Samantha had hopped onto a barstool and propped her adorable bare toes with their glittery, hot-pink painted nails against the metal footrest. She was such a wonderful mix of contradictions. Plain clothes but flamboyant underwear. Designer handbags that she carelessly chocked full of crap. Unpainted fingernails, but toenails that belonged on a showgirl. He was captivated by her. Charmed. Completely fascinated.
“I’d love a turkey sandwich,” she said. “Fast and easy.”
Fast and easy. His mind knew she was referring to the time and effort it would take to make the sandwich. His cock? Yeah, well, it took the phrase to mean something else entirely.
For the love of Leonard McCoy, this has got to stop.
“You’re sure? Because if I made an omelet, I could also whip up some sausage and bacon. What are—”
“Stop right there.” She lifted a hand. “You had me at bacon.”
“A woman after my own heart.” He winked at her, sending a small word of thanks skyward that she’d agreed to the meal. It would give him something to do besides fantasize about pulling that wide-necked sweatshirt off her shoulder so he could kiss the soft skin over her clavicle. Give him a reason to keep pointing his undercover brother in a direction that wasn’t straight at her.
Of course, given his current condition, the stove might prove a dangerous concept. Then again, perhaps thoughts of burning his dick off would help keep the silly sonofabitch in check.
At least it’s worth a shot, he thought, pulling all the ingredients from the refrigerator.
“Anything I can help with?” she asked.
“No!” He realized he sounded a little frantic and softened his tone. “No. This is a one-man show.” That’s what he said aloud. Silently, he added, So stay way the hell over there. Out of my line of sight. And definitely out of my reach.
“A one-man show, huh? Well, consider me an eager audience of one.”
Hang on a second. Is she…
He glanced over his shoulder to discover a flirty light in her eyes.
Sonofa… She is! She’s coming on to me!
His heart started pounding, and a weird buzzing sounded in his ears as his vision tunneled. But then she added, “Because I can’t cook for shit. The last time I tried to heat up a can of soup, I turned it into baked-on industrial waste.” With that, he was left to conclude that perhaps what he’d thought was flirting was just her being friendly.
Obviously, he needed sleep. And a heating pad for his leg. And ten minutes alone with his own hand.
But not necessarily in that order.
* * *
“I don’t think I ever thanked you,” Samantha said, shoveling a forkful of omelet between her teeth, closing her eyes, and savoring.
True to his word, Ozzie had whipped up a meal worthy of one a.m. on a Thursday morning. And watching him work had been both heaven and hell.
Heaven because he was a sight to see. The muscles had rippled in his broad back and wide shoulders when he’d stirred the eggs. His tan calves had flexed as he’d made trips between the fridge and the stove. And his ass… Oh, his ass had been particularly special. All round and tight, and the only thing holding up that sorry excuse for a pair of shorts.
Hell because the ache between her legs hadn’t been alleviated by squeezing her thighs together. Quite the contrary—that only made her predicament worse. And her nipples? They had been hard for so long, rubbing against the lace of her bra with every ragged breath, that they were starting to feel raw.
“Thank me for what?” he asked, noshing on a strip of bacon and eyeing her curiously from his barstool on the opposite side of the kitchen island.
The opposite side. Because he wouldn’t want to get too close and touch me now, would he?
She sighed at her own thoughts. They seemed to be on a loop. Or maybe she was the loopy one. Loopy over Ozzie and his infuriating sex appeal. I mean, seriously, are teeth really supposed to be that perfectly straight and white? Does anyone really have eyes the hue of rich sapphires? Is it really humanly possible to have a jaw that angular and defined?
Apparently so. And though she’d been attracted to him from day one, all the night’s hubbub—thinking he was a lying criminal asshole one minute and finding out the next minute that he wasn’t, that he really was the man she’d come to adore—seemed to have intensified her lust for him.
“For saving me from that fat biker,” she said, dragging her eyes away from his male magnificence and forcing herself to pay particular attention to the business of cutting her sausage patty into bite-size pieces. “For not being mad at me for tasing you. For bringing me here. For agreeing to be my bodyguard. For the food. For…everything. For being you, I guess.”
When he was quiet, she glanced up, expecting to see that devilish gleam in his eye. Instead, his expression was somber, intense.
“What?” She blinked. “What did I say? I’m sorry, was I—”
