door. Now they’re alternating scalding spray from all six jets. It’s like a very hot game of Whack-A-Mole, except no one’s hitting me over the head with a mallet, I’m being blasted with fiery sprays of water.

  There’s a knock in the middle of my yelps. It sounds like it’s outside my door. Bancroft’s muffled voice follows. “Ruby? You okay in there?”

  “I think I need some help!” I call back.

  “Is it okay if I come in, then?”

  “Please!”

  “Ruby?” Bancroft’s voice is closer now, inside my room but outside the bathroom.

  “I’m in here! I’m trapped in the shower!” I call out.

  “Trapped?” Worry makes his voice a little deeper.

  “The jets are shooting scalding water at me.” I yell back. “I can’t get past them.”

  “Can’t you just turn them off?” Now it sounds like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.

  “I did try!”

  “Are you—” there’s a brief moment of hesitation, followed by the clearing of his throat. “—decent?”

  “I’m being cooked in your shower and you’re worried about my state of dress?”

  The door opens slowly and Bancroft’s dark hair appears, followed by his eyes, which dart toward the shower. His brows come down and then pop up. Crinkles appear in the corners of his eyes. He pushes the door wide. “How’d you end up in the shower fully dressed?”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed. It was an accident,” I snap.

  “Geez, there’s water all over the floor. Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

  “Where ar
e you going? Don’t leave me in here!”

  “I’m putting Francesca in her cage so I can save you, give me a second.” He disappears, but he’s back again quickly.

  It takes him all of three seconds to figure out the timing of the intermittent jet spray before he reaches in and hits three buttons. The water stops. The only part of him that’s wet is his forearm. I, on the other hand, am soaked head to foot.

  My tank top, which is pale blue, sticks to my skin, and its soaked state renders it transparent. Which means Bancroft can see the darker blue bra underneath. My shorts are drenched as well, showing off my panty-line. There isn’t much of one since I’m sporting a thong.

  Bancroft’s gaze seems to get stuck on my chest.

  “Can I have a towel, please?” Now that I’m no longer being pelted with scalding water the air-conditioning is doing its job, making my skin pebble, among other body parts. My nipples are particularly obvious thanks to the lack of padding in my bra.

  “Right. Yeah.” He grabs one from the rack and hands it to me as I step out of the shower.

  “Thank you.” Since the danger of being burned by water has passed, I’m now appropriately embarrassed. As I should be. Especially with the way Bancroft looks like he’s trying to hold back his smile. “Do not laugh at me.”

  He holds up his hands in mock surrender, his cheek ticking. “I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t wait until tomorrow to shower or you would’ve been stuck in there until the hot water ran out.”

  “It was like being blasted by a volcano.”

  “It’s not that hot. There’s a sensor that won’t let the temperature get too high. I’m not sure why you didn’t just run past the jets and save yourself, but I’ll take white knight status.”

  “I have sensitive skin and I panicked,” I reply.

  “Too bad you didn’t panic after you were naked. I didn’t even get to see anything good.”

  My mouth drops. “So much for being a white knight.”

  His grins widens. “I still saved you from my molten lava shower.”

  “Only because you thought you were going to see me naked, apparently.”

  His eyes drop again, slowly perusing my body until he reaches my feet, where a puddle has formed. “I can be a white knight with a dirty mind, can’t I?”

  “You know what would be really nice?” I pull the towel tighter around me.

  “What’s that?” It takes a while before his gaze finally reaches mine. There’s heat in it. The kind that makes me want to drop my towel and strip out of my clothes. The kind that begs the question, what kind of dirty happens in that mind of his? I’d capitalize on that hungry look he’s wearing—if I wasn’t relying on this man for a place to live while I sort out my messed-up life.

  I clear my throat and try to come across as affronted, rather than turned on. “It’d be nice if you’d stop making fun of me and show me how to use your space-age shower.”

  “You’re a little high strung, aren’t you?” He’s still smiling. It’s as sexy as it is infuriating.

  I just give him a look, more because I’m worried about what might come out of my mouth right now if I don’t keep it shut.

  Bancroft shows me what each button is for. It turns out I can actually set the temperature. This is a crazy high-tech shower. He adjusts the spray to rainfall and I tell him when it’s the right temperature for me.

  “Seriously?” he asks, feeling the tepid water.

  “I told you my skin was sensitive.”

  “This is lukewarm.”

  “So? It’s not like you’re getting in there with me. What’s it matter to you?”

  His eyebrow dip, along with his eyes. “You wouldn’t need hot water if I was getting in there with you.” He smirks at my semi-fake outraged gasp. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  I watch his ass leave the bathroom—and the rest of him, but it’s his finely sculpted rear view that’s my focus. And his fucking ankle socks. I don’t know why they bother me so much.

  Once I hear the door to my room close—my very nice, large room—I strip out of my wet clothes and step under the spray. It’s a little on the cool side, but I’d rather that than the inferno water. Also, I could use a little cooling down after that.

  The rain showerhead is so nice, the water pressure far superior to that in my old apartment. After a few minutes, I bump up the temperature a degree or two, because Bancroft is right, it’s pretty cool, and now that he’s not heating up the room with his comments and his hotness, I can make up for it with water temperature.

  Once I’m done it takes me another five minutes to find a reasonable outfit. Everything I own is a wrinkly mess since it’s been packed in suitcases for the past two days, but there’s not much I can do about that. I can’t even find a pair of decent underwear, so I’m forced to go commando, and all I can locate in the bottoms department that’s even remotely reasonable is a pair of running shorts, a cami with a built-in bra, and a loose tank to throw over it.

  It’s not like I’m trying to impress Bancroft. Or seduce him with my sexy outfits. Not while I’m depending on him for a roof over my head. That could make things messy. But that doesn’t mean I can’t flirt.

  Bancroft is stretched out on the couch watching sports with Francesca curled up in his lap. Right on top of his penis. What a whore. I wish I was her.

  He glances over. “Looks like you recovered from the shower trauma.”

  “Ha ha.” My lounger has been moved into the living room alongside the funky oversized chair. It looks even more dilapidated beside his nice furniture. “Did you pick this chair?”

  “No. My mother did. She likes furniture a lot. She thinks this place doesn’t have enough”—he flops his hand around—“personality or whatever.”

  “Ah. Do you agree with her?”

  Bancroft shrugs. “She was excited that I was moving back to New York and I was recovering from knee surgery, so interior decorating wasn’t high on my list of priorities. She’s always been involved in that part of the hotels so I let her do her thing here because it makes her happy.”

  “That’s sweet. It doesn’t really seem like your style.”

  “What’s my style?” he asks.

  “Hmm. Good question.” I tap my lip. “Maybe you should replace it with a throne. You know, to go with your white knight status.”

  He makes a snicker-y, snortish kind of noise.

  Instead of taking a seat, I step into the gap between the couch and the coffee table. Bancroft gives me a questioning look as I lean over and give Francesca a pet.

  “Uh, what’re you doing?”

  If I’m not mistaken, I hear a hint of excitement in his voice.

  “What does it look like? Petting your ferret.”

  Francesca opens her eyes, blinking sleepily. I give her one long, full body stroke, considering the other thing underneath her that I wouldn’t mind giving a stroke.

  Chapter 7: Firecrackers in My Pants

  BANCROFT

  Holy fuck. Ruby Scott is going to kill me. My dick is incredibly excited about what’s happening right now. He seems to be taking the wheel a lot these days, especially in relation to the woman currently stroking my pet ferret, who has picked a rather inconvenient location to have a nap.

  For the past two days I’ve been second-guessing my decision to let Ruby move in here while I’m away. Reneging would make me an asshole, but the last time I had someone pet sit for me Francesca almost escaped. And all of Tiny’s crickets ended up getting free. They were all over the condo. It was disgusting.

  Asking Amalie to take care of Tiny and Francesca hadn’t been ideal, but I needed someone reliable and trustworthy. With Francesca being a fugitive because of her illegal status, I like to have a friend look after her while I’m away, but it’s usually for much shorter time spans. Lex had a girlfriend a while back who would do it, but she’s out of the picture, so I can’t ask her anymore. Amalie was someone I knew personally, and she seemed to have a good head on her shoulder
s. But stopping by every couple of days isn’t enough, not for five weeks. So out of desperation, and some guilt, and with some internal convincing that Ruby wasn’t going to lose my ferret in one of the heating vents, I stuck to the plan. So here she is, stroking my ferret.

  As Ruby’s long, dark hair tickles my arm and her shirt gapes, giving me an excellent view of her cleavage, I can admit—to myself—that my dick is one-hundred percent in control of all decision making where Ruby is concerned at this moment, and that he was partially responsible for allowing her to move in here.

  She’s still petting Francesca. Which would be fine, except her favorite place to curl up happens to be right on top of my decision-making cock. And his awareness of how close Ruby’s hand is causing an unfortunate reaction, because he would like the same treatment.

  Which isn’t going to happen. Not tonight anyway. Not when I’m leaving her in my condo for the next five weeks. I barely know her. She could be one of those women who automatically assume sex equals a relationship. And since she’s taking care of my pets, I can’t have additional complications getting in the way of that. Maybe once I’m back and her living situation is taken care of it could be a possibility. Unfortunately, getting my head below the waist to acknowledge the downside of getting into her shorts tonight seems rather impossible.

  Shit. I need to get my head under control. Both of them. Under any other circumstances I’d relocate Francesca, because I recognize her preferred napping location is a little odd. Usually there’s no one else here to witness it. Unfortunately, I’m starting to get hard, and she’s the only thing hiding what will definitely become a full-blown problem if Ruby keeps petting her.

  I’d like to attribute the blame, in part, to the shorts Ruby is wearing. They barely cover her ass. In fact, they just cover her fine, sculpted ass. I’m currently fighting with my hands to stay tucked behind my neck rather than reaching out and copping a feel. As an athlete—or a former athlete—I can appreciate how much time and effort goes into an ass as tight as Ruby’s.