Oh hell.There was longing on his face. A clear need to go animal again, but she couldn’t let that happen. “That’s not good for you.” She said it as a statement, though it was really more of a guess.
“So they say.” It was clear he wasn’t sure.
The last thing she needed was another confused man on her hands, but she’d be damned if her brother’s only hope—even if it was a Hail Mary pass—didn’t help her. But first he needed to get his head on straight.
“You need a shower and clothes. Food, too, unless it’s normal for your ribs to stick out like that.” Just where the hell did all that mass go to when he shifted back to human? He’d been at least four hundred pounds as a cranky grizzly. Now he looked like a lean two-ten with zero body fat.
“Clothes,” he said as he looked down at himself. Holy hell, was he just now realizing he’d been wandering around naked? He looked back at her, a sheepish expression on his face. “You never said a thing.”
Like she was going to convince the eye candy to cover up? “I had other things on my mind. Like digging bullets out of you.”
He pulled at the skin on his chest. “One bullet. All healed.”
“Great. Now get clean and dressed. Got pizza delivery out here?” She figured the more he did normal human things, the better for him and by extension, for her and Vic. “Never mind. I’ll just order ahead and we’ll pick it up on the way.”
He shook his head. “I am not ready to interact with humans.”
No shit, Sherlock.“That’s what I’m here for. And, in case you were wondering, I’m human, too, and you’re doing just fine.”
He tilted his head and arched a brow. It was a strangely awkward gesture. As if he was trying to remember how to give a skeptical look and had to force his features into position. Even so, she found it oddly charming.
“I’ll help,” she said, gesturing to the stairs. “I’ll get the plumbing working. Please tell me I don’t need to scrub bear off your back.”
His lips curved. “The bear is inside. No amount of scrubbing will get it off.” The way he said it made her think he’d once tried to do it, but she didn’t have time to delve into that. She had to get back to Vic, and he was all the way down in Detroit.
“Whatever. Just get moving.” She fit words to action, putting her hands on him enough to push him toward the stairs. She was a strong woman, but she couldn’t have moved him if he hadn’t allowed it. And for a moment there, she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to cooperate. But something had changed from when he’d slammed the door in her face and now. Something inside this cabin that made him a little malleable.
So when she pushed, he shifted his weight and began to walk. She kept her hands on him, guiding him though he didn’t need it. But when else was she going to get her hands on a naked him? Just because he’d lived in her fantasies for years didn’t mean that he felt anything toward her. Hell, he hadn’t even remembered her at first. And wasn’t that a blow to her ego?
The upstairs was simple. Two bedrooms and a large bathroom. She pushed him in the bathroom first. Then while he narrowed his eyes at his reflection, she turned on the bathtub faucet. The water ran—good—but it was pretty cold, so he’d have to wait for it to heat up. Meanwhile, she turned back to him and watched him stroke his hand over his cheeks.
“I never need to shave after a shift. And my hair is always like this.” He brushed his fingers through his short, military-style cut. “Even before I enlisted, I always came back like this.”
Well that was interesting, but she had no idea what to say about it, so she checked the water again. Toasty warm.
“If you’ve been gone for months, who’s gotten the mail and kept the pipes from freezing?”
“Manny takes care of that.” He sniffed the air. “The water’s clean and hot.”
“Yeah. So get in. I’ll look for a towel.” There was soap and shampoo in the shower, though a fine coating of dust was on both. Pretty clear no one had used this shower in months.
He obeyed slowly, stepping in as if he were in a daze. But once the water hit him, he gasped and his eyes shuttered as his head tilted back. He was facing directly into the spray and he seemed to stretch his broad chest as if to catch the water.
He didn’t have to say a word for her to realize that this was something important to him. Some type of visceral memory that engulfed him. He stood there, water beating at his chest, and he deeply inhaled the mist, which carried the scent of woods and man to her nostrils.
God, what a sight. She felt like she was peeking in on primal man in a moment of joyous oneness with water. It made no sense, but she felt the elemental draw all the way to her womb. Her mouth dried and she stood mesmerized as he slowly tilted his head forward and down. The water hit his face and then the top of his head, running in rivulets down his body. And he breathed. Deep inhales that expanded his shoulders and his barrel chest, while she went wet with lust.
What kind of perv stood there watching a man shower? Especially when he was deep in whatever experience was going on in his head?
Her apparently, because she couldn’t force herself to leave.
And then he reached out. The motion was automatic because he didn’t look, didn’t even open his eyes. His hand connected with the soap and he grabbed it, spinning it slowly as he created a rich lather.
Irish Spring. She remembered that scent from when he’d visited so long ago. It became permanently linked with her fantasies about him, and now she was watching one of her favorites play out right in front of her. If only she dared strip down to join him under the spray. She’d slide against his lathered chest as he pressed her against the tile wall. And when they were both thoroughly slick, he’d lift her knee and impale her. She’d come right then. And she’d keep coming while he pistoned into her. And then he’d erupt just like in her fantasies while pressing kisses into her neck and whispering words of devotion.
Her womb pulsed at the thought, then he inhaled again. God, she’d never tire of watching his chest broaden like that. And then he began to wash. Face first as he leaned back out of the spray. He covered his head in lather, including his hair. With it cut so short, he didn’t really need shampoo. She watched the play of his muscles as he moved. Who had biceps that large? Or an abdomen so flat?
Then he tilted forward, and the white foam slid off him like melted ice cream washed away. She wanted to lick it and him, though she told herself sternly that was gross. Didn’t seem to matter to her libido. And damn it, with the shower curtain wide open, he was getting water all over the floor—and her pants—but she didn’t care. Couldn’t move. Not as he started soaping up his arms and chest next.
