“I’m sure you do, Ignacio, but you’re not allowed a gun, and that RV park has a reputation.”
Ignacio shakes his head as his eyes twinkle with far too much mischief. “C’mon, Dr. Barlowe. That place is full of swinging retirees. I’m the youngest person there by about thirty years. As forpersonal protective equipment, you know as well as anyone that there’s a difference between what is allowed and what is done.”
Groaning, I run my hand over my face. “Ignacio, please do not tell me you have an illegal weapon in your possession. They will put you back in jail, and I won’t be there to…” I stop myself.
“Advise me? Protect me? Ask the warden to let me out early?”
Cracking my neck, I will myself to stay in place only to shuffle back, afraid of what I might do if I stay close to him. “Exactly.”
“By the way, I like your tattoos,” he says, gesturing at my uncovered forearms with an ink-covered hand. “Never would’ve guessed it.”
“It was important to maintain a professional appearance.”
“Good call. Couldn’t have anybody thinking anything untoward was going on in our little sessions, now could we?”
Ignacio’s eyes sparkle with the implication, leaving me with just my bare fingernails holding on to self-control.
“Not if I wish to keep my license,” I finally answer, narrowing my eyes at him with no heat behind the gesture.
Even as I take another step back, I scan him from head to toe. The Jennings’ Fencing Supply-branded clothes he’s wearing are good quality, fit perfectly to his trim form, and are neatly starched and ironed despite the fact he’s been working all day. He could be the catalog model for this brand of work attire.
Actually, he could be a model for far more expensive brands, given his lustrous hair, thick eyelashes, and sharp cheekbones. Even the teardrop tattoo under his eye enhances his pouty, dangerous aesthetic.
His boots, however, stand out. He’s clearly cared for them as best he can, but they have seen better days.
“Are you not making enough to buy better boots?” I ask, concerned.
“I make plenty. I’m just saving my money. I paid off my court fees, and now I’m saving for a down payment on a house and some land. If that means I’ve got to wear shitty boots for a little longer, I’ll survive.”
Needing distance and something—anything—else to focus on, I stalk over to his truck and grab the water bottle from his cooler, returning to shove it in his hands.
“Here, drink at least half of this.”
“Now?” he asks, a grin tugging at his lips.
I square my jaw. “Right now.”
Locking eyes with me, he unscrews the cap, maintaining eye contact as he swallows the cold water. I’m distracted by the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple along the column of tattooed skin, and his smirking grin makes me wonder if he can read my mind.
If he knows what I’d do with him—to him—if given half a chance.
Pulling the bottle away from his lips, he tilts it toward me so I can see that the water is, indeed, half gone.
“Happy?”
“That you’ve clearly been dehydrating yourself while working in the hot sun with subpar boots? No. But I do appreciate your compliance just now.”
“I would hate to worry you,” he purrs.
My eyes fall to his crotch, and I inhale sharply at the visible bulge. He catches the movement and takes another drink of water, letting some dribble out of his mouth and down his long, perfect neck.
Purposefully, I think.
I exhale softly, letting the words I’ve been biting back for what seems like an eternity tumble from my lips.
“Good boy.”
Ignacio chokes a little on the water but recovers quickly, his deft fingers gathering the escaping droplets from the edge of his plush lips.
