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And this is the part where he leaves, where his footsteps fade into another room—but Raul lingers in the doorway. I bite my lip, lowering to plank position, then flowing through a vinyasa.
“You can join me if you like,” I say from cobra, my shoulders lifted from the mat, gaze fixed on the opposite wall. I will not look over. I will not screw up my postures with my need to see this man. “You ever do yoga, Dr Ossani?”
“Sometimes,” he says quietly. “But I’m not as, ah… bendy. As you.”
Huh. Stifling a grin, I arch back to down dog again, and I can’t help myself—I wiggle my ass a tiny bit. Raul coughs, and I bite my bottom lip.
If I’d known this would happen, I would’ve worn skin-tight leggings, not baggy sweatpants. All the better to goad him with.
Through the gap in my legs, I can see the doctor from the waist down. He’s in a slim white t-shirt and black sweats, the fabric brushing against strong thighs. A water bottle dangles by his side in a loose grip.
Is he flushed from his workout? If I licked his stomach, would it taste salty? Is there a line of dark blond hair on his abs?
“I’m going on another supply run today.”
Blood slowly draining to my head, I roll my eyes. Figures he had a reason to linger, and it’s not my peachy ass. But then Raul moves his hand, the movement deft, and I almost miss it—the doctor hiding his hard-on. Tucking it behind his waistband.
Oh hoho.This asshole does want me! On a physical level if nothing else. He acted so high and mighty so when I begged for that goodnight kiss, but I freaking knew we had chemistry. And though it’s a terrible idea, though this will only hurt me more in the long run, I’ve just found my new favorite safe house game.
Drive Dr Ossani mad. Keep him hard as stone for me, rigid and aching, and never provide any relief. Let’s see howhelikes it.
“You need anything from the store?”
“No, thank you,” I say sweetly.
It’s time to scheme.
* * *
I’m showered and primped by the time Raul comes back, safely changed out of my slobby workout clothes into leggings and a soft, slouchy purple sweater. If I come out all guns blazing in a sexpot outfit, he’ll see right through my ploy. For this to work, I need to be stealthy. Need to get under his skin.
Besides, a coat of cherry-bomb lipstick goes a long way. I smile at the doctor as he shuffles sideways into the kitchen, laden down with grocery bags, and toy with the ends of my dark ponytail.
“No sign of trouble?”
See? I can make normal conversation. With elbows propped on the kitchen table and a half-drunk mug of green tea, I’m the picture of innocence.
Raul shakes his head, piling the bags in the center of the floor. “Nothing. I drove around the whole area, but couldn’t find any cause for concern.”
I bet he couldn’t. No self respecting hit man would be caught dead in this suburban hellscape.
And it’s not part of my devious plan, but I fritter away a few moments watching Raul put away the groceries. He’s in casual mode while we’re here, trading his standard tailored suit for dark pants and a navy sweater, and his ass is perfectly sculpted as he bends down to fish out a carton of milk.
It’s almost… domestic. Being here like this with him.
I wince, rubbing a palm over my sore heart.
“You okay?” Raul glances over as he works, scanning me with an assessing eye. Doctor mode: activated. His gaze lingers on my cherry red pout.
I drop my hand. “Just indigestion.”
Raul grunts and turns back to his task, and I chew on my bottom lip, heel swinging under the table. I’m sizing him up like a kickboxing opponent, trying to figure out how best to corner him and make him blush, when the doctor grabs the last bag and turns to me.
“I got you something.”
Moi?
“My birthday is in August.”
