It was warm and soft and it smelled like him. Oh God . . .
I was so screwed. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. I wasn’t supposed to want to smell him, for God’s sake. Yeah, he was hot. Yeah, he’d kissed me a few times. But neither of those kisses had been real. He showed about as much interest in seeing me naked as he’d show a turnip. Maybe less.
Shrugging his jacket off, I held it out to him. “Here. Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” He took it from me and flung it over the chair carelessly. His gaze never left my face. “You know, here in Boston, we have this thing called winter. During the winter and most of the spring, it’s cold as fuck outside. And it snows. So, generally, in the spring and winter, people wear these things called pants. They’re like what you’re wearing now, only they go all the way down your legs—like mine do. And while your shorts make you look hot, pants will actually keep you warm.”
I placed my hands on my hips and cocked my head, holding back the smile that wanted to escape at his sarcasm. I’d always loved a sharp wit on a man, and, damn, he had one. It wasn’t fair. “Ooooh. Is that what those are for?”
“Indeed,” he said dryly. “I suggest you try them.”
“I did. The tips were half what I get when I’m wearing shorts.” Sitting down on the couch, I crossed my legs and tipped my head back so I could look at him. His gaze was on my legs for a split second before it snapped back to mine. “Men are pigs. They pay more when they can see my legs.”
He rounded the couch. “And if they paid more because they saw your ass, would you come to work naked?”
“No. That’s a whole different establishment.”
Sitting beside me, he trailed his finger up my bare thigh, smiling when goose bumps followed his touch. “Yeah, it is.”
“One you’ve probably frequented.”
He shrugged. “For work, sure. But I generally don’t spend my free time there. I’d rather get a lap dance for free. And when it’s over, I can finish the job right here, on my couch. Or against the wall.”
My pulse quickened. If that had been an invitation, my instinctual reply would’ve been a hell yes. A really loud hell yes. “Is that a request?”
“Like I told that asshole in the bar, if you have to ask . . .” His green eyes sparkled, and he took his hand off my leg. I missed it instantly. “Want a drink?”
“God yes.” I stood up. “I mean . . . I’ll get it myself, if you tell me where it is.”
“Nah, I’ll get it for you for once.” He stood, too, and trailed the back of his knuckles over my cheek. I bit down on my tongue. “Wine or whiskey?”
“Wine.”
He ran his finger over my lower lip gently. “How’s the mouth feeling?”
“It’s fine. Barely hurts.” My throat felt swollen and aching. It wasn’t the only part of me that was aching, thank you very much. I tried to ignore that, though, considering what I was about to say. “Look, if I’m staying here for a while . . . you can’t sleep on the couch every night. You should sleep in your bed.”
He gave me his back and pulled down a wineglass and a tumbler. “I might not be a white hat, but I refuse to let you sleep on the couch while I take the bed. My ma might have loved me, but she’d rise from her grave to kill me if I did that. No lie.”
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “It’s a king-size bed, and we’re both adults. We could sleep in it together.”
He froze, his hand tight on his glass, and backed up a step. Actually backed away from me as if I’d threatened to kill him or something. “You want to sleep in my bed with me?”
The way he said it, half shock, half terror, struck me as odd. “Not like that. I already told you that you weren’t my type.” I dropped my hand to the counter and tapped my fingers. “But it makes sense, really, for both of us to use it, if we’re stuck with each other for a while.”
He pulled the whiskey down, poured himself a healthy dose, and finished it all with one swallow. Then he poured himself some more and picked up the wine. He narrowed his eyes and frowned, and I couldn’t help but feel as if he was watching me as if I’d suggested he should kick himself in the nuts, rather than suggest a logical solution to our current sleeping arrangements. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? Do you snore?”
He poured the wine, his face dead serious for once. His skin took on a little bit of a green hue, as if his mere thoughts literally sickened him. “No fucking clue.”
“Then why—?” I cocked my head to get a better look at his eyes. “Wait. Have you never slept with anyone before?”
He didn’t look at me, and, judging from his silence, he didn’t intend to answer. Instead, he handed my glass over and picked up his own drink. Then he stared me down. He did that a lot. Spinning the amber liquid in his tumbler into a little whirlpool, he leaned back. “Doesn’t a cellmate count?”