“Oh, thank God,” I said, rushing to meet him. Instead of over thinking everything like I usually did when it came to him, I did what I felt and wrapped my arms around him.
“Aww, Kitten, I missed you too,” he said, wrapping one arm around my waist. I heard the sharp hiss escape his mouth and I pulled back, gasping as I took in his face.
“Riggs,” I whispered, lifting my fingertips to his bruised cheek.
“It looks worse than it really is,” he offered, kicking the door closed, dragging me against him and turning the dead bolt on the door.
I twisted in his arms and rose on tiptoe to inspect his eyes. They were mostly swollen shut and a butterfly stitch was placed in the corner of his right eye.
“It looks clean,” I commented, cupping his face with my hands and turning his cheek to inspect the other eye. There was blood in the corner of his eye, hinting to a bleed but nothing too severe. I dropped my hands to his shoulders and ran them down his arms. I had never seen him in anything other than jeans—tonight Riggs was wearing a loose pair of black sweats and a gray fitted hoodie, looking less of a biker and more like a laid back trainer. I don’t know where he had the time to workout but he definitely made it his business.
No one ate chocolate pudding and cookies and looked as good as he did.
I wanted to drag the zipper of his hoodie down with my teeth and trace his abs with my tongue.
I bit my lip and rubbed my sweaty palms against my thighs.
“Are you okay?” I asked, hoarsely.
“I’m fine babe,” he assured, taking my hand and walking us toward the couch. He paused and bent down to lift the baseball bat that sat next to the couch. He winced again, sighing heavily in pain, before straightening up and glancing back at me with a smirk.
God, that smirk.
“Practicing your swing?” He teased, sitting down on the couch and pulling me onto his lap.
This was new.
“It’s a precautionary measure,” I insisted.
“Right,” he laughed. “Little Miss Safety,” he quipped, reaching up and pushing my hair over my shoulder. “Sorry I missed batting practice, Kitten,” he said huskily, as his eyes dropped to my lips.
“I know enough to know I’m not supposed to ask questions but…” I wrapped my arms around his neck, “…it’s kind of hard not to ask, looking at you like this,” I said, as I ran my fingers up the back of his neck where the rim of the backward baseball cap rested.
“Lauren,” he protested as I pulled the hat off his head. “Shit,” he ground out.
“What the hell is this?” I demanded, moving the hat out of his reach as he tried to take it back.
“My barber got mad at me,” he tried to cover, offering me his smile, knowing I was a sucker for it. But it wouldn’t work this time. He usually wore a hat but the few times he didn’t—I loved Riggs’ hair. It was the perfect length to run my fingers through, and even though I hadn’t done it all that often, if ever, some asshole with a razor robbed me of the chance.
“I hope you didn’t tip him,” I replied, playing along with my handsome…friend.
I hated that.
More today than yesterday and even more tomorrow.
He leaned back against the couch cushions and lazily stared back at me, watching as I cocked my head to the side to inspect the damage. I noticed the numbers shaved into his hairline and ran my fingertip along the fuzz, tracing the two, then the five and finally the zero.
“I can fix it,” I said, turning back to meet his gaze. “Make it all even for you,” I explained.
“Florence Nightingale is a hair stylist too?” He questioned, as his hands ran down my sides, playing with the hem of my shirt.
“I’m a jack of all trades,” I replied, brushing the hair away from his face. “What do you say?”
“If I say yes does that mean you’ll get off my lap?”
I nodded, holding back the frown that threatened my face—that was kind of a dickhead thing to say.
“Then, no,” he said, treating me to a wink.
And there he went being sweet again.
I smiled widely at him, prying his hands off my hips and climbed off him.
“I promise to sit on you when I’m done,” I said, pausing mid stride, knowing he was sitting there with a smirk on his face. I chanced it anyway and glanced over my shoulder to see his lips quirk.
“A promise is a promise,” he warned.
“I said I’d sit on you,” I called, as I fished through the drawers for a pair of scissors. “I didn’t say what part of your anatomy I’d choose,” I joked.
“I’m just going to throw it out there—I’ve had a killer day and could use a little loving,” he hinted.
“Yeah? And?” I said, plucking the scissors from the drawer and turning around.
“And I’d really like if you sat on my face,” he pointed out.
I should tell him that’s what I wanted too, just to shock the shit out of him but my poor Tiger had had a rough day so I went easy on him.