“How long have you been out here?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Ten years, maybe.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you out here? Why California?”
“Why not?”
That wasn’t really an answer, and they both knew it. He turned and headed towards the door, apparently done with the topic. He held the door for her. Once inside, he moved to the kitchen to throw away their empties.
Shannon scanned the room. “What happened to my bag, by the way?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder as he dumped the ice into the sink. “Cole will bring it by tomorrow. Him or one of the guys. Why? What do you need?”
“My things, obviously. Something to sleep in for starters,” she replied.
Crash leaned his palms on the island. “Sorry, darlin’. Guess that leaves you with three choices. One of my tees, your bra and panties, or naked.” He grinned. “I vote for door number three.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You don’t get a vote. Besides, you’ll be on the couch, so you’ll never get to find out.”
“Hmm, maybe I’ll come sneak a peek while you’re asleep.”
The smirk faded from her face.
“I’m kidding, Princess.” He moved out of the kitchen, and Shannon watched him disappear into the bedroom area behind the chains. A lamp switched on, and through the links of chain she could make out the silhouette of his form moving around. She watched as he pulled his tee over his head. The sound of a drawer opening and closing carried to her. A moment later he reappeared, walking toward her. He had on a pair of dark charcoal-grey sweatpants, riding low on his hips…and nothing else. His chest and abs on gorgeous display. Taut muscles shaped his body all the way up his arms and across his broad shoulders. He had tattoos on both arms and some awesome tribal art running vertically down the outside of his right ribs highlighting a six-pack to die for. Lord that was sexy as all hell. Her eyes dropped lower to the sexy v that started at his hips and disappeared into the low-slung waistband. And there, she caught the top edge of another tattoo peeking above the waistband. Lord, she wondered, how many did he have?
Her eyes lifted when he was almost to her, a clean folded tee held in his fist. He tossed it to her. Grabbing it, she clutched it to her chest. He moved around the loft, turning off lights, and her eyes followed him. Good Lord, the back view was just as good. His shoulders were broad, his back muscled to perfection, all the way down to the two dimples at the base of his spine. Get a grip, Shannon, she told herself. Snatching her shoulder bag off the island, she moved toward the bathroom as he moved toward the sectional couch. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lie down, jam a throw-pillow under his head and pull an afghan off the back of the couch.
Crash watched Shannon disappear into the bathroom, her purse clutched in her arms, and he thought about the way those arms had clutched his body as he’d ridden her here on the back of his bike. She’d felt good there. And then, in the elevator when he’d had her body pressed up against his, all soft feminine curves. Shit, he’d gotten hard on the spot. He’d gotten a whiff of her perfume, and the arousing scent had gone straight to his brain, that part of his brain that had him feeling suddenly in all animal instinct mode. And then tonight, out on the roof, the sight of those fuckin’ legs. Christ. Maybe he’d been a fool to volunteer for this hell. He was going to spend the next couple of weeks in a perpetual state of hard-on. What the fuck had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking, or even worse, he’d been thinking with his dick.
A few minutes later, she emerged and headed towards the bedroom. He watched her pause in the doorway, no doubt wondering about the long strands of paperclips, strung together, that made up the childish ‘beaded-curtain-like’ door, if you could call it that. He waited, but she didn’t ask about them. He’d have to tell her about the meaning behind them one of these days. He stopped her before she
went inside his bedroom. There was one thing he wanted to say to her.
“Shannon?” He watched her hand drop from the strands and look back at him. “About this guy you’re runnin’ from? I know you don’t want to talk about him, and that’s okay. But I just want to give you one piece of advice when dealing with guys like that. Always trust the voice in your head. Trust your instincts. Trust your gut.”
She nodded.
“Night, Princess.”
“Night,” she replied and moved inside the bedroom.
He lie watching her dark silhouette move around the room in the dim light of the bedside lamp.
Fuck.
He should have lain down in the other direction. At this angle, he couldn’t help but watch as her arms lifted, and the dress was pulled over her head and tossed aside. He swallowed. Then her arms were reaching behind her, unfastening the clasp of her bra. He bit his lower lip, willing her to turn and give him a profile shot. And then he got his wish as she turned to reach for his tee laying on the bed.
Christ.
The tee went over her head and down. And then she was crawling into his bed. His bed. Just the thought of her in his tee, in his bed was making him hard as a rock. Fuck, what was he doing out here? Everything inside him was telling him—no screaming at him to get up, and go in there.
The light flicked out, and it was darkness. But still, in his mind’s eye, all he could see was the silhouetted profile of her body. That image would be burned in his brain for a long time. Maybe forever.
*****