Page 17
I could imagine it. Easily. Greedily. The image hit me so hard I swayed.
His palms slam flat against the tile on either side of my head, caging me in as I arch my spine against the cold wall, every nerve igniting. His mouth drags up my throat. The soft scrape of his teeth sends a shiver ripping through me, and my body surges into him, my thighs parting hungrily like I was starving for this my whole life.
And his voice… “Eyes on me, baby. I want you looking at me when you come.”
Holy hell.
I was about to flatline.
CPR. Stat. Preferably mouth-to-mouth.
“Yes—” The word tumbled out before I could stop it, my tongue betraying me. I froze, heat crawling up my neck. “I mean, no! No help needed. Ever. Thanks.”
Sterling’s grin sharpened. “Interesting answer,” he murmured as his eyes held mine.
The way he was looking at me…it wasn’t just a casual once-over. Or like he was checking to see if I’d hit my head too hard. He was absolutely undressing me with his eyes.
The concussion must’ve rattled a few essential settings, because I finally allowed my own gaze to drift from his scorching face…down to the body that went with it.
Wow.
The flannel stretched across broad shoulders and a chest that would immediately go viral on social media and probably had its own cult following. His arms were thick with muscle and lightly veined, arms that could throw you over a shoulder or press you against a wall without breaking a sweat.
Not that I had experience with either of those things. But a woman could imagine…
His jeans clung to his hips like they were just as grateful to be there as I suddenly was, and his shirt was unbuttoned just enough to give me more of that tanned skin, a dusting of black hair, and the kind of torso sculpted by hard labor, good luck, and possibly a deal with the devil.
I didn’t mean to keep staring.
I just couldn’t stop…
Blame it on the head injury.
Sterling pushed to his feet and stretched, the casual show-off move men liked to pretend wasn’t intentional. His shirt pulled snug across his torso before sliding up just enough to flash abs that could start wars. Or end them. My pulse did a full face-plant.
I hadn’t been aware until right this second that abs like that existed.
Finally, finally, he walked toward the door with a lethal swagger that should’ve been illegal in at least fifteen states. Every single one I’d driven through, I would bet.
At the threshold, he paused. Looking back over his shoulder, his blue eyes caught mine. “You’ve got five minutes before I start wondering if you slipped and cracked your head open.”
“I’m locking the door,” I shot back.
His grin widened. “Smart girl.”
He started to turn.
“Wait,” I blurted. “My clothes…they were in the car…”
“Over there.” He pointed to a dresser in the corner of the room that was flanked by both of my suitcases.
They’d been there the whole time, and he let me stand here with no shirt? I bit back a scream of frustration.
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stared at it, my pulse still stuttering, my skin still buzzing from the way he’d said “smart girl”—like praise, like a dare…like he already knew I wasn’t nearly as smart as that.
I shook my head, willing him out of it. Out of my skull. Out of the shower I’d just mentally shoved him into.
