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"Are you all right? Do you…" I stare at his bloody face, his chest, his long, wet hair sticking to his skin. "Do you have somewhere to go?"
"Can I go with you?"
I should say no. I absolutely should say no. Stranger danger and all that. Instead, I make a wobbly noise in my throat. "Sure."
"Or me," Charlie says, speaking up. He surges forward, practically pushing me aside. "You can come stay with me if you want. I've got plenty of room."
Kassam's smile doesn't fade, but he finally looks over at Charlie. "No," he says. " I have everything I need with Carly."
The way he says my name makes me flush with heat. Oh boy. I can't think straight. Not when he's watching me with those incredibly haunting eyes. My whole brain feels like it's fogged with lust. "Are you…hurt?" I ask Kassam. I reach out and put my hand on his bare chest. I don't know why I do it, just that I feel like I have to, and when I do, I want to close my eyes with how good it feels. I don't care that he's sticky with blood and a stranger—I'm about ready to shuck my panties and climb him.
"Better now," Kassam murmurs.
"Where…" I lick my lips, and it's hard to concentrate when Kassam watches that small movement. "Where's your shirt? Your wallet?"
He shrugs.
"We…we should lock up," Charlie says, and he sounds as dazed as me.
Lock up. Right. The bar. I stare at my hand on Kassam's bloody chest, and I can't seem to pull away from him.
He notices my troubles, I think. Kassam gently takes my wrist and pries my hand from his chest. "Go on. I am not going anywhere. We have time."
I don't ask “time for what” because I don't care. All I know is I have Kassam and I have time. Time for all kinds of things, and my mind is shotgunning mental images into my head of all sorts of filthy, wicked things to do to this man. I practically sleepwalk through the rest of my tasks at the bar, putting away the cleaning supplies while Charlie readies the cash for the bank deposit. Like we always do, we head out to the bank across the street together, and he puts the envelope in the drop box. Then, he heads toward his car, pausing a few times as if wanting to ask me if he can stay with Kassam.
It's weird, but I also get it. The small part of my brain that's not completely overwhelmed by Kassam totally understands. I head toward my car on zombie legs, my skin prickling as Kassam puts a possessive hand on my shoulder. I open the driver's side door and get in, and he waits beside my car.
And waits.
"Um," I say, gesturing at the other side. "Do you want to get in?"
He nods, moving around to the door, and then fumbles at the handle. It seems odd to me that he doesn't know how to work a car door, but what about this isn't absolutely bananas? I lean over and tug on the handle. The door opens and Kassam folds his big body into the car so very awkwardly I would laugh if my panties weren't completely soaked.
What the fuck is wrong with me? And why don't I care? Right now, all I give a shit about is Kassam coming to my apartment so I can spend more time with him. I don't care that he's a stranger. I don't care that he's covered in blood. I just…need this. Badly. And I can't figure out why.
I glance over at him. He's not wearing a seatbelt, and he's getting blood all over everything and…I still don't care. It's like I'm drugged, this fascination I have with him. "Did you do something to me?" I ask, breathless.
"It is my presence," Kassam says. "It cannot be helped."
"Oh." I think for a moment. "Okay."
My place is just around the corner, and it takes less than five minutes for me to park in my assigned space and turn the car off. Kassam fumbles with the door again, so I open it for him, and I'm rewarded with a pleased grin that makes me feel like I'm melting. I can't resist putting a hand on him again, and I do, touching his chest. I'm fascinated by how big he is, and how warm, and yet something is…off. Not in a bad way, but in a strange, different sort of way. Like I'm missing something important, some big clue.
Of course, it's hard to think about clues when he's looking at me like I'm making a cake and he wants to lick the spoon…and I'm the spoon.
"Where is your home?" he asks in a sultry voice.
"Stairs," I breathe. "Up the stairs." And I take his hand, noticing mine are covered in blood almost as much as his are, and lead him toward the garage elevator. There's no one around this time of night, which suits me just fine, and I'm practically panting as I get my keys out of my purse as the elevator creeps its way up.
