Then again, he might not be wearing drawers.
It was official. She would deposit the glorious moment when he opened his bedroom door directly into her spank bank.
“Are you really ribbing on my shorts when you’re wearing a sweatshirt that looks like it was minted around the time Reagan was president?” He flashed her that incredible grin and closed the door. He bent to give his thigh a quick rub. For a moment, she thought she might catch a glimpse of his injury—she was crazy curious. But then he straightened and gestured for her to precede him down the hall.
Is he going to touch me? Her shoulder tingled as if his hand hovered there, but the feel of his fingers never came. She blew out a breath of relief.
One brush of his fingers, and her control might snap. She could very easily see herself pouncing on him like a cat on a canary. Only instead of biting his head off, she’d lick him from stem to stern. Including that terribly intriguing trail of hair arrowing from his belly button into paradise.
And then she’d lick paradise.
Whew! Is it hot in here? No? That’s just me?
Her legs wobbled as she took the stairs to the second floor. And even more annoying than the Jell-O knees was the hot ache between her thighs. It would be one thing if Ozzie had given her any indication he wanted something more than friendship. But he hadn’t. Since their first meet-up for coffee, he’d been nothing but a gentleman.
A gentleman swimming in so much testosterone that he gave off the vibe that he was your guy if you liked your sex down and dirty. And guess what? That’s exactly how she liked it.
“This way.” He guided her across the conference area, then down the second set of metal steps that led to the shop floor. Most of the lights in the warehouse were shut off for the day, but the ambient glow of the city outside cut the driving rain and streamed in through the two-story leaded-glass windows along one wall. It was enough to see where she was going. Good thing, because a gray steak of fur darted in front of her. She jumped back and slammed straight into Ozzie.
Her spine pressed tight against the immovable wall of his chest, and she marveled at the heat coming off him. He was a human blast furnace. She felt singed through her jeans and sweatshirt.
But then he was gone. Just like that, he stepped back. “Damnit, Peanut!” he hissed. “Go catch a mouse or something, would you?”
Peanut, who was quite possibly the biggest, ugliest cat Samantha had ever seen, heaved himself onto the leather sofa shoved next to the base of the staircase. In response to Ozzie’s suggestion, the mangy-looking feline lifted his leg over his head and thoroughly licked his balls.
“I don’t get no respect,” Ozzie chuckled, doing a spot-on Rodney Dangerfield impression as he motioned for her to follow him down a long hall leading to the back of the warehouse.
The smell of the shampoo in his damp hair wafted back to her. She could still feel the pressure of him against her back. And was it her imagination, or had his shoulders somehow grown a foot wider?
What the hell is my problem? Why is every sense, every sensation amplified?
Maybe it was the god-awful day she’d had. The last thirteen hours had been the equivalent of a double shot of espresso mixed with a can of Red Bull. The Basilisks, Marcel—all of it was surreal, terrifying, spinning through her mind in Technicolor clarity.
Then Ozzie flipped on the kitchen light and sauntered over to the refrigerator. When he opened the door, bent over, and gave her a picture-perfect, high-definition shot of his ass, any fear or guilt or uncertainty was instantly replaced by one thought.
God bless America!
* * *
“God bless America,” Ozzie muttered to himself, using one of Samantha’s favorite phrases and trying to cool his ardor with the icy blast of the refrigerator.
The second, the very second she backed into him, he’d sprung a length of lumber that would put a twinkle in the eye of a logger. Her lush ass had bumped against his crotch. Her soft hand had brushed his thigh. And her sweet-smelling hair had tangled in two weeks’ worth of beard growth on his chin. Apparently that’s all it took for his own personal pocket rocket to shoot for a trip to the moon.
It was a problem. One he hadn’t the first clue how to solve.
Sure you do, whispered a voice of impeccable reason.
Okay, he did know how to solve it. The solution was to lay her naked across the island countertop, kiss every inch of her pale skin, and then hammer away between her pretty thighs until he was sweaty and spent.
But then what?
Well, then she’d leave him. Like all the others. And he couldn’t have that. Didn’t want that. Wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with that.
Then again, it was a moot point. While she was always up for a laugh and a joke and a rousing game of Who Can Solve the Crossword Puzzle First, Samantha had never expressed any interest in taking their relationship to the next level. She had always seemed completely content with friendship. And he had grown to appreciate and depend on that friendship, so heaven forbid he do anything to fuck it up.
Forcing himself to concentrate on the contents of the refrigerator, he swallowed the wad of cotton sitting at the back of his throat. “So your options are a turkey sandwich, a mushroom and cheese omelet, or leftover Thai food.” He grabbed the box of leftovers, lifted the lid, and gave the contents the ol’ sniff test. “Correction.” He lobbed the container toward the trash can in the corner. “I’m pretty sure the Thai has turned.”
Careful to keep his overeager johnson pointed in the direction of the milk carton, he glanced over his shoulder and lifted a questioning brow.
