No Perfect Hero(18)

She’s wearing nothing but a tight-fitting grey cotton spaghetti strap tank top, molded to her like it’s sucking on her body. It's matched by skimpy grey cotton sleep shorts that crease between her thighs, riding up so high they’re practically panties.

No bra, of fucking course.

I can tell far too easy from the heavy sway of her chest, the way those sweet tits strain against the tank top.

Even worse, she’s soaking wet.

Her hair is a dripping tangle swept to one side, droplets pouring down her hairline over her cheeks, kissing her lips. Her shoulders are beaded damp, but it’s her little pajama set that’s distracting me.

A few soaked patches, dark against the cotton, cling to her body so close I can make out everything from the dip of her navel to the size of her nipples, looming hard against the thin material. She’s...fuck.

Fuck!

She’s not wearing any panties underneath those shorts.

Ask me how I know.

I’m staring like some animal in rut.

It hasn’t been that long since I last got laid. A flirty glance is all it takes, brushing hands and trading drinks in a bar with someone who’ll call herself an Uber in the morning. The usual.

But it’s been a long damn time since I had an immediate reaction this explosive to a woman just at the sight of her. Maybe it’s not all looks, but how much she pisses me off, and all that anger has to go somewhere, channeling into this sudden hot surge of desire.

I've got to get myself under control.

She’s not helping.

Especially when she looks at me through the damp spikes of her lashes, green eyes luminous and shadowed, drawing her wet, gleaming lower lip into her mouth, toying at it with her teeth as she sways on one foot. It's as innocent as a succubus.

Her other foot crosses behind her ankle as she watches me uncertainly.

Hell. Did she just say something?

“What?” I tear my gaze from her mouth, her breasts, to her eyes. My entire body feels too damn hot. “Sorry, what did you say?”

She arches a brow, eyeing me skeptically.

“I said you’re out of bath towels.” She shrugs, and it’s almost shy, like she doesn’t know what to do without her defensive armor. “I don’t know if you’re supposed to like, wash them yourself or the staff takes care of that, but I thought I’d better let you know.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat and force myself to look away from this torture. My face must be as red as a forest fire. “Fine. I'll ring the front desk for service and turnover in the morning. Sorry. You going to be okay going to bed wet?”

Horrid choice of words.

The second I say wet...my brain goes every damn which way but where it’s supposed to. Mostly heading south.

Every sense I've got goes to the creases of soft fabric between her thighs, the splash of water on her skin, to the fabric molding it against her flesh, giving form to something more, mouthwatering, luscious...

Her laugh sounds dry – so completely clueless where my brain is right now. “I’ll live. It’s the middle of summer. I’ll steam dry before I even have much of a chance to soak your sheets. But don’t blame me if my hair looks like Frankenstein's bride in the morning.”

Soak your sheets.

Christ, does this girl even hear herself?

My mouth is cotton, my tongue tied, and I’m staring off somewhere in the kitchen to keep from looking at her. If she meets my eyes, she’ll know.

Know real fast I’m thinking about shoving her up against the wall.

Thinking about kissing her.

Thinking about licking every stray drop off her skin and then sucking at her nipples through her tank top till the fabric is drenched and they’re pert as little red cherries in my mouth.

I’m not saying anything.

The silence stretches on, long and awkward, until finally she clears her throat again and says, “Well...good night, Warren.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, barely finding my voice, hoarse and raspy. “Good night, Hay.”

There’s a pause, then the faint noise of her bare feet on the wood floor, moving away.

I don’t relax until I hear the bedroom door open, and then the distant sound of her voice and Tara's. Thank God.

Groaning, I lift my laptop up, looking down at the hard rise straining against my jeans.

“You,” I mutter, “are really damn annoying sometimes.”

My cock doesn’t answer.

I’d really have to be crazy if that happened, but I’m starting to think I’m losing it.

Something about this woman gets to me like no other.

And I wonder if it’s because she needs me right now, because all this is still my own damn fault.

So here I am. Back in my hometown, playing host to two strangers, trying to hunt a killer, and wanting like hell to fuck a woman I can't stand who shouldn't be dragged into any of this.

Smooth.

I force myself to focus, parsing more work on my laptop, ignoring the wayward thoughts racing through me and praying my cock calms the fuck down. Other thoughts help.

Thoughts of Bress, of Jenna, help to pull me back on track.

I stay up for hours digging through old files, tracing movements, locations, timelines, trying to find anything that'll open a crack in Bress’ carefully crafted persona. He's hardly the hometown boy turned savior, who’s supposedly breathing life back into the town’s stagnant economy.