sigh she patted the bed next to her. “Don’t just stand there. Get in.”
“I could sleep on the couch,” I offered, though it held little appeal. It wasn’t even a couch. More like a futon that I doubted would hold my weight. Besides only an idiot would say no to an offer like that.
“Don’t be silly. The bed’s big enough for an orgy.” She grinned, stroking the satin sheets.
Damn, I wish ed she hadn’t said it that way. My blood heated. Visions of her body wrapped around mine flickered in my brain like a porno. I bent to untie my shoes and erase the soundtrack from my mind. “I snore,” I told her, half-hoping she’d change her mind. It would make things much easier. And then I could stop feeling like an asshole for wanting her.
“ I do too,” she said.
Do what? What were we talking about? I stared at her blank-faced. My brain wasn’t functioning quite right. I blamed it on a lack of blood flow, and the nearly transparent tank top she wore.
She tapped me on the forehead. “I snore too.”
Right. Snoring. “I know,” I said in a martyred tone. A pillow caught me square in the face. I spit out a mouthful of lint and reached for the feathery projectile. As I prepared for attack, Frankie scrambled across the bed. I caught her around the waist and held her with one arm, as she struggled to free herself. She laughed as I pounded her with the pillow. The beating took all of thirty seconds before she conceded.
“I give,” s he said, over her laughter.
I let her go. “Let that be a lesson.”
She stuck out her tongue. “I let you win. I knew your fragile ego couldn’t stand to lose to me, a mere girl.”
“T rue.” I peeled off my starchy blue-collared shirt. “About earlier…I’m sorry.” I stood, heading to the master bath.
“What for?” Her voice was quiet. I felt like I was walking a tightrope, with one wrong word I’d plummet to the ground.
“I’m not sure.” A dumb thing to say, but I wasn’t up to playing games. She had me twisting in the wind, unsure of anything but the fact she wasn’t wearing anything under those boxer shorts.
“Oh, Ian.” Her face went white.
I mo ved to her side. “What’s wrong? Just tell me what I did—”
With out speaking, she pressed her fingers to the cotton of my once white undershirt, now stained with dried blood. Damn, I’d forgotten about the stitches. I pulled the shirt off and looked down. The stitches had held, but the skin around them was ragged and bleeding. “Why didn’t you say something?” she asked, concern covering her face.
“No big deal.” I grabbed a towel from the bathroom , wetting it with lukewarm water. I tried my best to clean the wound but the angle was awkward. Seeing my struggle, she reached for the towel, dabbing it in a tiny-bottle of Grey Goose from the mini bar and rubbed it across the crusty blood. It burned like a bitch, but I refused to whimper. A SEAL would rather die than to admit weakness. Each time her hand brushed my chest my body responded. Finally I couldn’t stand her tender ministrations anymore and pushed her away before I forgot who she was, and the fifty reasons for us not to test out her big bed theory.
“When I think of how close you came to…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the ugly gash a few inches from my heart.
I tilted her chin to face me. “But I didn’t.”
Staring into her eyes my mind drifted to the first time we’d met. I was eleven, a tough kid in a G.I. Joe sweatshirt. Mickey and I were hanging out on his stoop, smoking a cigarette I’d stole from my Aunt Irene. This little girl with bright copper hair came running up the street screeching like a she-wolf. She was crying, great big tears of grief rolling down her freckle-covered cheeks. A fake ruby princess tiara sat crookedly on top of her head.
“THEBOYSTOLEMYDOLL,” she cried to Mickey in an almost incomprehensible squeal. Tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, she wailed again. Mickey’s face turned
“I could sleep on the couch,” I offered, though it held little appeal. It wasn’t even a couch. More like a futon that I doubted would hold my weight. Besides only an idiot would say no to an offer like that.
“Don’t be silly. The bed’s big enough for an orgy.” She grinned, stroking the satin sheets.
Damn, I wish ed she hadn’t said it that way. My blood heated. Visions of her body wrapped around mine flickered in my brain like a porno. I bent to untie my shoes and erase the soundtrack from my mind. “I snore,” I told her, half-hoping she’d change her mind. It would make things much easier. And then I could stop feeling like an asshole for wanting her.
“ I do too,” she said.
Do what? What were we talking about? I stared at her blank-faced. My brain wasn’t functioning quite right. I blamed it on a lack of blood flow, and the nearly transparent tank top she wore.
She tapped me on the forehead. “I snore too.”
Right. Snoring. “I know,” I said in a martyred tone. A pillow caught me square in the face. I spit out a mouthful of lint and reached for the feathery projectile. As I prepared for attack, Frankie scrambled across the bed. I caught her around the waist and held her with one arm, as she struggled to free herself. She laughed as I pounded her with the pillow. The beating took all of thirty seconds before she conceded.
“I give,” s he said, over her laughter.
I let her go. “Let that be a lesson.”
She stuck out her tongue. “I let you win. I knew your fragile ego couldn’t stand to lose to me, a mere girl.”
“T rue.” I peeled off my starchy blue-collared shirt. “About earlier…I’m sorry.” I stood, heading to the master bath.
“What for?” Her voice was quiet. I felt like I was walking a tightrope, with one wrong word I’d plummet to the ground.
“I’m not sure.” A dumb thing to say, but I wasn’t up to playing games. She had me twisting in the wind, unsure of anything but the fact she wasn’t wearing anything under those boxer shorts.
“Oh, Ian.” Her face went white.
I mo ved to her side. “What’s wrong? Just tell me what I did—”
With out speaking, she pressed her fingers to the cotton of my once white undershirt, now stained with dried blood. Damn, I’d forgotten about the stitches. I pulled the shirt off and looked down. The stitches had held, but the skin around them was ragged and bleeding. “Why didn’t you say something?” she asked, concern covering her face.
“No big deal.” I grabbed a towel from the bathroom , wetting it with lukewarm water. I tried my best to clean the wound but the angle was awkward. Seeing my struggle, she reached for the towel, dabbing it in a tiny-bottle of Grey Goose from the mini bar and rubbed it across the crusty blood. It burned like a bitch, but I refused to whimper. A SEAL would rather die than to admit weakness. Each time her hand brushed my chest my body responded. Finally I couldn’t stand her tender ministrations anymore and pushed her away before I forgot who she was, and the fifty reasons for us not to test out her big bed theory.
“When I think of how close you came to…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the ugly gash a few inches from my heart.
I tilted her chin to face me. “But I didn’t.”
Staring into her eyes my mind drifted to the first time we’d met. I was eleven, a tough kid in a G.I. Joe sweatshirt. Mickey and I were hanging out on his stoop, smoking a cigarette I’d stole from my Aunt Irene. This little girl with bright copper hair came running up the street screeching like a she-wolf. She was crying, great big tears of grief rolling down her freckle-covered cheeks. A fake ruby princess tiara sat crookedly on top of her head.
“THEBOYSTOLEMYDOLL,” she cried to Mickey in an almost incomprehensible squeal. Tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, she wailed again. Mickey’s face turned
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