The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(41)

Sailor was masturbating, and suddenly, the day—despite containing ten hours of work, bickering with Da and Cillian, following Syllie secretly like some strung-out puppy, and going to evening classes—looked a lot better.

Taking a step forward, I glanced through the sliver of space between the door and its frame. Sailor sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi, butt naked, staring at the water inside through squinted eyes. Weird orgasm face, but I wasn’t judging.

She lurched forward, her body folding in two.

I realized she wasn’t pleasuring herself, much to my dismay. She was wincing and massaging her right shoulder, which was swollen. And by swollen, I meant her deltoid was the size of a tennis ball.

Sailor tried to swing her legs into the Jacuzzi, still clutching her right shoulder, but ended up falling flat on her ass on the marble floor. The sound of her tailbone against the surface reverberated in the room. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking silently with pain. I was about to take a step back and let her have her moment—Sailor would kill me if I burst in to save the day—when I noticed silent tears running down her cheeks.

Turn around and walk away. Not your problem, said the devil on my shoulder, same asshole that had wanted me to rub one out in the hallway to the sight of her masturbating.

The angel somehow managed to pull the duct tape from his mouth and said, You can’t be that much of a dick. Besides, it’s Sailor.

He was right. It was Sailor, and in my world, Sailor deserved better.

Annoyed, I shoved the door open, tromping in.

“Hunter! Jesus! What are you doing?” She went from sad to outraged in a second, trying to cover her tits with her arms, but she had zero movement in her right shoulder. I hooked my hands under her armpits from behind and brought her back to a sitting position on the edge of the Jacuzzi, ripping a bathrobe from its hook and wrapping it around her shoulders. Her hands still lay protectively over her chest, and her teeth were chattering. I didn’t know how to break it to her politely that I’d already seen her tits (and they were way nicer than I’d imagined, and of course I imagined them on the reg).

Also, if I were to defend my virtue in her position, I’d probably start by crossing my legs, because she had a nice, delicate fluff of red hair nestled between her thighs that I couldn’t unsee. It wasn’t a raging, curly bush that screamed neglect and lice. Just a few, soft hairs I wanted to brush away softly as I ate her pussy like In-N-Out after a night of partying.

Redirect that thought, asswipe.

“Just got home. What happened to your shoulder?” I squatted down, feeling the strain of my pants’ fabric against my knees and dick. At this moment I missed living in Thom Browne sweatpants.

“You had no right to burst in here!” Her eyes flared wildly. She clutched the edges of the robe, trying to cover more of herself. I helped her by wrapping it around her and taking a step back, looking sideways at some decorative wooden log sitting on the edge of the champagne-hued Jacuzzi.

“Wasn’t planning on it. Then I heard you moaning in pain when I went to look.”

“You shouldn’t have looked!” she shrieked.

“The door was goddamn open, aingeal dian,” I snapped, turning my gaze back to her.

We stared at each other, panting. I didn’t know why I called her what I did, but it made me want to punch everything in the room, starting with my own face. I realized, as I stared at her really annoying face (which never failed to get my ass into trouble), that I’d missed being in the same room with her.

“You were crying. And, no offense, but that buff linebacker’s shoulder doesn’t fit the rest of your body. We’re taking you to urgent care.” I made a move toward her, and she raised her leg jerkily, kicking me in the boys. I groaned, folded in two, and held my nuts, nearly foaming at the mouth with pain.

“What the fuck!” I yelled.

“Shit.” She gasped, raising her hands in apology. “I didn’t mean to. I thought you’d take a step back if I kicked the air.”

“That wasn’t air!”

“Sorry. I miscalculated.”

“Aiming is literally all you need to be good at. You’re a fucking Olympic archer!”

“Technically not yet, and you have a lot of balls.”

“Well, you have not-much tits.”

“My breasts are fine.”

“I don’t believe you. Let me have a taste.”

I looked up from my offended nuts, noticing that she was full-blown smiling, and that I was full-blown fucked.

How did I not realize Sailor Brennan had the most amazing goddamn smile in the entire goddamn world? She radiated. Her face glowed like candlelight, her eyes gleamed, and that mouth…her lips weren’t thin or boring at all. They were full and pink and had a dusting of orange freckles that I wanted to devour. Violently.

Dusting of orange freckles. Listen to yourself, fucker. I was cheesing so hard all I needed was wine and some crackers to create the perfect picnic scenario.

The trouble with Sailor was she had the one thing I wanted—and not an ass that had seen a surgeon and a hundred squats a day, in case you were wondering. But talent, real and raw and tended to. Her excellence burst from her fingertips. She was sharp, laser-focused, fully bloomed. Unstoppable.

Or was she…

Sailor’s situation suddenly came into sharp relief.