The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(39)

The pounding started to subside. I don’t remember getting out of the tub, but I do remember the feel of Blake’s hand as I fell into a restful sleep.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

My hand was touching something soft. Eyes shut, I squeezed, then squeezed again. Oh wow, good dream. Very vivid. Like her breasts were really there, in my room, in my bed. In my hand.

Well, since I was dreaming . . .

I climbed on top of Blake and used both hands, cupping their heaviness, giving another squeeze as my fingertips went to her nipples.

Her eyes flashed open.

“Clearly you’re feeling better,” she hissed, then with a grunt shoved me off of her.

“Nope,” I said with a chuckle. “Still delirious. Where we at with that nurse costume?”

Blake quickly pulled on a hooded sweatshirt, covering up her white tank top and short black shorts. “No nurse costume. You’re healed. And I have to get to practice.”

“What kind of nurse are you? You sleep with your patient, then leave at first light! I should fire you.” I grinned, then patted the spot next to me. “Five more minutes?”

“Hey, I’m just following the rules, coach! Doesn’t it say in your contract that you can’t legally sleep with your clients?” She winked.

Damn, she was adorable. I wanted to kiss that sexy mouth of hers.

“Sex,” I said with a nod. “Not sleep. Sleep is encouraged. Did you know at least sixty percent of insomniacs turn to homicide?”

“That’s a lie.” She crossed her arms. “And I really do need to get to practice.”

“Fine.” I moved to get up.

“Wait!” She threw her hands in front of her.

But she was too late.

The sheet fell away, and I was completely naked, leaving me staring down at my own body and wondering if it was going to offend her that my little groping had clearly had an effect on my manhood.

“About that.” I pointed. “It’s morning.”

“Sure.” Her cheeks were bright red. “I’ll just . . .” She backed up into the dresser, knocking over my cologne along with some ChapStick. She quickly bent over to pick them up.

I let out a groan as her ass waved in the air. “Not helping, Blake.”

With a thump, she pushed the objects back onto the dresser and reached for the doorknob, only to miss it three times before yelling bye and slamming the door behind her.

The room fell silent.

I wondered if it was a bad thing that the sight of my arousal made her head for the hills. Never had that happened before. If anything, jaws tended to drop, parades started, lots of moaning commenced, and in two instances, bras spontaneously fell to the floor.

The door jerked open. “Sorry!” Blake stumbled through. “I just wanted to make sure you stay in bed.”

“But—”

“In bed!” Nurse Ratched was back. She glared, her ice-blue eyes challenging me to argue further. I suddenly felt very, very mothered. Which was awkward, considering my dick hadn’t gotten the message yet. “Take the Tylenol I left for you, and I’ll stop by after practice with soup.”

“Food?” My ears perked up.

“Food.” Her eyes lowered briefly before she cleared her throat and pointed. “Shouldn’t you take care of . . . that?”

“This?” Shit, talking about my junk just made it worse—the strain, the ache, the embarrassment—as my body clearly reached for higher heights. “Wouldn’t a good nurse stay and help?”

She rolled her eyes. “You really are disgusting, you know that, right?” She was smiling, which led me to believe she was joking. Or . . . holy shit . . . was she flirting with me?

“I officially forbid you to hang out with Gabi anymore. What the hell has she said about me to give you such a low opinion?”

“What makes you think it’s Gabi?” she said with a shrug. “Also. You’re a whore.”

“I’d be willing to amend my ways if you’d scratch the itch, doc.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Was it something I said?” I laughed at her horrified expression, then ducked when the ChapStick grazed my ear, flying by with an impressive speed I hadn’t been expecting.

“I’m spitting in your food!” she announced, slamming the door behind her.

The only reason I was able to turn around and climb back into bed, other than the fact that if I’d tried peeing it wouldn’t have ended up in the toilet, was because she was coming back.

With food.

For me.

Damn it. Something was happening. Something . . . that I really didn’t want to acknowledge. I always responded to women. Always. I appreciated them, thought all shapes and sizes were attractive. But I’d never responded to a client, crossed that line. With Blake it was more than that—it felt like more—because when we were together, I didn’t want the time to end. I wasn’t pretending to listen to her, and I didn’t check the time and give all the nonverbal cues of needing to wrap things up.

I just liked her. Plain and simple. She was beautiful, but something told me that even if she was still wearing the baggy sweatshirts and sporting a scrunchie, it wouldn’t have taken me a long time to discover the treasure that she was underneath.