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.
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.