by J B Heller
I know I’m being rude, but I can’t look away. It’s impolite to stare. I’m vaguely aware that I’ve slipped into full-blown creeper territory, but holy shit, that thing is out of this world. I swallow hard as it bobs against Rhett’s tight stomach.
How is this even my reality right now? Sexy men do not turn up at my apartment door at five a.m., naked, and throw themselves on my couch to settle in for a nap. This isn’t normal behaviour. Nothing normal ever happens to me, but this feels next-level.
He’s staring back at me, waiting for me to say something else. At least, I think he is. So, I bite down on the edge of my bottom lip, trying to think of something, anything, to say. “I’m not a creeper, it’s just… well… you’re very well-endowed. It’s quite shocking, really. I’m a little stuck on it.”
Rhett blinks back at me, then a tiny grin lifts the corner of his mouth. “Um yeah, he’s impressive. But I’ve never quite had a reaction like this before.”
“Oh, I suffer from a debilitating case of awkwardness. I’ve gotten used to it, but other people find it kind of jarring.” I shrug. It’s the best explanation I can give.
His grin widens until it’s covering his entire gorgeous face. “Debilitating awkwardness? That’s a new one. Normally I get, Oh that thing’s huge. Fancy a blow job instead?” He mimics the high-pitched tone of a pub bunny’s voice, then covers his mouth and flutters his strangely long—for a man’s—eyelashes.
I snort. “You’re not serious.”
That sexy grin morphs into an unimpressed scowl, all traces of humour gone. “I wish I weren’t. But I am. Apparently there is such a thing as too big.”
My nose and forehead crinkle. “Too big? Women think your penis is too big? I mean, yeah, it’s big—like, really big—but I wouldn’t say too big.” Then I think on it for a moment. “Well, I guess it depends on what you’re wanting to do with it as to whether it’s too big. It’s all about perspective, you know?” As I talk, a wide grin stretches across his gorgeous face.
Arching a brow, he asks, “Perspective? And what would you do with my dick, Reagan?”
I scratch my head. “I don’t know. You’d have to give me time to ponder on it. I haven’t come into contact with anything like that before, so it would require brainstorming, I think.”
A rich belly laugh fills the room as Rhett throws himself back into the couch cushions, laughing his arse off at my expense. Now this is something I’m used to.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at him. “Are you done?”
It takes him a few minutes to pull himself together, and when he does, he smiles at me—a genuine, happy smile, making my defences drop just a little.
“You’re one weird chick, but I like it,” he says.
I have to consider if I want to take this as a compliment or an insult. Finally, I decide it’s a compliment. “Normal is overrated,” I tell him, repeating his line about pants.
He nods. “I dig it. Nice ink.” He gestures to my shoulder piece with his chin as he speaks. “You like roses?”
“I like all flowers,” I tell him, then realise I’ve unglued myself from the wall and somehow made my way back into the middle of the lounge room.
“Shit,” I mutter when a sharp pain sears through my foot. Looking down, I see blood pooling under my left foot. Nausea rolls through me. My head spins rapidly, and sparks fly in my vision. Oh no, here we go …
A fraction of a second before I hit the glass-covered floor, Rhett’s big arms wrap around me, and he tugs me into his hard, defined, NAKED chest. Our bodies crash back into the couch, sending it screeching across the tiles from our combined weight.
I’m somewhat aware that I should be extracting myself from his hold, seeing as he isn’t wearing any clothes, but I’m too dizzy to even try. I’m a limp noodle in this gorgeous man’s arms, and he’s anything but. Somehow, when Rhett rescued me from certain face mutilation, our bodies got so tangled that I’m splayed across his lap. And his penis is now lodged between my breasts, poking its head out as if to say, Hello.
My head sways a little, and I’m no longer sure if it’s from seeing the blood or from being this close to it. I wish he’d told me its name; I feel rude just staring at it and not knowing.
“… lot of blood. I think you might need stitches,” Rhett says.
I blink slowly then rotate my head so I can look up into his face. “What?”
He’s holding my bloodied foot in the air, examining it closely. “It looks pretty deep. I think you’re going to need stitches.”
“Oh,” I say, as if this is perfectly okay when it is anything but. I do not do hospitals. I do not do blood, or needles, or any of the other shit involved in what he just said. Turning my face forward again, I rest my now sweaty forehead against his firm thigh, close my eyes, and take several deep, calming breaths.
I’ve barely begun my internal calm-your-tits speech when his thigh goes rock solid. My eyes pop open. “Can you chill for like five minutes? I’m in the middle of a crisis here. I can feel your lack of chill, and it’s making it hard for me to remain calm.” Every damn inch of him is statue-like by the time I finish my request.
“Uh, yeah, that’s not going to happen when my cock is nestled between your fun bags and you’re blowing nice warm breaths over his head like you’re about to show him some love.”
My head rolls to the side, and I peer up at him with one eye. “Seriously? I’m about to bleed out on my couch and you think I want to give you a BJ?” What is wrong with him?
Rhett frowns. “Bleed out? That’s a little dramatic. You’re going to need stitches, not a funeral director.”
With herculean effort, I move my arms to the outside of his thigh and push my torso up so I come eye to eye with him. “I am not dramatic.”
It would have been a much bolder statement had my arms been stable beneath me and had I not just caught sight of the blood running down my ankle and pooling at the back of my bent knee. Lightness fills my head, and I feel it droop as my arms give out and the world around me goes black.
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must ask himself, how did I end up here? This is my moment: sitting naked on a practical stranger’s couch with her sprawled over me, her face mashed against my fully erect cock as I hold one of her legs up in the air in an attempt to slow the blood flow from her foot. Oh yes, and let’s not forget that she’s currently unconscious.
Using my free hand, I slide the curtain of blonde hair that escaped from her bun-thing off her face. She’s white as a sheet, and when I press my palm to her forehead, I feel how clammy she is. Shit. I need to get her to a hospital, but I’m naked.
How do I get myself into these situations? Given, this particular one is a first, but still, how?
As smoothly as possible, I slide out from underneath her, keeping her injured foot elevated. Then I notice the blood now soaked into the cushions of her nice couch. Double shit. I lower her ankle to lean it on the armrest, then survey the ground before stepping back. Last thing I need is to stand on a piece of glass, too.
Gripping my hips, I stare at her. Her face is squished into the cushion, and her mouth is open. It looks like a fucking crime scene in here. My hand slips off my hip, and it’s because it’s covered in blood. Great. It looks like I tried to kill her. Somehow, I don’t think my reason for being here would help my case—I swear, Officer, I was just coming over to take a nap.
Fuck it, I have to fix this. Sleep will wait, but this headache needs to be dealt with now. It takes me less than a minute to get the layout of Reagan’s apartment figured out. It’s very similar to my own, only nicer.
I rummage through her bathroom cabinets and find some Advil, bandages, and sterile wipes. They’ll do just nicely. Glancing at her shower on my way out, I decide it’s probably a good idea to jump in real quick, seeing as I look like an axe murderer at rush hour.
Adjusting the temperature, I slide in and soap up with her girly rosewood body wash and remove all traces of her blood
from my skin. This stuff is actually pretty nice; it smells delicate and enticing. I quickly rinse off and grab the first towel I can find—it’s sunshine yellow. I swiftly dry off then wrap it around my hips and pick up my medical supplies.
When I stride into the lounge room, Reagan is no longer horizontal. You’d think that would be a good thing, but the look on her face says it’s really not. Tears shine in her baby blues, and I rush to her, mindful of the glass. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay,” I tell her.
She shakes her head, and big fat tears roll down her cheeks, wrinkled from being smooshed into the couch. “I forgot I hurt my foot, and tried to stand up, and stood on another-piece-of-glass-and-now-it’s-stuck-in-my-foot-and-I’m-going-to-die …” she wails, folding herself into my body as I sit.
My arm automatically curls around the eccentric woman beside me, and I hold her, stroking her arm in comfort. “You’re not going to die, Reagan. I won’t let you.”
Her big blue eyes connect with mine. “Promise?”
I don’t even hesitate. “I promise.”
Keeping our eyes locked, I reach down and wrap my free hand around her ankle. “Close your eyes, beautiful,” I instruct. I don’t want her to pass out again. Then, I lift her foot towards me while sliding my arm out from under her and guide her to lie back. “Just breathe, Reagan.”
Her eyes screw shut, and she does as I say. Shifting my attention to her foot, I cringe. A large piece of glass sticks out of the side. Thick, sticky blood runs down her leg and drips onto the floor. It’s so fucking gross. The metallic smell makes my stomach roll, and I have to look away for a second to get my shit together.
“I’m going to pull out the glass, Reagan, then I’m going to take you to the hospital.” My fingers slip twice before I’m able to get a good grip on the shard. I don’t wait for her to respond. Holding it firmly, I pull it out in one fluid motion, then press the towel that’s around my waist to the area.
I expect a scream or something from her, but she stays silent. Peeking back at her face, I realise it’s because she’s out cold. It’s probably better that way. Snatching up the bandages I found in the bathroom, I wrap one around her foot and secure it with some medical tape.
Sliding out from under her, I crouch by her side. “Reagan,” I whisper as I stroke her cold cheek. She stirs. “I’m going back to my place real quick to get some clothes and my keys. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
She mumbles something incoherent, and I don’t think she’ll be moving off this couch without my help anytime soon.
I take off back to my apartment, but not before putting a piece of the medical tape over the latch of Reagan’s apartment door to make sure I can get back in. Once inside my place, I duck into my spare room and grab a pair of pants and the first tee I find. My keys, however, are not as easily found.
Then, I have a light bulb moment and check the pockets of the jeans I was wearing last night—success! Wrapping my fist around them, I snatch my phone off the kitchen counter and slide my feet into my shoes on the way out the door.
Reagan is where I left her, but she’s awake now. When I walk in, she stares at me like I’ve grown a second head, then bursts out laughing. Shit, maybe she’s lost so much blood she’s delirious? The closer I get to her, the harder she laughs, until tears slide down the sides of her now rosy cheeks.
I raise my brows. “What’s so funny?” She could at least let me in on the joke.
She raises a shaking finger. “Your shirt,” she snorts.
Fuck. My. Life.
I grabbed the tee my sister gave me for my birthday last month. It says, Sexy and I Mow It, with a picture of a stick man pushing a lawnmower. I roll my eyes at Reagan. “It’s not that funny. I mowed my sister’s lawn for her once—just once—and it was really fucking hot, and I had to take my shirt off, and her friends were over. And yeah, I may have made the joke to one of them who was drooling a little.” I shrug. “I didn’t even look at what I was putting on. I was just trying to be quick.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling brightly, “and I like the shirt.”
“Come on. Let’s get you some medical attention,” I say with an outstretched hand. She takes it and I help her sit. “You want to change your clothes first, or want a bra or something?”
An adorable wrinkle forms between her brows. “A bra? No. I’m in pain; why would I want to inflict more discomfort on myself right now? Let’s just get this over with.”
I grin. “Suits me fine; I’m not complaining.” In fact, I really like that she doesn’t want to doll herself up, or some shit like that, before leaving the house.
“I’m sure you’re not, you perv. Don’t think I didn’t see you lookin’ earlier,” she mumbles as I help her stand, then wrap my arm around her slim waist and take most of her weight.
I deliberately look down her top, which is easy since she’s tiny next to my six foot two. “I wasn’t trying to hide it. And it’s only fair since you spent a solid ten minutes staring at my dick.”
She playfully shoves my side as I escort her out the door and down to the basement garage, leading her to my truck. She leans on its side while I fish out my keys and unlock my baby, then I scoop her up and deposit her inside.
“I could have climbed up,” she mutters.
“I know, but you would have hurt your foot. It’s no big deal.”
Fifteen minutes later, I slide into a park by the emergency entrance. “I’ll help you out,” I tell her and jog around the front of the truck before she tries to climb down on her own.
Her door is already open, and she’s about to slide out when I wrap my arms around her little waist. “I told you I’d help you.”
She stares into my eyes as I slowly lower her to the ground.
“I’m okay; you’ve done enough. Really, I can take it from here. You should go now.” She says all this with a pleasant smile plastered on her face. And it’s fake as fuck.
I scrutinise her for a minute longer. “What are you planning?”
Her eyes widen. “What? Nothing. I’m going to go in and get fixed up good as new, and then I’ll call my dad to come get me. No hidden plans here.”
“Really? ’Cause your eyes keep darting to that taxi rank over there, and I’m having flashbacks of you burying your face in my crotch to process the fact that you need stitches. So, I’m thinking you have a plan of escape and you’re trying to get rid of me.”
Her smile falters. “Damn it. I’m such a shitty liar. I really need to work on that.”
I’m about to release my hold when her body tips to the side. I tighten my grip. “Whoa there, come on, drama queen. I’ll hold your hand the whole time, okay?”
She swallows. “Uh no, you don’t need to do that. Nobody wants to see what’s about to go down in there.”
I hook a finger under her chin and tilt her head up when she refuses to meet my gaze. “And what’s going to go down?”
Reagan releases a deep breath. “A whole lot of crazy you are not prepared to handle. I should call my daddy,” she says and gnaws on her bottom lip.
At this point, it’s hard to keep a straight face. “More crazy than our morning so far, you mean?”
Finally, a fraction of a real smile quirks her full lips. “Yeah, probably.”
What the actual fuck am I seeing right now?
I blink several times then wriggle my fingers. Well, I try to wriggle my fingers.
Reagan has my hand in a death grip as she shrieks, “WHY ME, GOD?”
My ears are actually ringing. “Calm down, woman. They haven’t even touched you yet.”
Her chest heaves as she pulls air into her lungs in sharp, harsh pants. “I am calm, you dick-hole! This is all your fault. You did this to me. You cut me!” Her rabid eyes bounce around the small sterile cubicle.
She already tried to do a runner but collapsed two feet in, presumably from the numerous cuts on her foot. I scooped her up, and I’ve been holding her like this for the last ten minutes. My arms
lock around her middle a little tighter. “Jesus, you weren’t lying about the crazy.”
“You did not just call me crazy! You’re crazy. You, you made me come here. This is your fault.” Her rambling would be cute if she hadn’t been doing it since we walked through the doors.
Seriously, we crossed the threshold, and her mouth started moving and hasn’t stopped since. She’s even more pale than she was when we were back at her apartment, and sweat is gathering at her temples, across her nape, and down her slender neck. I’m struck with the urge to kiss her there, right in the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Just rest my lips there to soothe her.
Jesus, her crazy is rubbing off on me. I shake my head and ask the doctor, “What’s taking so long?”
He smiles, clearly way too amused by the rabid banshee in my lap. “Oh, just waiting on another set of hands. Won’t be too long.”
I nod. Right. Another set of hands can’t hurt, even though there are already two nurses hovering in the corner. Can’t we get this show on the road? The curtain parts and another doctor steps inside. His eyes land on Reagan and he smiles at her. “Hello, sweetheart. It’s been a long time. What have you done to yourself?”
Her bottom lip trembles, and she points to her foot wrapped in the bloodied bandage. “He cut me,” she sobs.
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t cut her. She dropped a hammer on her glass coffee table, then stood on the shards when she was staring at my—” I cut myself off. They don’t need all the details.
The guy nods, then extends a weathered hand to me. “Jim. I’ve been Reagan’s doctor since she was a child.”
“Rhett. I’m her neighbour.”
After releasing my hand, he clasps his in front of him and crouches down in front of us. “Honey, you need to calm down. I’ll get the nurse to bring you a Valium, then we’ll take a look at the damage.”
Reagan nods, finally fucking silent.
When Jim returns to standing, Reagan’s eyes zero in on the blood-stained bandage. The longer she stares at it, the looser her stiff body becomes in my arms. “Reagan?” I question, cupping her jaw with my hand, swivelling it so I can look into her eyes. They’re cloudy and her cheeks have a slightly green tinge to them.
