by S. M. West
Through the glass wall, I stare, mesmerized, as he drops his jeans, pulls his long-sleeved shirt over his head and drops that to the floor as well. This leaves him standing there in only plaid boxers.
Mother of all that is holy.
He’s a beautiful man.
Always has been.
A perfect body, as if carved from stone, bronze skin smooth and firm.
My stomach flutters and my mouth opens, releasing a small, contented sigh. It’s been way too long since I’ve feasted my eyes on his wide, sculpted chest, abs you could easily wash laundry on for life, and the colorful dragon tattoo running along the left side of his rib cage.
I was with him when he had it done. It took hours, too many to count, and many sessions. For him, the mythical creature symbolizes strength and wisdom, both natural traits of Kit.
Captivated, my gaze tracks the intricate swirls and lines of ink as they disappear into the waistband of his boxers. The glorious sight of him short-circuits my brain.
It’s only when I get the odd, wired sensation of someone watching me that I snap out of my stupor.
Kit’s hazel eyes bore into me, a funny look crossing his face when my guilty, caught-red-handed gawk locks onto him.
“Can I help you get settled?” His chin dips to the chair, a crooked grin skating across his mouth.
“Um, ah, no, I’m good.” My cheeks flush. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?”
I’m talking about his hands as I watch him remove the clean bandages only put on about an hour ago.
“Yeah, they’re fine.”
As I get comfortable, he bends to get something in the cabinet underneath the sink.
“Do you still use this?” He holds out two familiar bottles—specialty shampoo and conditioner for curly hair—as he saunters toward the shower.
It’s the kind I use. The only brand I’ve ever used.
“Yes. Where did you get those?” My voice is hoarse, words caught as my brain scrambles, not knowing how to react and where to look.
I stare at his toned thighs, covered in tiny golden hairs, as I watch his muscles cord and release with every step towards me.
“I had them from before.”
I rip my gaze from his leg, springing higher and higher to his face, just in time to take in the flush spreading across his cheeks. He shrugs, and I sink my teeth into my lip, unable to find the words to express how blown away I am by something as mundane but also significant as him holding on to my hair supplies.
He nears me, and the heat of him and how his stomach muscles flex and ripple with every deep breath he takes is overwhelming. Electricity trills through my veins, and sitting still is near impossible.
“You okay?” He rubs his lips together to hide a grin and I’m almost embarrassed. He knows what he’s doing to me.
I urgently shove my hands under my thighs, rubbing my legs together to lessen the pulsing need building in my core. My hands twitch, wanting to boldly touch his hot skin, to traverse the ridges of his defined muscles.
“Tilt your head back.” One hand cradles my skull like I’m fragile, special. “Tell me if the water is okay or if it’s too hot.”
My tongue dead, or near to it, I nod, flames of desire licking up my neck, and the only thing to do is close my eyes. Warm breath and light stubble caress my cheek and I tremble, eyes popping open as his soft, full lips hover a pinch from my ear.
“Relax.” The word is a caress against my skin.
His fingers sink into my hair, gathering all my strands in his large capable hands, and bolts of pleasure fly through my chest. I can hardly draw air into my lungs.
“Breathe.” He soothes a hand down the side of my face as warm water soaks my locks. “Is this okay?”
“Uh-huh.” My skin pricks and heart squeezes.
I’m going to have a heart attack. Not because I’m scared or stressed but because I’m turned on. I might combust.
His fingers stroke down the length of my hair, working the shampoo into my scalp. Deep, steady circles, calming and kneading like a balm, erase all the aches and pains from the blast.
I love when someone washes my hair. When my hairdresser does it, I’m putty and would agree to even a mohawk or full-on shaved head with her fingers in my hair. Now, my body tingles, alive and his to do with as he pleases.
The entire hair washing is an experience I will never forget. When he rinses my tresses for the final time and wrings out the excess water, I feel like a limp noodle and no longer have the capability to move.
“Okay, all clean.” He rests a dry towel over my shoulder. “Let me get those stitches covered so you can take a shower.”
I spring upright a little too fast and everything is dizzy. He rushes to my side, crouching to look me in the eye. “Easy. You okay?”
“Yes.” My voice is a squeak and I clear my throat. “I think I’ve got it from here. You’ve already done so much. Thank you.”
He straightens. “Okay. Everything’s on the counter.”
“Great, thanks.” I wrap my wet hair in the towel and he leaves.
I stare at myself in the mirror and while far from the truth, I look like I’m freshly fucked. I wish.
My eyes are glowing, cheeks a dainty pink, and my lips are plump and swollen. What the…? And all this from washing my hair.
Not allowing myself to dwell any longer on how Kit makes me feel—still makes me feel after all these years—I get into the shower. It’s slow going with the aches and pains but it’s just what I need.
When I step into the bedroom, Kit’s waiting for me. “You can sleep here.” He motions to the bed and flicks his gaze to the door. “And I’ll be on the couch.”
He scratches at the dark scruff dotting his chiseled jawline, and my palms burn, remembering the delicious roughness of it against my skin. Despite the temptation and my weakening resolve, he can’t sleep out there.
“The couch isn’t going to fit you. You won’t get any sleep.”
Sure, he’s used to catching a few hours of sleep anywhere. Just like me. He had to in his line of work, but he’s been through a lot tonight.
Just like me, he needs his rest. And even though the couch is oversized, there’s no way it’ll fit his six-foot-five frame comfortably. His feet will hang off one end.
“It’s fine. I’ve slept in way worse places.” He edges toward the door. “Once you fall asleep, I’ll grab a shower.”
“Kit.” I grab at his forearm, his hard muscles flexing beneath my fingers, and I squeeze in a silent plea for him to listen. “You must be dying for a shower. Go have one now and I’ll wait in the living room. And as for sleeping, the bed is big enough for the both of us.
My breath catches as his eyes hold mine, and when his sharp gaze rakes down my body and then back up again, I’m painfully aware of every inch of myself. Once again, with only a look, I’m ready to explode.
Heat flickers through me at the thought of sleeping next to him, of being able to smell him, touch him, hear his steady breaths.
I will my breathing to slow down and the flush to vanish from my cheeks, saying more to myself than anything else, “We’re adults—it’s no big deal.”
I’m such a liar.
Kit
My pulse pounds like the heavy, incessant drums of a sacrificial rite. How the hell am I going to sleep with Caro next to me?
Showered and in a pair of sleep pants, I pad into the living room. Caro’s in my T-shirt, staring at the black-framed photographs along one wall. The fabric falls to a little above mid-thigh.
She’s tall, about five foot ten, with legs that would bring any man to his knees. The highway of creamy, toned flesh makes my balls tighten. She’s sexy even casual and ready for bed. Damn, I’ve missed her.
I clear my throat to let her know I’m there, and she spares me a brief look before fixing back on the images.
When I moved into the loft, Maggie helped decorate the place. I don’t have a lot of things of sentimental value. She insist
ed on adding a touch of something personal to my place.
Rather than argue with her, I went through my pictures online and got some printed. Ones that meant something to me, reminders of people or places I never wanted to forget. She got them framed and designed the layout.
Unable to stay away, I stand at Caro’s back, remaining silent. Aware of my presence, there’s a slight shift in her demeanor as she inches in my direction, soaking up the warmth created by her back to my chest.
Only an inch or two separates our bodies, and it feels right. We are both where we are meant to be, and no words are needed.
Nick and Maggie are in a couple of the pictures, and there’s an awesome snapshot of Nick, Logan, and me on our bikes. Caro took it.
A smile coasts across my mouth. We were twenty-one and thought we were badasses with our leather jackets and Harleys. We’re such goofs.
And of course, there are several photographs of Caro and me in high school, when she was in university and in the early days of med school, when we were still together.
Her long, elegant fingers trace the lines of my youthful, happy features through the glass. “I love this picture. Do you remember that day?”
Over her shoulder, she looks up at me, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with the fresh clean scent of her. As if travelling through time, I’m immediately transported through the years and back to where and when that very image was taken. It’s an image of us with boxes all around us, and we’re smiling like we just won the lottery.
“I’ll never forget it. We’d just moved in together.” I latch my hands onto my hips.
No touching.
No matter how tempting.
I’m lightheaded at the mere thought of her silky skin beneath the pads of my fingers and in turn, her quiver and flush at my touch.
Not going to happen.
“Yes. That place was horrible.” She laughs and her damp curls bounce, taunting me. “But you’d have thought we’d moved into the Taj Mahal or Buckingham Palace.”
“Yeah, we were crazy.” My fingers itch to reach for a lock of hair.
She whirls around to face me, and there’s suddenly a vise grip on my lungs, squeezing every last bit of air out of me.
“Crazy in love.” Her chest bumps into the upper half of my torso as she steps into me. I shudder, unable to hide my reaction to her.
We’re touching.
Chest to chest.
She isn’t playing fair.
“How are your hands?” She doesn’t wait for my response, grabbing both with hers and turning them palm up to examine the cuts. “I could bandage it up again, if you want. It’s already healing.”
“No, it’s fine.” I pull my hands from her hold. “Besides, the air will be good for them.”
She places a hand on my shoulder, staring up at me. Her gaze is loaded with…with what? Love? Gratitude? Or is it just desire? That was never our problem.
“Caro, you should get some sleep.” My heart twists in my chest, an unimaginable ache, but I can’t torture myself like this.
Her smile crumbles and hurt flashes in her compelling dark eyes as I step away, turning my back to her and walking to the kitchen.
It’s an eternity before the bedroom door clicks closed, and my hands, balled like fists, and forehead press into the unforgiving wall.
My eyes squeeze shut as if to erase all trace of Caro.
Impossible.
With a racing heart and raging erection, my body pulses, throbs in near misery, and I can’t control my rapid, shallow breaths. I’m not getting any air into my lungs.
I battle the urge to pummel the wall. No doubt I’d lose the fight, but the pain would distract me from how much I want to storm into the room and take her. Lose myself in the only woman I’ve ever loved.
It’s hard to say how long I stay like that, hanging my head and resisting the innate need to love her, be with her. I wake her up in about two hours as instructed by the nurse and she wakes easily, which is a good sign, and she readily tells me her name before going back to sleep.
And I wake her up one more time, wait ten minutes to ensure she’s back to sleep, and then I climb in bed, under the covers.
Even exhausted and in the early hours of the morning, sleep is elusive and restless. Caro remains asleep when I finally get out of bed, fed up with tossing and turning. My body’s tight and sore, and it takes a bit to get moving.
Last night’s blast left its markings on me as on Caro, I’m sure, and I suppose that explains why she’s still sleeping. Usually she’s an early bird, up well before the sun. She’s one of those people who doesn’t need a lot of sleep to function well.
Barefooted, I make my way to the kitchen, and with each step I slice through the buttery pink and orange sunbeams streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sky is a clear, cloudless blue and it looks like it’ll be another chilly day.
While the coffee brews, I call the police station to inquire about our cars. We’re not going to get them back anytime soon. Then I call the garage and arrange for a vehicle to be sent over so I have something to drive.
Then I sit and take inventory of last night’s events with Caro once we got back from the hospital. Nick’s baby sister didn’t always hate me, and there were times last night that it felt like old times.
No, for many years, Caro’s feelings for me were the exact opposite of hate. We shared a bed and a life. At eighteen, I met her the same week I started hanging out with Nick. She was sixteen and fucking beautiful.
Strong, confident, and intelligent.
Irresistible and a bit intimidating.
Nothing has changed.
I didn’t believe in love or even marriage, but she tested those beliefs, made me question everything I’d ever thought about relationships.
And then everything changed.
My lifestyle wasn’t a secret. I worked for bad people, took money to make their dirty secrets and nasty problems go away. Caro knew all of this and had been cool with it. Until she wasn’t.
One day, I became a thug in her eyes. It happened almost overnight, or at least that’s how it felt to me. I suspect it had been longer for her, her changing emotions, but she hid it well.
At some point, in med school, she no longer wanted me in her life. Her growing dislike of my life choices became hard to ignore.
Growing up poor with a crackhead mom, who I loved even if she wasn’t always there for me, made life difficult. I learned to take care of her…us…from a young age and found the promise of a life with drugs.
Yeah, ironic, I know. In high school, I fell in with the wrong crowd, surprise, surprise, and turned to drugs. Not using but dealing. I don’t touch the stuff—toxic to not only your body but to your relationships and life.
Some people might think I should have run in the other direction. I mean, why would I knowingly contribute to the millions already addicted to drugs and the senseless overdoses? Especially considering my mother.
It isn’t as if I wanted any of this. After my father was killed, gunned down like a dog in the streets before I was even six years old, my mother changed.
We were never well off, living hand to mouth even when Dad was alive, but he was a good man and didn’t deserve to die the way he did. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
His death killed our little family. Mom was never quite the same after that, and looking for solace or escape from life she turned to drugs. She lost her job, then the apartment, and pretty soon I was fending for myself.
Caro knew all of this. When we met, when Nick took me under his wing, she knew I was dealing and then teamed up with her brother, leaving drugs behind and joining him in his business fixing problems.
Foolishly, I thought she understood I’d had no other choice. I couldn’t get a legit job to cover rent, pay the bills, put food on the table, and allow me to finish high school. I didn’t care about an education but I was a minor. If I’d disappeared from high school, social services would have come looking
for me. I didn’t need that kind of trouble. Drugs enabled me to make ends meet and get my diploma.
Working with Nick was better. We were our own bosses, but we were both doing shady, dangerous stuff to make a living.
Shit, Caro benefitted the most from Nick’s line of work and she never objected, so stupidly I believed she was good with it. She was all I had until I lost her too.
At the time, when we broke up, I didn’t understand her. I tried to get through to her, and walking away wasn’t something I easily accepted. Those early days were hard—talk about beating your head against a brick wall. It was only with time and age that I started to understand her reasons.
We grow and change, and sometimes in relationships, people don’t grow in the same direction or no longer want the same things. I didn’t think that would be us, but Caro has a lot of stuff from her childhood that she’s never really faced. I thought I could help her with that but I never got the chance. My lifestyle only pushed us apart.
“Morning.” She shuffles into the kitchen, yawning and raising her arms over her head slowly, frowning with each move.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Like roadkill.” She takes the coffee from my hands, a look of awe blanketing her still sleepy features. “It’ll get better, especially once I get some of this into me. Thank you.” She gestures to the mug, inhaling. “And I’ll take a few more painkillers, which should help me feel somewhat human. How do you feel?”
“I’m good. You should eat something with the meds.”
“I’m not hungry.” She rests a hand flat on her stomach and grimaces. “Not yet, thanks.”
Sighing and not wanting to argue, I say, “I called the station about our cars and they’re going to be there awhile. They said yours was damaged in the blast.”
“How bad is it?” She rests her hip against the counter, studying me over the rim of the cup. “Is the Aston Healy okay?”
“I’m not sure how bad it is. The officer didn’t say. As for my car, I’d be crying if it wasn’t okay. I don’t think any damage was done to it.”
A ghost of a smile creeps over her mouth. “Well, I’m glad yours is okay. Mine was old and doesn’t owe me anything. Although, having to get a new car…” She worries her bottom lip.
