Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Katherine Lace

  While I’m avoiding eye contact, I notice a trophy on the mantelpiece above the fireplace—one of the few things Thor hasn’t tossed onto the floor during his reported rampages around the house. It’s a guy holding a football, poised to throw it.

  “Stop with the flirting,” I say in a heated voice. “You don’t mean it, and I don’t appreciate it. I don’t give a damn if you’re some washed-up football hero or a public servant who fights fires. That doesn’t give you the right to mock me.”

  I don’t know where that tirade is coming from, and I immediately regret it when something flashes in Jesse’s eyes. I struck a nerve in him, just like he struck a nerve in me. I know how bad that feels, so why am I doing it to him?

  I back off, lifting a hand. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m being really unprofessional, and—”

  His mouth twists up into a grin, but it looks forced and stiff. “It’s fine. I wasn’t being appropriate, either. Now get that hot, tight ass of yours out of my house or I’ll carry you out of here like I did the other day. Except this time over my shoulder, so you’ll damn well know I’m just-this-close to Neanderthal. Oh, and I wasn’t mocking you. I think you’re a piece of ass. Deal with it.”

  My mouth is still hanging open, ready to finish the apology I started. But now all I can do is stare at him, thinking about him throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me out of my house like he’s dragging me back to his cave. At this exact moment, I don’t know whether I want to kill him or fuck him silly.

  So I go for the smartest option, which is to spin on one heel and hightail it the hell out of his cat-beleaguered house.

  I’ve got just enough time to change, get Christopher ready, and head for the comic-book shop. It’s rushed enough that I’m able to put the entire fiasco with Jesse out of my head. I’m looking forward to the meet-up. I’ve been hanging at this shop for a long time, and they’re good people. I feel at home here—appreciated.

  But once I get there and the discussion gets underway, there’s Jesse again, right inside my head, making me feel terrible about myself. No matter how hard I try to push the thoughts back, they keep poking at me.

  Terry, one of the ladies leading the discussion, is talking about the efforts to add diversity to the Spider-Man franchise, both in the comics and the upcoming movie. It’s a topic I’d usually be fascinated with—how long will it be before we get a Miles Morales Spider-Man, after all?—but today I keep tuning in and out. I glance over toward the corner where Christopher is playing with a couple other younger kids and a teenage girl, who was picked tonight to watch the little ones. It’s another thing I like about this group—they make an effort to provide supervision for the kids.

  Christopher’s got on a bright-red Spider-Man beanie, which I plopped on his head before I checked on tonight’s discussion theme. The color makes it easier to spot him in crowds. He seems quite taken with the girl who’s watching over him and the other kids. I’ve noticed he has a soft spot for girls but is always a little shy around men.

  Is that my fault? Is Dad right about me? Am I not the best parent I could be because I’m not looking for a father figure for my son?

  No, that’s stupid. Christopher has all the love he needs, and he sees Mel’s husband on a regular basis. Jeff’s a great father figure, if Christopher actually needs one.

  But I can’t stop thinking about Jesse. I shouldn’t have lashed out at him like I did. He’s probably not a bad guy—he’s just been working in a macho atmosphere where he never has to figure out how to talk properly to ladies. And I can tell there’s something about the situation with his cat that he’s not telling me. I can’t imagine what it might be, but it’s making it harder for him to deal with adjusting to having a pet, that’s for sure.

  My brain spins around and around all those things, but at the center of it is Jesse himself. So damn hot. Why does he have to be so damn hot? If he were a little chunky or a little bald, then maybe I’d have half a chance. He’s not, though. He’s beautiful. He’s Chris Pratt beautiful. Chris Hemsworth beautiful. Hell, he’s even Chris Evans beautiful. He’s any-Marvel-hero-you-could-think-of handsome, and strong, and maybe I should just give in and text him an apology so I don’t lose the job…

  “So, Mads, what do you think?”

  I jerk my attention back to the group and realize I have no idea what they were talking about. “Huh?”

  “I told you,” says Terry. “She’s a billion miles away. You okay, Maddy?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat, flustered for the umpteenth time in the last few days. That’s another thing about Jesse damn King. He messes with my head even when he’s not in the room. “What was the question?”

  “Who should Jean Grey hook up with for permanent?” Terry explains. “Logan or Scott?”

  I give it some consideration. It’s not like I haven’t thought about this before.

  “Well…if she wants to be happy in her life overall, I’d say she should hook up with Scott. I mean, sure, Mr. Cyclops-eyes can’t look at her without those crazy red glasses, but he’s a good dude.”

  Terry’s eyes narrow. “Your ‘if’ makes me think you’ve got another option in mind.”

  “If she wants to be happy in bed forever and ever, then definitely Logan.” Images of half-naked—and fully naked, God bless you, Hugh Jackman—Wolverine dance through my head. There’s more than a little resemblance to Fireman Jesse in my mental Wolverine images.

  The group titters, a few of the women bursting into genuine laughter.

  “Amen, sister,” says one of them, and raises a hand for me to high-five. I smack my palm into hers.

  I’m just getting refocused on the conversation when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Habit has me grabbing for it right away. I’m so used to Christopher being with Mel that every time my phone dings I automatically think there’s something up with him. Even knowing he’s not six feet away from me doesn’t keep that little surge of adrenaline away.

  As a result, my heart’s pitter-pattering a little already when I push the button that wakes up the phone. Then it slams hard into the back of my breastbone when I see who did text.

  It’s Jesse.

  Hi, Maddy. Can I call you Maddy?

  He must not be too worried about my answer, because another text comes through right on the heels of that one.

  Sorry I called you a piece of ass.

  Whatever, I text back.

  It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me. Is MILF better? Honest question.

  I sigh. No. And stop it.

  Whatever the lady wants. Look, I really want to work things out with Thor. Can you come again on Thursday for another cat therapy session? I promise I’ll do the work.

  I take a minute to think about it. Does he really mean it? Am I going to be able to put up with him long enough to actually accomplish anything? Because this cat’s going to take a lot of time and patience.

  Correction—this cat’s owner is going to take a lot of work.

  At least if I see him again, I can apologize in person. That’s a better way to handle it, anyway. So, after I chew on my lip for a few seconds, I text him back.

  Sure. 5:00 ok?

  Yes. See you then.

  5

  Jesse

  Jesse

  The scratches down the front of my shoulder look even worse than I expected. I bet the back looks like shit, too.

  Fucking cat.

  Cat therapist or no cat therapist, I honestly don’t know how I’m going to deal with Thor in the long term. In the couple of days since Maddy was over, I’ve tried playing with him with that dumb feathery thing, letting him roam the house a little more when I’m at home—I even tried scratching his back while I was feeding him. None of it seems to have gotten through his thick, stupid cat skull. He still shows no indication he wants to make nice with me.

  And when I got home from work today, he decided to use me as a ladder to get up onto the mantel. Those goddamn claws hurt digging in w
hen a cat decides to climb you. So I yelled at him—like you do—and he dug in—like cats do—and when I grabbed him to pull him off, I think I jerked about a pound and a half of skin off my own body.

  Not a good sensation.

  On a normal day, that kind of an encounter with the cat would be bad enough. But I’ve already been through enough shit today, and I’m tired of it.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do about Curry, but I’m going to have to come up with something, and it’s going to have to be soon. He has no respect for the fact I was chosen to be the interim fire chief. As far as he’s concerned, that was his job, no questions, and somehow I stole it from him when I was appointed. Today, when Chief Pilsner came by to see how things were going, Curry deliberately made it look like it was my fault not everybody was ready.

  I’m tired of being disrespected at the firehouse. Most of all, I’m tired of having horrible injuries inflicted upon my person by a goddamn twenty-pound pile of cat.

  The doorbell rings, and I grin at my own reflection. At least there’s something to look forward to. Madison. Little hot-ass cat psychologist. Behaviorist. Amateur behaviorist. What-the-fuck ever. Curious to see how she’ll react to my shirtless self, I head for the front door.

  I yank the door open and the first thing I see is Maddy herself, standing on my porch with her weird little violin-shaped cat bag.

  “Hi,” she says, but then stops, and her mouth opens and closes a couple times. She’s not looking at my face, but at my bare chest.

  I smile. I know my body’s in good shape, and there’s no point being shy about it. Which is one of the reasons why I don’t understand why Maddy is so shy about hers. Most women I know who look that good like to flaunt it. She covers all those luscious curves in loose T-shirts with comic-book characters on them. I don’t get it.

  “Um…” Madison says. “Um…” Finally she drags her gaze back to my face. “I’m… I’m sorry about last time. I was out of line. What I said was rude and unprofessional.”

  I’m not going to argue with her, but I’m not going to let her stew too long about it, either. “Apology accepted.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. Water under the bridge.”

  I move aside to let her come into the house. Her eyes lock again to my chest, and she swallows as she walks past.

  “You want me to put my shirt back on?” I offer, chuckling. “Is my chest distracting you too much?”

  Her mouth tightens in irritation, as I expected it to. “I’m fine.”

  “Nakkid.”

  The single word seems to come from somewhere near the floor, and it’s followed by a series of giggles. I glance down, taken aback.

  There’s a kid next to Madison. I didn’t see him at first because he was hiding behind the big bag, but he’s got hold of her hand. He’s got curly blond hair that pokes out from under his Spider-Man hat. “Man nakkid,” he repeats.

  “I’m not naked,” I tell him, affronted. “I’ve still got my pants on.”

  He giggles again.

  “I’m really sorry,” Maddy says. “Normally my sister watches Christopher, but she’s down with some kind of awful bug, and I didn’t have time to line up another sitter. I figured it was better to go ahead and keep the appointment than to call and reschedule at the last minute. If there’s a problem…”

  “No. No, that’s fine.” I wave her inside and watch as the little boy—Christopher—grins up at me, one hand in his mouth. He’s drooling around it, totally unselfconscious.

  “You gotta kitty?” he asks.

  “I do. It’s a bad kitty.”

  He frowns. “Bad kitty.”

  “Yep.”

  We move toward the living room. “You can’t play with the kitty, Christopher. I explained that in the car. You need to sit and be good, okay?”

  “Okay. Be good.”

  She sets him on the couch and gives him an iPad. It’s got a big, thick case on it, one of those made to hold up to manhandling by little kids. “You can play the owl game, okay?”

  He nods enthusiastically. The owl game must be fun.

  While she pokes at the iPad, I can’t drag my eyes off her. Her reddish hair is drawn back, but some of it falls down nearly to her shoulder, drifting over the cloth of her T-shirt. Her jeans hug her ass and her thighs, accentuating the curves and valleys. I catch my breath a little every time I see her, almost like I’ve forgotten what she looks like. The reminder is a punch right in the hormones. If there was ever a woman who deserved the title of MILF, it’s Maddy.

  Finished setting up the game, she pops a set of headphones over the kid’s ears and plants a kiss on the top of his red beanie. Then she turns back toward me, and I ask the first question that pops into my head. “So. Where’s his dad? You two still together?”

  Her expression, which softened when she was talking to her son, hardens up again. She glances back to be sure the kid is focused on the iPad before she says in a carefully modulated voice, “He’s…out of the picture. Doesn’t want anything to do with us.”

  I can’t understand why a guy would walk out on a woman like this. And leaving your kid in the lurch? I’m not nuts about kids, but abandoning your family is just wrong.

  She’s sorting through the toys in her bag, choosing some of them and setting them aside. “So what made you decide to do this…cat therapy thing instead of a normal job? You’ve got the gig at the vet’s office—isn’t that enough?”

  “It pays the bills, but I’m trying to do better. Get to my dream job.” There’s a hesitation, as if she’s afraid to tell me anything else. Then she says, “I want to go to vet school.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “Money, mostly.” She stares down at the bag of treats in her hand, her fingers shifting back and forth as if she’s trying to decide how much to say. Finally she looks up at me. “My parents cut me off when I got pregnant. Said if I wanted to be grown up so fast, I could take care of it on my own. But Troy… Christopher’s father left right after he was born, and now I’m stuck taking care of him by myself.”

  “That’s bullshit. How can your parents just toss you over like that?”

  Her gaze flicks up to me again. “They’re conservative. They weren’t raised to think being a single mom is just another valid choice. More like it’s a big, huge mistake.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they think—you’re their daughter.” My voice has risen because I’m genuinely pissed on her behalf, but I make an effort to pull it back down so it doesn’t upset the kid. “Blood is blood. You take care of your own—you don’t just toss them to the curb.”

  She turns away, sorting through the bag again. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s just get to the session.”

  Cat toys in her hands, she shifts back toward me, but then stops. “On second thought, let’s get those scratches taken care of before we start.”

  “What, these?” I twist my head back to look at the scratches. I can barely see them out of the corner of my eye. They curl just over the top of my shoulder, the bulk of them going down my back. “It’s fine. I’ve had way worse, trust me.”

  She rolls her eyes a little. “Yes, I know you’re a big macho fireman who challenges death on a regular basis, but cat scratches can get infected really easily. Haven’t you heard of cat scratch disease?”

  “You mean the song?” I smile so she knows I’m not that dumb.

  Maddy rolls her eyes. “If you get a bad case, you feel like you’ve got the flu. It’s a bacteria they can carry.” She starts to look impatient, like she’s tired of educating me. “Just trust me. Sit down, and I’ll doctor them.”

  I take a seat on the couch, where I tossed a blanket over the cushions yesterday to cover the torn-up upholstery. She perches next to me and sorts through her bag, coming out with some alcohol pads and a tube of antibiotic ointment. I give her the side-eye.

  She rips open an alcohol pad and strokes it down the length of the scratches.
It stings, as expected, and I wince. Not expected, though, is the way my dick perks up at her fingers touching me.

  I risk a peek as she opens the gold-colored tube of ointment. Her fingers are neat and precise as they unscrew the lid. The way she seems completely confident in what she’s doing is a bit of a turn-on. More than a bit. A lot. I shift a little in my seat, hoping she doesn’t notice the growing bulge at my crotch.

  I try to will it back down, but then she starts applying the ointment and it pops right back up again. She’s soft and careful, making sure the ointment gets into the wounds but not pressing so hard that it hurts.

  “Let me know if I’m hurting you,” she says quietly, and, God, that’s so sexy.

  “Nope.” My mouth shoots off before I can think about what I’m saying. “I wish I had more scratches.”

  She draws back. “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?” I turn a little so I can almost look at her. Her face is going pink. Leaning toward her, I smirk and add in a melodramatic tone, “I like the way you touch me.”

  Angrily she screws the cap back on the ointment and throws it back in the bag. “I don’t appreciate you mocking me like that.”

  “What?” Again, I have no idea what she’s talking about. Does she not know she’s hot as fuck on a stick? “I’m not mocking you, sweetheart. I’m straight-up serious. In fact, if this weren’t a professional cat therapy meeting, I’d let you try those hands out in some other places.”

  Her face has gone beet red, the color going all the way down her neck and probably onto her chest. I wonder if her tits are blushing. I’d like to find out. She’s obviously uncomfortable, though, so I scoot back a little to give her some room.

  Staring into the bag of cat toys, she says, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re a public servant, then.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you’re fire chief, people elect you, right? So you’re held to a higher standard. You have to behave yourself.”