Fighting Dirty
Page 41

“Armie...”
“Let me look, okay?” Far too intently, he examined every inch of her, lifting each arm, brushing her hair forward as he trailed his rough fingertips over her shoulders and down her spine, then lifting her hair back again as he gently cuddled each breast and circled both nipples, before going to his knees.
Finding a few smaller bruises and another scrape, he kissed each and every one, fanning her desire and making the insubstantial injuries forgettable.
“You have the cutest ass,” he teased, nibbling on one of her cheeks.
Merissa held her breath.
His hand reached around in front of her first, touching between her legs and surely finding her ready. He growled, then shifted around so he knelt before her.
She tunneled her fingers into his cool hair. “Armie?”
His damp lips lingered over her hip. “Mmm?”
“I need my shower now—and then I need you.”
He looked up at her, his dark eyes full of heat. “I need to feed you.”
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
His smile was one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen. He kissed his way up her body, making her gasp a few times before he finally stood before her again. He lightly kissed her lips, then lifted her again.
“I can walk, you know.”
“Yeah, I do know.” He carried her into the bathroom and slowly lowered her back to her feet. After he started the shower and set out a few towels for her, he said, “Do whatever you need to do while I fix us some food. You can ice your ankle while we eat.”
“What about sex?”
He bunched his hands in her hair, kissed her again and whispered, “As long as we’re together, I promise you won’t ever go to bed wanting.”
Merissa was swaying on her feet when he walked out. Getting enough air into her lungs wasn’t easy. The thought of dinner didn’t appeal.
But being pampered by Armie—now that was an experience she didn’t want to miss.
* * *
WITH HIS CELL PHONE held between his shoulder and ear, Armie turned the chicken in the cast-iron skillet. “No, it’s not like that. No, not personal at all. I’m just out of commission for the foreseeable future. Yeah, at least that long. Sure, when things work out I’ll give you a call. But until then...right. Glad you understand. Thanks.”
“When things work out?”
Armie set aside the phone and turned to see Rissy in the doorway. She had her hair tied up and wound around in a sloppy bun or something, but plenty of long pieces had come loose, clinging to her damp shoulders and upper chest. She looked great barefoot, wearing only one of his shirts that said: I am the man from Nantucket.
“That was my way of saying, ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’” His gaze repeatedly went over her body. “You know, since the texts offend you.”
“Uh-huh.” She ran a hand over the shirt, from upper chest to waist. “You don’t mind that I borrowed it, do you?”
“No.” He glazed over there a little, seeing her hand coast over her breast. The shirt looked better on her than it ever had on him. After tamping down the surge of lust, he turned off the chicken and pulled out a chair for her. “C’mon. Take a seat.”
No way could he miss her careful gait as she tried not to limp. Folding his arms, he said, “You’re not a fighter, you know.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?” As she sat, she held the shirt down.
“It means you don’t have to man up.” He pulled another chair out for her to prop up her foot, then was startled when he lifted her leg and realized the shirt was literally all she wore. Standing there, her foot held aloft, he froze as his eyes glued to her body.
“I don’t have any panties here,” she murmured, her tone low and husky, her gaze expectant.
So this was her idea of teasing? A come-on?
He liked it.
After pulling himself together, Armie nodded. “I was thinking about that.” It seemed easier to cover this while busy, so he placed the folded towel under her foot, then carefully placed the ice pack on her ankle.
She hissed in a breath, as much from the cold, he knew, as from any pain.
“It’ll help, I promise.” He also handed her two tablets. “Just OTC pain meds.”
She swallowed them down with the tea he’d poured for her. “What were you thinking about? My panties?”
“Well, that, too.” Mainly about how much he liked her without them. “But I meant clothes for when you’re over. And maybe...” He served her food and avoided her gaze. “A key. To my place, I mean.”
No reply. No anything.
The silence became deafening. He’d never given a woman a key. Never worried about her having a change of clothes. Hell, he’d never wanted a woman to stay over.
Feeling like an insecure juvenile, he returned the skillet to the stove and took his own seat and then, bracing himself, he glanced at her.
Her eyes were huge, her mouth trembling with a smile. Ah, hell. “Rissy?”
She nodded fast, blinked faster and failed miserably at sounding casual when she croaked, “Sure. That’d work.”
“Rissy,” he said again, this time with affection. He took her hand; she squeezed his. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. I just...” She blew out a breath, laughed a little. “You surprised me, that’s all.” More blinking, and a big sigh. “But yes, I’d love a key. For convenience. For when...when we’ve made plans to get together and things like tonight happen.”
He didn’t understand her. She sounded both thrilled and devastated. “That’s what I was thinking.” Brushing her knuckles with his thumb, he explained. “I wanted to see you tonight, but I didn’t want you sitting in my parking lot alone, waiting for me.”
“Right. Perfect example.”
Never had he meant to make her ill at ease or so jittery. “Maybe,” he teased, “on the nights when we’re getting together, you could wait for me in bed naked?”
“Maybe. Sure.”
Her immediate agreement surprised him—and yeah, turned him on. Of course, everything she did pushed his buttons. From the time she was an awkward teen and full of curiosity, Rissy had done it for him. But as she’d matured, as he’d witnessed her generous nature and experienced her sweet outlook on life, her stiff independence and unbending pride, he’d fallen hard.
And every time he saw her, it got worse.
Quickly she snatched back her hand and forked up a bite of chicken. “Mmm. Good.”
Damn, he’d muddled this, but he didn’t know how to fix it without possibly making her more uncomfortable. So instead he changed the subject. “You think you’re up for sex tonight?”
She choked, nodded hard again, swallowed, grabbed a drink and nodded some more. “Yes. Definitely.”
He had to laugh. “We’ll see how it goes.” No way in hell would he hurt her. He wanted her, but with those bruises—
“No.” She pointed her fork at him. “There’s no seeing. We’re having sex. Period.”
From flirting to demanding? Rolling with it, he sat back and said, “You’re hurt.”
She huffed rudely. “Bruised is not hurt.”