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I would ordinarily make quite the scene about how he had no right to, but in the beet-addled circumstances, I decide to take a raincheck on that.
“It’s a beautiful name,” he says.
“Well… thank you,” I manage. “Look, I really would feel better if I could at least buy you a new shirt.”
“No.” He borderline growls the word, the luxurious timber of his voice rolling through my chest.
“Then… can I at least try to wash it?”
“There’s no nee—”
“Look, I’ll honestly feel better if I at least try. I mean, I’ve bleached my hair enough times. How hard can clothes be?”
His gaze strays to my hair, which quite frankly is just about the same color as the juice that has now thoroughly seeped into his shirt, leaving it sticking to his skin and the hard chest behind it, the muscular grooves of which suddenly seem indecent, as does his nipple which I can now see through the cotton, stained pink no less.
Realizing I’ve spent a conspicuous amount of time checking out his teat, I dart my gaze straight up only to spy a spot of juice staining the skin next to his mouth.
Deciding I’ve just about reached my quota of social calamities for the day, I fight the urge to lick my finger and rub the stain from his face, although that would be preferable to the plan B floating through my head, whereby I lick his face directly andthenrub.
Rami and Fran wander up to us, hovering behind Greyson as I insist, “Honestly. I’d like to just try.”
“Very well, Indigo.”
He reaches for the collar of his shirt, watching my face most sternly as he undoes the top button, then the next, his shirt opening up almost as wide as my mouth as he reaches the bottom buttons and peels the stained and still dripping cotton off his naked torso, sliding it down his arms.
He folds it so that my root vegetable paint job is on the inside. Consciously, I know he’s holding the thing out to me, but I’m still not quite done being dickmatized by the kind of body that should only be legal when plastered on some traffic-distracting billboard somewhere and not standing in the flesh right before my eyes.
His shoulders are broad and thick, his arms defined, the skin like warm caramel. His pecs were clearly sculpted by angels above the ridges and valleys of a very pronounced eight-pack coated in barely an inch of fat.
But before I can relocate my brain once again, I spot something else which causes a jolt of pain to scrape against my skin in the same place—thick, deep scars etched across the side of his left ribcage, snaking around to disappear behind him, and others on the inside of his arm on the same side.
I swallow thickly, taking the shirt from him, meeting his eyes for a moment only for another figure to appear in my peripheral to the left, one who catches Greyson’s eyes too.
We both turn at the same time to see the man standing twenty or so feet away outside the door of one of the three meeting rooms you can hire at the bottom of this luxurious building.
Behind the glass of this one sit six or so men and one woman, all in suits, all peering over at us.
Greyson’s profile seems to turn to stone, his body stiffening visibly as he looks over at the man—tall, well built, maybe twenty or so years older than him, early fifties probably. His hair is thick and dark but streaked with gray, framing tenebrous eyes, his whole mood a storm I feel from here. He’s starting at us with all the civility of a wolf eyeing up its soon-to-be lunch.
His boss, maybe?
Shit.I hope I didn’t get him into trouble.
As the elevator chimes and the maintenance man approaches, wheeling a mop bucket and a wet floor sign towards us, I take the shirt from a distracted Greyson before apologizing to the maintenance guy profusely and stepping back.
“Not a problem, miss. I’ll sort it out in no time.”
As my shirtless neighbor looks back at me, I say, “I’ll leave it outside your door if you’re not home… if I can get it clean.”
He nods and Fran and Rami join me as we head back upstairs. I turn just in time to see the older man approaching Greyson who pivots his half-naked body a little to face him before he goes out of sight.
As the elevator doors close, I groan loudly, scanning my fob and pressing PH repeatedly.
For fuck’s sake, beam us up, Scotty.
Fran’s muted grin of glee at my humiliation has me facepalming as Rami quips, “Well, that’s why I call youTornada.”
“Oh, stop,” I moan, covering my face in Greyson’s folded shirt, only to be hit by the fresh scent of his discreet cologne, now elegantly perfumed with essence of root vegetable.
